Living Richly in a Poor Place

Don't Eat the Meat!

2011-08-14T14:32:00.000+03:00

Thick, heavy raindrops began slowly hitting the windshield. The sky seemed to be testing the ground before it decided to take its final plunge. I was thankful to be in the protection of the vehicle in case the sky decided the ground was ready for its fury.

“We don’t say this much anymore, but our grandparents used to say when the rain fell in big drops like this, it meant the famine would come,” Herbert, my friendly Ugandan taxi driver pointed out to me. I had just landed at the airport, and was making the 25 mile journey to the capital city, Kampala.

One of my tasks for Samaritan’s Purse is making sure supplies are purchased and sent to the project sites. Unfortunately, we can’t get everything we need where we live, so once about every month or two, I make the one hour flight from where I live to Kampala.

“Big raindrops like this don’t happen very often, so maybe there’s some truth to what our grandparents said,” Herbert continues to tell me. “And this year, it can be pouring hard right here, but up ahead 1 kilometer, it can be sunny!” Herbert adds with a chuckle. It doesn’t seem to matter what we talk about, Herbert has a smile on his face, whether it’s discussing increasing gas prices, government protests, or the weather.

The area of Congo where I live is separated from Uganda by the large Lake Albert, which, the Congolese proudly boast has more fish in it than any other lake in the world. While I try to be open-minded when I’m in new places, I can’t help but be a little skeptical about this—the Burundians said the same thing about Lake Tanganyika when I lived there. As long as I get to enjoy the fruits of this lake, though, it doesn’t really matter to me if Guinness has verified those claims or not.

A lull comfortably interrupts Herbert and my conversation, and my mind starts to think about the differences between the two countries. In the DRC, we receive some of the big raindrops Herbert is telling me about, but there doesn’t seem to be much more in common between the two countries. Immediately crossing into Uganda, from the airplane you notice the roads are covered with pavement, even in smaller towns and villages—giving the impression of healthy veins connecting the countries mountains and valleys to its heart, Kampala. Despite me living in a town of 300,000 people in Congo, the only pavement anywhere around is the tarmac at the airport, although the age spots potted all over it give it more of a nostalgic feel than the impression of being very useful.

In Uganda, the power supply is constant. Whenever our power comes on in Congo, we phone each other to let them know, “Charge your phones!”, or as my friend Zoum says excitedly, “We get to iron!” It doesn’t matter if we have power or not, ironing will never be exciting to me. It’s strange, you get in the mentality of always having to charge things when power comes that it’s hard for me to shake this when I’m in Uganda. As soon as I arrive at the hotel, I think to myself, “Ooooh, there’s power! I better charge my phone, iPod, Kindle, etc. before it goes out!” Then I think to myself, “You’re an idiot. You’re not in Congo anymore and can charge these things whenever you want!”

In addition to good electricity, the water supply is constant and clean. It’s nice being able to turn on the faucet and be able to drink what is coming out. In Congo, we have to boil or filter all of our water (sometimes both), as it can sometimes come out a color better reserved for going into the water supply than coming out. And that’s if it’s working. Ironically, when it rains, our water usually goes out.

Now I’ve never been to Kinshasa (DRC’s capital), which could very well have the luxuries of Kampala. DR Congo is the 12th largest country in the world. Where I live is on one side, and Kinshasa is on the other. Places like Nairobi, Kenya and Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, are actually closer and cheaper to get to than our own capital in Congo. But where I live in DR Congo isn’t such a bad place. In fact, I prefer it.

Because of the long civil war, and the sheer size of a country with a barely-functioning government, our area of Congo seems like a step back in time. The stunted development of the country has created a more relaxed and slower pace. And while I’m not a big fan of all the dust kicked up on the dirt roads, it’s better than all the smog and traffic jams in Kampala created by the availability of pavement. The culture is more laid-back and seem to enjoy hanging out more. And I can get Nutella and Quaker Oats anytime I need them in Congo—what more do you need in life really?

“You see, those cars headed our direction are completely wet, and it’s sunny here,” Herbert says, interrupting my train of thought. It seems we’ve left the cover of the big raindrop clouds and are now in the sun, which seems to enjoy its childish game of hide-and-seek.

I’ve known Herbert now for over 2 years. When I arrived in Uganda back in early 2009 with my good friend Tred to work with Samaritan’s Purse, he was the one who met us at the airport. He’s a rather short fellow with a flat top haircut, but what he lacks in height he makes up in girth. What’s so charming about his size is that he is perfectly round, as if he was simply born that way. Here in Uganda, as well as in most places in sub-Saharan Africa, being large is a good thing. It’s a sign of wealth—if you are large, you have a lot of money to buy food. It’s considered a compliment to say, “Wow, you’ve gotten fatter! You look great. What’s your secret?” To which an appropriate response would be, “Oh stop it, you’re just being nice,” accompanied with a sheepish smile and a slight blush.

Even though my job has now changed, it’s nice having Herbert always pick me up—something constant every time I come back to Uganda. And Herbert always has a story to tell with the notorious sing-songy Ugandan accent. Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of rain, he begins telling me how popular marriage counseling has become in Uganda.

“You know these new marriage counselors—they’re making a lot of money. They get these couples in a room together to talk out their problems. Anybody can do it really,” he begins explaining. “And couples figure it’s cheaper and easier than a divorce, so people are really buying into it.”

“Have you ever tried it?” I ask.

He gives me a strange look and then, with his trademark smile, begins to talk about the rain again, and then food in Congo.

It’s really interesting to me to see the rivalry between eastern DRC and Uganda. When I leave Congo to come to Uganda, my Congolese coworkers and friends tell me, “Be careful of the meat in Uganda, it’s probably monkey.”

After arriving in Uganda, the immigration woman stamping my passport says, “Coming from Congo huh? They didn’t make you eat monkey did they?”

And then when I get back to Congo, I know my friends at the airport will say, as they always do, “Hey, you’ve gotten fatter. Have you been eating monkey meat?”

While both Uganda and Congo have their highlights, they aren’t too terribly different after all. In fact, as I’m typing this, I just realized that the power in my hotel room here in Kampala just went out. I guess nowhere is perfect.

The Joy of Traveling, Part 2

2011-03-19T19:38:00.000+03:00

Now I have to be honest. As much as I’ve moved around and traveled the last few years, I’ve been very fortunate. The only time I lost my luggage was on a flight from New York to Nashville on my way home from Burkina Faso for Christmas in 2008. And they got it to me a couple days later.

Now, I’d been traveling for two days, it’s 4 in the morning local time, and all I have are a backpack and messenger bag with me. I was planning on hopping a cab and heading to the bus station to begin the 9 hour journey to get to my village.

There was a group of about 30 of us who didn’t get their bags, and a line began to form outside the Bag Reclamation office. It took me a while to realize people were immediately lining up, so I was one of the last in line. Apparently in Burkina, the airport authorities handle missing bags, instead of the airlines directly. And this particular airport officer dealing with us didn’t seem too bothered to about our situation. Maybe it’s due to his prolonged exposure to upset customers at 4 in the morning.

Slowly, people began going in and making their claims. We were in a dusty hallway with little ventilation, but we all began talking to each other. Burkinabe French. French French. Canadian French. English. Moore. Jula. There all sorts of languages being spoken by different nationalities stuck in this predicament, and our mutual frustration seemed to erase all our differences as we became one cohesive unit supporting each other. Fatigue and frustration seemed to give way to cooperation and empathy as we realized each other’s predicaments. One young woman was on her way back to Burkina to get married, and all her wedding clothes, gifts, etc., that she brought were somewhere else. I definitely didn’t have it as bad as her. My godsons would be okay without one more sweater, should my bags not arrive in time.

I had to be at the bus station by 6:30 in order to not lose my reservation. The baggage line inched closer and closer to the office, but I’d been waiting 3 hours, and I wasn’t sure I would make my claim before I had to leave and get to the bus station. The apathetic worker wasn’t too motivated to move through these claims too fast.

Finally, with just a few minutes to spare, I made it in, and made my claim with him. I described my bags, and he told me to come back and check the next day. I explained that I was going to a village quite far from the capital, and he said, “What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to send my bags to me!” is what I thought. However, I know that while airlines are required by law to do this in America, there is no law to support this in Burkina, so the airline has no motivation to do this. Clearly, even contacting me when my bags arrived wasn’t even gonna happen. It’d been 7 months since I’d seen my two boys, Zoum, and everyone else, and I surely wasn’t gonna wait around for several days to get my bags. I finally talked him into giving me his phone number, which I would call to find out when my bags got in, and then figure something out.

So I went outside and realized the sun had already started to rise, revealing the layer of red dust that settled on everything during the night. I went to the airport ATM, got out some money, and hopped on the back of a motorcycle taxi. He said he knew where the bus station was, so we headed out. The fresh morning air felt good after all the hours on airplanes and then in the cramped hallway in the baggage line. Since I didn’t have any baggage, we moved quickly around the early traffic already building up. Men began setting up their street stands of food, ready to serve bread, coffee, and omelets to the many people heading to work around the city. Women in colorful clothes began sweeping off the dust on sidewalks, store fronts, and just about everything else.

I’ve never been a big fan of this crowded, dusty city, but smelling its familiar smells and hearing the familiar sounds got me excited as I thought about that little village I had missed so much and would be sleeping in that night.

Well, it turns out the taxi driver didn’t know where I was going, so we made a few wrong turns before we made it to the bus station just in time. I hopped on the bus, and quickly fell asleep as we headed toward the town of Bobo.

I rustled awake at the rest stop halfway on the trip. I was too tired to get anything to eat, so I stayed on board, and fell quickly asleep again. I woke up as we pulled into the bus station in Bobo, which meant I was getting ever nearer to Serekeni. I got down out of the bus, and shortly after, Zoum showed up. He’d made the 3.5 hour journey from the village that morning to meet me in Bobo and ride with me to the village on the new passenger truck that recently began running between Bobo and Serekeni. Despite the constant bumpiness of the road, I couldn’t stay awake. I didn’t know one could sleep while his head bounced from side to side. Apparently, it’s possible.

We finally pulled into Serekeni as the sun was just setting. I got out, and immediately began greeting the wonderful people of that village, who always make me feel as if I’m the most important person in the world.

I arrived at Zoum’s house, and my oldest godson, Payjay, was is now 3 ½, ran right past me before realizing I’d got there. When he realized I’d arrived, he came right over to me to give me a high five. He hardly left my side for the next couple weeks. Then Zenaibou, Zoum’s wife, came up with Mohamadou, their second born, who is now 11 months. I took his fat little self into my arms, and he immediately began giggling! He’s amazingly already walking like a champ, and actually has been doing so since he was 7 months old!

I spent nearly two and a half weeks relaxing there, including celebrating Christmas and New Year’s with them. While I missed being with my American family during the holidays, I definitely enjoyed the 95 degree weather I was in.

For the first few days, I tried calling the number the baggage man had given me, but it turns out this is not his actual number, so we finally gave up trying to call. Zoum is a good sport, and let me borrow clothes and everything I needed. While he claims he’s ‘much taller’ than me, he’s only about an inch taller, so his pants fit pretty well.

Luckily, Zoum’s brother-in-law works in Ouaga, and so graciously helped me out by continually going to the airport to check if my bags came. Finally, after two weeks, they arrived, and he arranged for them to pass through the many hands, ride on the back of various motorbikes and baggage bin of a bus, and finally make their way to the top of the van that made its way to my village. They arrived a few days before I was supposed to leave, with everything intact. I was finally able to spoil my two boys with everything I’d brought them, including their Christmas presents from my parents. They didn’t seem to care that they were a few days late!

After my time was up, I began the grueling process of saying goodbye, and then had to leave. Zenaibou left with to Ouaga, as she was gonna spend a couple weeks with her brother there. And Zoum came along to keep us company.

It is always hard to leave those people I love so much, but I had a new job in a new country, and I was really excited to be getting to Congo.

I made the long journey to Entebbe, Uganda, where I would be spending a few days before heading into Congo. Little did I know the long night ahead of me.

The Joy of Traveling, Part 1

2011-03-19T19:36:00.001+03:00

Robert Louis Stevenson once said, “There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” For anyone who has spent extensive time outside of his or her country, you know this to be very true. This reality of foreign travel can create a sense of selflessness, wonderment, and adventure; or it can cause an instant urge to rush to the safety of the nearest McDonald’s, which, ironically, can be found almost anywhere in the world.

Also regarding traveling, Stevenson said, “For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” For this, however, I couldn’t disagree more.

My flight from Louisville to Chicago had gone just fine. I enjoyed walking around Midway airport, excited about the new job ahead of me. I began thinking about how lucky I was to have experienced all I have in my few years, and what a great opportunity this new job was going to be. I got a little hungry, so I did what all “grown up” men traveling for business are expected to do. I pulled out the peanut butter sandwich my dad made. He even put in a cup of applesauce (and a plastic spoon), and a box of raisins. I finished it off with some wonderful cookies the amazing Marie Stoltzfus gave me for the trip. Sometimes you need to be taken care of. As excited as I was about the new opportunities ahead of me, it is also sad leaving my family behind. That simple supper reminded me people loved me, even if no one knew me in that airport.

Then I flew to New York, and landed at LaGuardia airport. My flight to Casablanca, and ultimately Ouagadougou, wasn’t leaving until the next morning. That flight, however, was leaving out of JFK-11 ½ miles away. I’d planned on taking a $12 bus ride to JFK airport. But my flight had gotten into New York a little late, so unfortunately it was just after 11 pm, and there was no more bus. So the only other option was to take a (much more expensive) taxi. Unfortunately, many other people arriving at LaGuardia decided they needed a taxi at that very same moment as me. Not ever having done this before, I tried to do what I’ve seen in the movies and walked right up to a taxi. Little did I know there was a long line of more than 30 people not ready for some Alabama-born out-of-towner to try to get a taxi ahead of them. So I quickly realized my error, grabbed my luggage, and moved to the back of the line.

Now, I like to think of myself as a light packer like my Grammie Dot, but you’ll remember I’m moving, and there’s no moving van going to the Congo. So I have over 100 lbs. of luggage, nearly everything I own, squeezed into two duffel bags and a backpack. We slowly move along as each one gets a taxi. I pick up my luggage, move it forward 3 inches, and set it down, over and over and over again.

Finally, I get a taxi, and am glad to get in and warm up. In some strange irony, it’s the same taximan I walked up to 15 minutes before, and he never got anyone else. I guess he really wanted to go to JFK. To my surprise, there was even a TV inside! I’ve taken a lot of taxis in my life, but mostly in third world countries. I’ve never seen one with a TV inside! It was nice tour around the outskirts of the city, all lit up at night. I love New York at night. I tried to keep from looking at the meter, which seemed all too happy to constantly add a dollar to its total, almost taunting my until-recently unemployed self. When the 20 minute ride was over, I owed the guy $30! That’s more than some friends of mine in Burkina make in a year! One expensive tour of New York. I hopefully asked if I could pay in credit card, and he said yes. Say what you want about me, but I tried to hand him my credit card. He looked at me like I was an idiot. He pointed to the little machine beside the TV, which ad all of a sudden turned into a touch screen image of my charges. It even printed a receipt! How was I supposed to know?

So I moved inside Terminal 1 of the airport, beginning what I knew would be one long night. My flight wouldn’t leave until 9:30 am the next morning. So being the cheap (and broke) guy that I am, I had planned on trying to camp out in the airport. As much flying as I’ve done, I’ve been fortunate as I’ve never had to do that before. I figured I could find a nice place to lay down on my bags and get at least a couple hours of sleep.

But I wanted to get a cup of coffee and read for a while, try to get comfortable in the big open room that is Terminal 1 at JFK. I ended up reading some, and watching people. I saw an ambulance rush up, the paramedics rush out, bring the stretcher through security, and then 10 minutes later leave with it empty. I watched Koreans and Korean-Americans line up for the flight to Seoul. I read some more. The book I was reading was enough to keep my interest, but that was about it. It was called Time Scene Investigators: The Gabon Virus. It was about as bad as it sounds, but what do you expect from the bargain books section?

I tried to lay my head down, but couldn’t really settle down enough to sleep. Finally, a guard came up to all of us in the food court area and told us we had to leave.

“Terminal 1 is shutting down for the night. But if you hurry, you can get a good spot at Terminal 4”. So I grabbed all I owned, and quickly made the long trek of escalators, elevators, and train way over to Terminal 4, hoping to get a “good spot” to settle down for the night. I had never been to Terminal 4 before, otherwise I wouldn’t have rushed. I’m not sure what “good” spot the guy was talking about, but there aren’t even chairs in Terminal 4. Needless to say, it was a long night. I ended up stretching out on the floor. But the constant noise of construction, which for some reason they must do at night, and the cold temperature of the linoleum beneath me, kept me from even trying to get the couple of hours of sleep I’d wanted. Luckily though, I had a lot of flight time ahead of me.

Getting ready for the flight, I check in, happy to be relieved of most of my things. I go through security, and then when we line up to board, I begin hearing the familiar languages of West Africa, a tease of the wonderful time I would have ahead of me.

I slept most of that flight, thanks mostly to a travel pillow I inherited from my Grammie Dot. I arrived in Casablanca, and then made my way to the connecting gate. One of my favorite things about the Casablanca airport is the smoking area which is right next to the prayer area. Even though it probably shouldn’t, that always amuses me.

The flight leaves on time, and even though it’s the middle of the night, I can’t sleep. I’m too excited. It’s only a matter of hours before I’ll see my boys! The flight lasts about 3 ½ hours, and we arrive in Ouagadougou. The night before, I landed in the City of Lights. Now, I’m landing in a country with very few. We get off the plane—the familiar smells hitting my nose, instantly flooding my mind with many memories. The night is chilly, but I can’t complain, it was 25 when I left New York. I can handle 65.

The Ouagadougou airport is very small, and it used to be very easy to get through once landing. However, somebody decided to ‘remodel’ it. In Burkina, that means, let’s ask a foreign country to give us money for a project, and then after we’ve started it, the money will magically disappear . Which seems to be what happened. It’s been over 3 years since a simple remodeling began. They’ve torn a lot up, but haven’t done much else. Needless to say, getting out of there is now a challenge.

Where there used to be a moving baggage belt, there is now a zig-zagging line of plywood stacks. The room is very small, and cannot accommodate all the people that just got off the flight. After a couple minutes, the baggage guys bring in some of the baggage on a wheeled cart (I’ve seen donkeys carry more), and begin unloading the bags. There is not enough room for all the bags, and there’s not enough room for everyone to see the bags. So there becomes this big scramble of everyone trying to move to the front to see the bags, and then move down the zig-zag to see all of them. With this chaos, it takes a while for everyone to see if their bags are there, and then to remove them, to make way for the second round. Only about ¼ of the people get their bags in this first load, so after about 15 minutes, the second load comes. This happens 3 times.

Finally, when all the bags have come out, and all have been removed, there’s still about 30 of us waiting for our bags. We ask the guys who’ve been carrying in the bags this whole time. They say that’s all there was. It’s dusty and crowded, I’m exhausted, and I just found out I don’t have clean clothes for tomorrow…

Lots to be Thankful For

2011-01-10T21:51:00.001+03:00

The day had been a pretty one, one of the warmest Thanksgivings on record. As night set, the air quickly dropped more than 30 degrees, though, quickly preparing to greet the season’s first snow.

But I was warm. And my belly was full of the wonderful Southern Thanksgiving food I had enjoyed in Nashville at my cousin Julie’s house. I now sat down to watch the annual Heroes program on CNN, a program they do annually to honor 10 people who have made a huge difference in the world. It’s a program I enjoy every year I can—the perfect mix of tragedy and bravery, destruction and compassion, hand-served to the viewer with a large measure of hope to help us remain optimistic that the world isn’t always such a terrible place after all.

The first honoree was a Scottish man who oversees a feeding program for starving children around the world. And by ‘starving’ I mean literally dying of hunger, not what I feel when my lunch break starts late. This man most recently has been feeding thousands of children in Haiti. He’d been working in Haiti before the earthquake, and the tragedy just exacerbated the problem. Tears formed in my eyes as I watched his story, my heart heavy with sadness at the plight of these children, but also joyful at the work the Scotsman was doing. I usually make it to the 3rd or 4th honoree before I let my emotions get the best of me, but CNN started with a full hand this year.

Later in the program, they honored another honoree—a woman from Mississippi who spear-headed a campaign to reduce her community’s obesity rates. She’s started work-out clubs, helped change restaurant menus, and worked with local officials to help people get healthier in the nation’s unhealthiest state. Her story was very inspiring, and her example is one that will hopefully catch on in many communities around the country.

After the program finished, and the first huge snowflakes began to fall and erase the now-frozen ground, I thought of the irony between these two honorees. One was being honored for helping feed children, and one was being honored for helping children (and adults) eat less. And strangely, neither is more or less challenging than the other. This world we live in is very complex. And as my parents often told me growing up (I am the middle child, of course), life isn’t fair.

This is a personal struggle I have inside of me anywhere that I go. It’s the curse, and blessing, of bouncing between two extremes. I am from America, land of excess. But I often live and work in areas of the world where there is much need. I’ve never been good at reconciling those two differences.

This year has been a challenging one for America and its economy, and me as well. I began the year working in Burundi at a rural clinic—seeing lives hang in the balance every single day. But that job unfortunately didn’t last long, and I was soon back in America, contributing to the country’s unemployment rate, like several of my friends. I ended up back with my parents, and got a temporary job working at a wireless company call center in Bardstown, where the job requirements were a high school diploma, or GED equivalent, and “no more than three misdemeanors.” While this was not what I had in mind when I shook President Ransdell’s hand at my college graduation, it was better than the alternative—no work or paycheck. (Working overseas renders me exempt from unemployment benefits.) While the job itself wasn’t that exciting, I got to meet some really wonderful people. It was a wonderful opportunity to get to know the real side of Kentucky—all of its charm, beauty, and culture. This may sound strange, having grown up in Kentucky. But I grew up in a military community, which often has a very different personality than the areas surrounding it.

That was only a temporary job, so after a few months, I was back to being the wrong statistic again. About two months ago, I got the opportunity to start filling in part-time as Christmas help at a local Christian bookstore I’d worked at in high school. Although it’s not the most lucrative of jobs, I’ve gotten to reconnect with some old friends, something that is always wonderful. I have also gotten to meet a lot of new people and made new friends. The products have changed quite a bit since I last worked there—instead of the Bible on cassette we now sell pre-loaded Bible mp3 players. And we also have singing cards—nothing says Happy Birthday like a jazzed-up version of Amazing Grace!

As wonderful as this job has been, it has also been feeding my personal struggle to reconcile America with poorer regions of the world. We have so much excess in this country, and every day many customers come in and by things that will lie unused on a shelf for years. Or they’ll expensive candy because of the convenience of it, all the while children lie hungry in many places all around the world. Even me, or my unemployed friends, have never gone hungry, always have a warm bed at night, and most of the time even have internet and cable.

Don’t get me wrong, there is much need in this country as well. But regardless of one’s situation, there is always help. That is one of my favorite things about this country, our sense to help others.

Just a few days ago, I found out that I would once again be going back to a place where there is much need. I will soon be moving to the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), formerly Zaire, to work with Samaritan’s Purse. You may remember I worked with them in Uganda last year. This is a humanitarian organization headed by Billy Graham’s son, Franklin Graham. I will be working in logistics, helping the supply chain run a little more smoothly.

In the Bible, Jesus says there will always be the poor. While I’ve not always incredibly enjoyed this verse, I do recognize its truth. However, that doesn’t keep me from trying to rebel against it. As an American, helping the less fortunate is infused in my blood. And, just like Jesus did in the Bible, we can all work together to make sure there are as few poor as possible.

I will be sad to be leaving my family here in the States again. But on my way to the Congo, I will be making a pit stop in Burkina Faso to visit my second family and spend time with my two godsons, Payjay and Mahamadou. That’s the one thing that we all seem to have in common, rich or poor, hungry or well-fed—family, and the sense of sticking together no matter what life throws your way.

This is an exciting opportunity for me, and I know it will bring many exciting stories I will be able to share with you.

As I sit writing this, snow is falling once again—nature’s attempt at an apology for the cold weather. Realizing how blessed I am, I give in to its request, and will enjoy the beautiful snow the rest of my short time here in Kentucky.

With Two Kids and a Smile

2010-08-27T06:11:00.000+03:00

Her big black eyes stared straight up at me, smiling—the one thing she wouldn’t let anyone take away from her. The gratitude in those eyes pierced me with that smile, making me uncomfortable. I kept thinking to myself, “She should be angry at how her life turned out, angry at God, angry at man, angry at something.” But there was no anger at all in her stare. Just peace.

She had come to the clinic for a sore on her foot. With a small baby boy and young daughter in tow, she hiked all the way up the mountain to the clinic. She had almost no hope. She went through the process of getting her vitals taken, waiting with 75 other sick people for her turn to see a nurse or a doctor, and then finally being admitted to the children’s malnutrition ward—no room left in the main ward.

Now, after the long day, I had gone with Brad, one of the volunteer nurses, in to check on this woman and clean her wounds. She had waited patiently all day, carefully tending to her baby’s and daughter’s needs. She did so with so much organization and care you’d think she was at home. Maybe for her, she was.

For reasons unknown to me, this relatively young mother’s husband had left her and her children to fend for themselves. Now, she was left with nothing.

Sadly, this woman had more than just a foot wound to tend to. She was also in the final stages of breast cancer. Where once lie a source of nourishment for her children, now lie tough piece of resembling the texture of an orange peel, with an hollowed-out wound the size of a baseball. Her baby boy only had one breast to drink from.

In this country ravaged by civil war and lack of health infrastructure, there were no health professionals advising her to do a monthly breast exam, no uncomfortable mammogram to test for any lumps, and now no chemotherapy to treat this awful disease. All we could do was treat the flesh wound and make her as comfortable as possible. Literally a band-aid solution for a much deeper wound.

In America, we have so many opportunities for prevention and treatment of so many things. It seems there’s always a commercial for a new drug for a new malady—restless legs syndrome, for example—sometimes I think we make up sicknesses just to have something else to talk about, or for drug companies to make some more dollars.

Healthcare in America has become a hot topic in the last couple of years. We still have so far to go in advancing healthcare and curing diseases in this country and all over the world. And there are many valid concerns that have been raised by people on all sides of the issue. Regardless of how one feels, it does seem in this highly politicized discussion that we as a society have gotten a little carried away with how we think of ourselves. I’ve even heard some Americans argue in this debate that healthcare is a privilege, not a right. I don’t think any of those saying that have ever been in this woman’s position. If they had, they might have a different perspective.

We need to constantly be trying to advance healthcare in our country and improve it, but we also need to be thankful for how much we already have. If anyone had asked this woman how she felt about what the cost of healthcare should be, she’d probably say it was worth a two day hike up a mountain with a hurt foot. With all the problems and issues and opinions we have, I cannot help but be in awe at how wonderful it is to know that we have come so far in healthcare in our country in the last 100 years.

Just 60 years ago, for example, most premature babies died in our country for lack of treatment. That is almost unheard of today in our country. And while there are still places in the world that haven’t been as fortunate as we have to have access to so much technology and knowledge, I know they one day will. If corrupt and greedy politics got out of the way in so much of the world and let justice into people’s lives, many more people would have access to what we do in America.

I stood there holding the gauze and ointment for Brad as he helped to bring dignity and comfort to this woman, listening to the constant hum of crickets in the background and the cries of the few babies who had not yet fallen asleep. As I watched Brad do his magic, I was almost overcome with pity for this woman. But with her bright eyes and grateful spirit, she wouldn’t let me pity her. She would let me help her, but not pity her. What would my pity do, and who am I to think she needs my pity? Funny how those who deserve pity don’t actually want it. I’m not sure what it is about people who have been through great suffering, but they always make me feel like everything will be ok.

I, like so many of you, have been personally affected by breast cancer. I am so thankful that for those that I love who have had, or are still battling, this terrible pink ribbon disease, there has been treatment to comfort and often heal them. And I’m even more thankful they didn’t have to hike up a mountain in the rainy season to get a band-aid.

My hope is that one day, when this woman’s soon-to-be orphaned daughter grows up, she will have the privilege of complaining about having to go get another uncomfortable mammogram.

The Simple Life

2010-06-19T23:21:00.001+03:00

The small room of the foreign exchange bureau was air-conditioned, but I could feel my skin getting hot. My friend Zoum and I had come into this small money changer in Bujumbura to change $20 into Burundian francs. It was my last $20, and I wanted to buy some coffee with it before leaving Burundi for a trip back to Burkina. One would think this was a straight-forward process—but not today.

Unfortunately for me, someone at some point had accidentally made a small highlighter mark on one of the corners.

The clerk had taken my bill, looked at it, then handed it back to me, saying it was ‘too dirty’ for the transaction.

“What are you talking about? I just got this bill from a bank in the U.S. a couple months ago. It’s real, valid. I promise,” I said.

“No, we can’t take it,” came the response. The clerk couldn’t have been less interested.

I continued to plead my case, but quickly found out that I was just simply not going to be able to change my money today. Their buyers, other Burundians, apparently only like crisp bills.

It was Sunday, and in this predominantly Christian society, I was lucky to have found this for-ex bureau open. All others were closed.

Zoum said, “Come on, let’s go.” So I forced my stubborn self to leave, having failed at this simple task. It was really quite frustrating. I began to vent to Zoum—here in this country, they use my American money for international transactions all the time because their currency is quite weak. Plus, their money is so old and dirty that it is hard to read the values on it, not an issue for me, but seems quite hypocritical. And they are going to refuse my $20 bill because of a little highlight mark?!? I couldn’t believe it.

Zoum, after patiently listening to my ranting, smiled and replied with his usual calm wisdom, “La vie est simple. C’est les gens qui sont complique. ”—Life is simple. It’s people that are complicated.

His response surprised me, and left me speechless as I took it in. How true were the words that he said. I began thinking how the woman had refused my money because people try to sometimes use counterfeit money, and that’s because they want a quick way to get money (complicated), because they for some reason feel that will make their lives better because we place importance on material things (complicated), and on and on and on. And truthfully, my life really wouldn’t end if I didn’t buy some coffee (even though Burundian coffee is quite extraordinaire if I do say so myself.)

So Zoum and I packed up our stuff, loaded the plane, and started our long 2-day journey to Burkina, with stops in Nairobi, Kenya; Addis-Ababa, Ethiopia; and Lome, Togo. Our flight from Bujumbura to Nairobi was nearly empty. We took off, and as it was the middle of the day, we were treated to superb views of the land below—something I didn’t get to see when I’d first arrived as it was dark. Small brown rivers and creeks raced through the green velvety mountains, carving through the land to feed the huge blue lake.

After a few minutes, the beverage cart came around and gave us drinks. As we were drinking our tomato juice, Zoum leaned over and whispered to me, “Give me your cup after you’re done, I want to keep it.”

With wide, almost mocking eyes, I laughed and looked at him and said, “We can’t do that, they’ll get mad.”

“Oh come on, they’re just going to throw them away anyway, and they’re durable plastic. Plastic like this is expensive in Burkina,” he said.

I laughed at him—obviously I was caring too much about what other people would think about me. But leave it to him to be resourceful with just about anything. He took the cups and stuffed them into the magazine rack, he covered them with a napkin—with the look of a mischievous child on his face. As he did this, I realized I had made him embarrassed about something simple. I was in fact, now the one ‘complicating’ the simple life that we had discussed earlier.

Bouncing back and forth between American culture and the simpler cultures I have been blessed to live in throughout the past few years has definitely been a challenge. Values are so different. In America, we as a society place a lot of value on things we buy. Our status in society is built upon what we own, regardless of how happy we are inside. We work so many hours, bypassing time with family and friends, to make enough money to have a certain brand of car or live in a certain size house. In Burkina, Uganda, Burundi, and countless other places, value is based on how you treat people. If you are good to people, you are accepted. If not, you are rejected. And you take care of whatever you have as best as you can. People still place values in things, but it doesn’t affect the way they treat each other. Sadly, in America as a whole, it has.

People often ask me if I get culture shock when I arrive in a new place. Truth is, I usually just get culture shock when I arrive back in America after being away.

We finally arrived in Burkina, and took a cab to the Hotel Delwende, our usual stop when we’re in Ouagadougou (the capital). We didn’t have a reservation, so we were hoping they had a room. We showed up at the front desk, and Jean Claude, the clerk, looked up and, with a surprised smile, said, “Feeesh, bon arrive!” Not only did he remember me, he remembered my name, despite it being over six months since either Zoum or I had been there. We exchanged greetings, and then I noticed the shirt he was wearing.

Two years ago, my younger brother Keenan came over to Burkina with our cousin Jason. Before the trip, someone (who will remain nameless, Nathan) had given Keenan a bright orange leaf-print button-up shirt. He’d worn it some during his three-week visit, but wasn’t exactly too keen on it. Despite it really fit in with the bright clothing the Burkinabe wear, he couldn’t see it fitting in too well in America. On their last day in Burkina, we’d stayed at this same hotel, and he decided to give this shirt to the hotel clerk who was there—Jean Claude. (Sorry Keenan, if you hadn’t yet told this nameless person that you had re-gifted his gift.)

Now, over 2 years later, Jean Claude still had that same shirt! The hot Burkina sun had bleached out a lot of the color, but it was clean and pressed, and looked very neat. The shirt would have been perceived as ‘out-of-style’ or ugly in America. (Truth is, I don’t have a clue where Keenan’s gift-giver even found such a shirt!) But Jean-Claude was simply honored. Someone thought enough of him to give him a shirt. No one would ever think it was ugly, as long as it was clean and neat. Life is simple, if we let it be.

When Zoum spoke those words to me in Burundi, he simply stated things as he saw them, trying to calm me down from my tantrum. But what he said seems to be such a truth for all of us, in any culture. We have so many problems because we try to complicate things. We often stress over things that we couldn’t possibly live without, even though we truly could. People in many places live without those things, and they are fine. We should be more thankful for what we have. If we have a safe place to sleep at night, our bellies are full of food and drink, and we have loving people around us, can we really complain about anything else? There’s obviously nothing wrong with having nice things, but we complicate things when we turn wants into needs.

I try to remember Zoum’s words anytime I’m in a frustrating situation. And, more importantly, I try to make sure that I am not the one doing the complicating.

That's bull crap, Whitney Houston!

2010-03-15T13:13:00.001+03:00

The hot equatorial sun was beating down on my newly buzzed head as I raised my polo shirt collar. Say what you want, but I was trying to protect my neck, not make a fashion statement. I immediately regretted the decision to hop on the back of this huge dumb truck, as I had no sunscreen with me. One of the unfortunate perils of a white man choosing to live in a place meant for those with more melanin--the constant war with the sun.

But I didn't want to miss this opportunity, as my work doesn't often allow me the freedom to stretch my horizons beyond the confines of the clinic property. Our 22 member cultivating and landscape crew, along with our two volunteers from America and Burkina Faso, Will and Zoum, had already gone down the mountain to the town of Mugara earlier and loaded on one load of manure, and the truck had brought it back to the site. I was now with the truck on this return trip, the second of 4 it would make in the day.

I had originally tried to sit in the front of the truck with Zoum and Will, having been accustomed to always given preferential treatment due to my skin color and offending people by not accepting it. (Many of you will remember Zoum, he is my good friend from Burkina Faso, who has volunteered his time and knowledge to come help us with our food security program!) I then realized I had taken the place of someone else, and used that as an excuse to climb in the back of the dump truck, something I knew would make the ride down the mountain all the more exciting.

With my popped collar, I was standing in the front side of the 'dump' part of the truck, right behind the cab, holding onto a bar placed there for that purpose. Standing there, I was trying to maintain my footing on the now slippery surface of the bed due to its previous load. Despite everyone's efforts, most had some amount of manure on them, mainly on their feet and hands. I knew I would be no exception.

I was on the left edge, next to Jean Marie, one of our cultivators, and the only one who speaks French. Incidentally, he is currently our only cultivator I can communicate with, as the learning curve for Kirundi seems to be very high for native English speakers. This spot on the left edge gave me a great (and often too close) view of the steep 3000 foot slope down to Mugara to my side. It was an incredible view from this height. Although, my position on the truck, along with the way the truck was built, gave the eery illusion that we were seconds away from tumbling down the steep hill.

The view at this point is priceless, and I never tire of it. Velvety green mountains, with spots of small pine forests, reflecting the strong sunlight, leading down to forests of palm trees, which are often harvested for the vitamin-rich and very tasty palm oil. The green pine forests lead all the way to the nearby Lake Tanganyika, which casts a white glare from the sun onto the tall mountains of Congo on the other side.

Riding in the back of this dump truck requires a lot more skill than one would think. The dirt road is very crude, although its presence alone is very impressive. Its 4 miles were built in 4 days entirely by the many hands of the community to be able to bring building materials to the top of the mountain to build the clinic. The community had really come together to show how excited they were about having a clinic in their village! But 2 ½ years later, the road has succumbed to the bullying of the many rainstorms this tropical area invites each year, and is very bumpy. The bumps, rocks, potholes, and many other trademarks of this route cause the huge dump truck to wobble back and forth as it slowly climbs down the mountain.

With me and Jean Marie in the back were two other cultivators, one of the dump truck workers, and a police escort. Riding down, bump after bump, we all had a good time joking about the road. And you can imagine the many looks from the people tending their gardens as they looked at the huge dump truck passing with a short, goofy-looking white guy in the back, holding onto the bar for dear life and trying to look like it wasn't the first time he had done this.

After a few minutes, the sun decided to take a rest from beating the humid soil and took a little nap behind some clouds, something that I took as a little favor from God for my white, un-sunscreened skin. We continued to wind down the mountain till we got near the town and had to pass through the palm forest. From above, the densely planted palm trees look like a bed of soft green feathers. Up close, though, their spiky branches and rigid leaves reveal they're anything but.

As the dump truck was so tall, man of the branches kept coming at us with their death spikes trying to clothesline us. We would squat down behind the cab to keep from getting smacked. I quickly learned the Kirundi (language of Burundi) word for “Watch out!”--Orogaba!.

We kept yelling “Orogaba” as we went along. One time, out of sheer panic as I saw one of the crazy palm trees coming running straight at me, I yelled “Orogabo”, which, incidentally, means “man”, not “Watch out!”. Luckily they are very forgiving with their languages, but not without letting every one within a 5 mile radius know about my mistake. But it just added to the fun, because we just started yelling “Orogaba orogabo!”, or “Watch out, man!”. I was too busy watching out for my own life, but I am afraid to know how many people we scared as we rode by seemingly yelling at everyone to watch out. For what?, they must have wondered after diving out of the way.

So along we went—the truck on the road going up and down, up and down, and us in the back, going up and down, up and down. It felt like we were living a nursery rhyme. Finally we got to the home that we were buying the cow manure from. A huge team of our workers were standing by waiting for the truck's return, and as with usual Burundian custom, gave me a huge welcome, especially since my trip was spontaneous..

“Karibu Cory, karibu!!” (Welcome Cory, welcome!) There were many high fives and handshakes and hugs to go around, this culture loves greeting each other, something I love about living here. Although, there was no sympathy for my clean hands as they all embraced me and my hands, sharing the wonderful germs of their labor with me. No big deal, I was about to get my hands dirty as well.

We were all very excited about being able to buy the manure. The economy has had its effects on our clinic too, and money has been very tight for several months now. Because of this, we haven't been able to buy the things that we need. Luckily, we got a grant to buy things for our fields that we use to feed our patients and staff. So we are now able to buy all this cow excrement to fertilize our fields!

I'm not sure exactly where to jump in (pun intended), although everybody is looking at me to start. As this trip was spur of the moment, I happened to be free at the right time, I didn't exactly come dressed appropriately. My freshly washed corduroy pants and white linen shirt are probably the worst thing to be wearing when you're about to tackle a huge pile of manure (again, pun intended).

The work happens in kind of an assembly line, involving about 25 people. There are people that use hoes and pitchforks at the pile to pass it along to a smaller pile, where it is then put onto small little 'stretchers'. Then two men take these little stretchers of manure and carry them to the nearby truck, where a couple other people receive it and drop the load into the back of the truck. This process is continued over and over until the truck is full.

I start working with Zoum and Will at the pile, but am not used to using the type of hoe they have here, so I try to find somewhere else where I can be more useful. It's a tough situation to be in. I want to show them that I am helping them, while also appearing like I know what I'm doing (or rather appear as little of an idiot as possible), while at the same time trying to keep my clothes from getting dirty—a tough day's work.

One of the stretcher carriers calls me over to help him, which I gladly do.

Even though the small stretcher is only 1' x 2', the manure is quite heavy, surprisingly, and I have to really hold on tight to the corner of the old plastic rice sack we're using. We run quickly, shouting “Heeeeeeeeeeeey!” as we approach the vehicle, to let anyone in the way to move away quickly unless they want a face full of cow poop.

Because of the language barrier, we all use a lot of sign language, and there is a lot of miscommunication and laughing. And the carrying of the manure doesn't sound that difficult, I know, carrying one side of a bag 30 feet and then lifting it up to a dump truck. But the grass has become slippery due to the constant traffic, and manure is heavy. And every time I have to lift the stretcher over my head up to the dump truck, I close my eyes out of fear of a slipped hand and a face full of, well, you get the picture. I work with Louie, my partner, for quite a while, and it starts to wear me out. Suddenly I realize they have turned music on in the cab of the truck. And after a few minutes, Whitney Houston's new song “I Didn't Know My Own Strength” comes on—here in this French- and Kirundi- speaking country, even they like Whitney Houston! I love that woman! And hearing that song gives me my second wind!

Finally, the truck is full, and I climb in the back with Zoum and a couple others, this time being about 3 feet higher than before, and prepare for the trip back to the clinic to unload the load. Because we're so much higher than before, we now have to squat down twice as far every time we pass an orogaba branch.

As we go along, Zoum and I joke about the difficulty in riding in the back of the truck. He reminds me that this is the worst road he's ever seen, which is saying a lot considering everywhere on this wonderful continent he's been to. But at least there is a road, and many people use it to get care at the clinic. I keep an eye on the sky to see if the sun will wake up from its nap and come bully my skin again, as we climb back up the steep mountain to the clinic. But at least I know, with a dirty shirt, almost sun-burned skin, and stinky hands and feet, that all this work will provide enough fertilizer for this year, and will help many patients. And even Whitney Houston lent a hand.

It's a Matter of Life and Death

2010-01-17T16:08:00.001+03:00

It's amazing how small this huge globe can feel, and how at the same time places can feel as inaccessible as the moon. It started with a news report: Haiti had suffered an earthquake. Little was known, bu t it was a strong earthquake, striking near Port-au-Prince, and severe enough that it made Burundian radio.

Tens of thousands injured, possibly hundreds, and millions of people affected. The news hit like an aftershock to the world. But to a doctor here at Village Health Works, it felt like the earth dropped out from underneath him right here in Burundi. Barry* (name changed), is from Haiti. Port-au-Prince to be exact. He made the decision several months ago to leave his lifestyle, and more importantly his family, to come help the people of rural Burundi with his knowledge.

Now, on the other side of the planet, he couldn't even help his own family.

News reports started popping up on the internet.

“Hundreds of Thousands Feared Dead.”

“Relief Not Coming Soon Enough.”

“Many Still Buried Under the Rubble”

This is the only news Barry was hearing. He tried to call his family, but communication to Haiti was cut off. The only news he heard was from the internet. He contacted friends and family all over North America, to try to find someone who had heard something. All that day, nothing.

Soon, the sun dipped into the still waters of Lake Tanganyika, and still no word from his family. As the rest of Burundi settled under their mosquito nets and blankets, Barry sat wide awake at his computer, hoping someone, just someone with some news, any news, would pop online, and possibly with news that his family was alive and well.

Worry never gave way to fatigue that night, and Barry never went to sleep, afraid of missing that important phone call or email that would tell him his family was alright.

The next morning, as people started creeping out of bed, starting their fires for coffee, tea, and porridge, Barry was already wide awake. Despite what was going on back home for him, he still had his mission here, to provide quality healthcare for those who usually can't afford it. The lines started to form at the waiting area, and family members brought their loved ones to be seen for malaria, TB, coughs, and stomachaches. And soon, Barry got back into doctor mode as he started making his rounds in our malnutrition ward. Putting away his own life-and-death family situation, Barry helped other people with theirs.

The day continued on and on. Rounds to do, patients to consult, medicines to prescribe. All the while, waiting for some news. More news reports came in, pictures and videos flooded the internet, slowly draining the little hope that we all were holding onto for Barry's family. The day stretched on—still no word from Haiti.

I was on my way back from a meeting in Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi. With me were two new volunteer nurses, Helen and Connie, who had just arrived, and a representative from the UN's World Food Program, who was coming to check out our clinic to see if they could provide some food for our malnutrition program. I asked Barry if he wanted me to give her the tour because of all he was going through. He said he could manage.

We gave the tour to the World Food Program representative. And Helen was excited to be back after a couple months away, which brought some joy to our sad situation. Connie was also taking in all the new sights, it was her first time to the clinic.

We solemnly ate dinner that night. Barry wasn't interested in eating, or even drinking the cup of coffee Brad, a volunteer nurse from Maryland, had brought him. The second day, with no news.

“In America, you say no news is good news,” Barry explained. “But right now, no news is the worst feeling ever.”

I remember a couple years ago, while living in rural Burkina Faso, I was listening to the BBC World Service news bulletin. They reported an earthquake in Kentucky, where my family was living. I tried to call from my cell phone under the mango tree with phone reception, with no avail, reception was too poor. I tried our village phone, but still nothing. I waited in agony for several hours, just hoping that they were ok. I finally got a hold of my family after a few hours, and found out it was only a minor earthquake. But I remember the dread and helplessness I felt from being so far away that I couldn't help. And I didn't know what had happened to my family, or the extent of the damage. And now Barry was faced with the same situation, and for two days now.

The next day came and went, still the same story. It was a quieter day here at the clinic, so it seemed that Barry had more time to focus on the communication, or lack thereof, with his family. He had called everyone he knew in all parts of the world who might have had some sort of contact with his family. He'd gotten a couple leads, but wasn't quite sure how true they were. Three days it had been since the earthquake, and still no word.

We all went to bed, and Barry hoped to get some sleep that night, after 2 nights without any. But around 2 am, there were some emergencies in our inpatient ward that needed a doctor's touch, regardless of his personal situation. So Barry spent the third night without much sleep.

The following morning, a patient that had come to our clinic with a chronic foot wound a few days earlier started to take a turn for the worse. He had come with an wound the size of a softball on his right foot. The doctors and nurses had been taking care of the wound, and the thought of sending him to a regional hospital for surgery was being talked about. But this morning, he started acting really funny, as if he was under the influence of something.

Connie, Helen, and I were eating lunch at our residence, when Hilarie, one of our nurses, came up to get some sugar and water and rushed back to the clinic. We followed her, and we found Barry leaning over the man's chest, giving him CPR. His heart had stopped, and he'd revived it. Now it had stopped again. His eyes went dead, he stopped breathing, and we all stood there in disbelief that this man who had seemed so healthy a few days before was now dead in front of us. Barry, despite all his fatigue, continued pumping his chest, forcing the blood through his heart to keep him alive.

The man's two sons had moved away and quietly started to grieve, their stifled snobs echoeing off the cement walls and tile floors of the room we were in. But Barry kept forcing the chest to work. All of a sudden, a small gasp from the dead man's mouth. His chest started to slowly rise. He blinked, a reflex of the dryness in his recently-dead eyes. He was still unconscious, but now alive.

Barry continued to help the man's body take back control of its blood flow, and after what seemed like an eternity, the man slowly came to. What we thought was a hopeless situation now became another life saved, by a man struggling in his own reality, not knowing if his own family had been spared from nature's death grip on that tiny island in the Caribbean.

It turns out the patient was diabetic, and the years of high blood sugar took their toll on his heart. But now, he was alive again, and he will receive the insulin he needs to keep his blood sugar down to good levels.

A short while after Barry revived the man, his phone rang. It was a cousin of his in Canada. He said he had news about Barry's family in Haiti. This was the moment Barry was waiting for, whether the news was good or bad, all he wanted was to be able to know, to have closure. His cousin said that he had talked to Barry's father, and that all of his family were alive and well! His younger brother had some minor injuries, but that was all. Everything was going to be alright! They have a long road of reconstruction ahead of them, but at least they are all alive!

We all rejoiced, and the joy in Barry's soul was infectious to all of us, as we all celebrated the good news with him.

Living far away from family can be very challenging, and in my opinion, is one of the hardest things about working internationally. Going through this ordeal with Barry made me miss my family even more than usual. But seeing that man revived back to life reminded me why I am here, and why I believe so much in the work that we are doing here. I feel privileged to be a part of this team.

For more information, check out Tracy Kidder's Strength in What Remains at your local bookstore, and/or go to villagehealthworks.org

Welcome to Hell, Part 1

2009-11-13T18:00:00.002+03:00

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!

Home, Home on the Range

2009-10-18T00:01:00.001+03:00

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.

Water Filter Pictures

2009-08-21T19:18:00.002+03:00

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.

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

2009-08-14T18:47:00.009+03:00

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!

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

2009-08-06T18:49:00.004+03:00

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.

A Positive Look at AIDS

2009-07-23T20:19:00.002+03:00

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.

What the Heck Am I Doing? (Part 2)

2009-07-11T17:39:00.003+03:00

(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!

Men are the Same

2009-06-11T17:44:00.001+03:00

**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

What the Heck am I Doing? (Part 1)

2009-05-22T17:46:00.000+03:00

Do you ever find yourself in situations where you ask yourself, “What the heck am I doing?!” Maybe I’m unique in that, I don’t know. But I recently found myself asking that very question, twice in one day.

I had been working all week with the livestock team on things like ear-tagging goats, vaccinating chickens, and checking cows for tick-borne illnesses. I am spending the week working alongside a team of local Samaritan’s Purse professionals that take care of animals that have been loaned out to people to use for breeding, to be returned with interest after 2 or 3 years. It has been a very successful program that doesn’t involve a lot of money, and the offspring that is reimbursed is then used to loan to another farmer to use for breeding. Essentially it’s exactly like getting a loan from a bank, but instead, it’s a cow, or a goat, or a pig.

It was a hot Thursday morning, and the area I am in is absolutely breath-taking. The area where the livestock loaning is going on is in the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains, the largest mountain range on the continent of Africa. Many deep crater lakes sprinkle the landscape of bright green banana and tea plantations. And it is cool, sometimes downright cold if you ask me, especially after a rainstorm. To get to where we were working required driving through Kibale National Park, a deep rainforest known for its chimpanzee, elephant, and water buffalo populations. Even along the paved road we passed a family of baboons doing a little sight-seeing of their own.

But I’m not thinking much about the landscape around me this morning. I have found myself thigh-deep in black pond muck, struggling to pull a hand fishnet to gather tilapia fish from a small, rectangular man-made fishpond. It is a project being done to help local farmers in this area. They are given a certain number of fish fry (or so baby fish are called, who knew?), along with expertise on how to construct a fish pond, and then they sign a contract saying they will reimburse the same number of fry after the fish have had time to reproduce. Those new fry will then be given to a new family who will benefit from them and then do the same thing. Part of Samaritan’s Purse ‘expertise’ is helping the people learn how to catch the fish, and how to store them without killing them with shock. So of course, as the token white guy, it was only appropriate that they ask me to hop in the water and help, pulling the net, which spans the width of the pond, across entire length of the pond. It is kind of like taking the net of a ping pong table from one side to the other. We had already using the net to scrape off black slime off the bottom for a couple hours. Now we’re using the nets to try to trap some tilapia, and, if we’re lucky, some African catfish too. But the catfish are smart, and hard to catch, according to the professionals. Tilapia must be stupid.

The sun is continually slapping me on my neck, and my triceps and quads are burning and giving out with fatigue from the constant pull of the heavy net. But boys half my age seem to be moving along without any struggle!

Needless to say, I’m miserable. Why in the world did I sign up for this? No one forced me to do this. I’m hot, sweaty, stinky, and I can barely move because I am up to my thighs in fish crap, literally. By this time, I’m hunched over the stinky water, trying to keep my chin above the water while trying to not be pulled under by the weight of the net. The problem now is that the net is so full of fish and fish muck that the fish are jumping up between our bodies and the net, trying to escape. I’m trying to see what I’m doing, but don’t want to open my eyes too much because I don’t want a fish to jump up and slap me in the eye. And I’m trying not to trip or fall down in this muck. And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be more uncomfortable, a brave fish tries to find a way out of the net by swimming directly up my shorts….what the heck am I doing here?

We finally make it to the bank, and pick up the heavy net, requiring the effort of about 15 people, and pick through the muck and small fish to find the fish big enough to keep, all the while the fish are jumping around, spraying the black muck all over the place. Now it’s not just my legs covered in fish crap. I think we must be done, and breathe a sigh of relief to myself. That is, until the Samaritan’s Purse professional says, “Ok Cory, time to get back in and do it again!”

So we decide to do a couple more sweeps of the pond, much to my dismay. Finally, on our 4^th run, we get about 2/3 of the way down the pond, and I am literally about to collapse under fatigue. We have been doing this for over 3 hours by now. I’m trying to hide it well, and I tell myself everyone else must be hiding it too because they look like they’re fine. So I ask the guy next to me, “Alex, are you tired?”

“What?”

“Are you tired? You know, ready to stop?” I hint, trying to make myself understood. I talk fast, and have a thick American accent, which I have had to learn to tame.

“Yes, are you?”

“Absolutely!”

At this point, I am exhausted, sunburned, and feeling slightly violated from an extra friendly fish. And everyone starts to laugh at what I have just admitted. It doesn’t matter that Alex said he was tired, no one seemed to have heard that. But the white guy is tired, which apparently is funny. We have been getting sloppy with the net, and aren’t catching more fish. So everyone admits that they are tired too, and we decide to stop there.

I am happy to have helped, and I am proud, too, of the work that we have been done today. The owner of the fish pond has a new catch that he will be able to divide among his family and friends that helped him in the catch today, providing necessary protein for many in an area not known for its availability of meat. He will also be able to take some to market and sell it to make a hefty profit. Not bad for a day’s work.

I clean off some of the muck, with pond water, which almost seems pointless, and make my way back to our vehicle with the Samaritan’s Purse professional, who somehow is drier and cleaner than I am-- funny how that works. As we get in the Toyota Hilux to leave, the owner of the pond brings over a huge papaya for me. The crowd has gathered around to say goodbye.

With a huge smile on his face, he says, “Thank you Cory.”

We drive off and wave as we leave, ready to go tackle another project. As the sweet smell of that fresh papaya, mixed with the fragrant smell of fish muck, blows out the window, I finally have an answer to my question...

Cory Fish

Samaritan’s Purse

P.O. Box 21810

Kampala, UGANDA

Phone:

+256 783-594-830

Stay Alert...Drink Ugandan Coffee!

2009-04-30T17:52:00.000+03:00

Green hills, covered in palm trees and colorful concrete houses. And I mean real hills, not small ones. It’s 75 degrees, and sunny, although there was a quick shower yesterday morning. In every direction you see these green hills, kissing the blue sky, which reciprocate the affection with spreads of fluffy white, blue-bottomed clouds.

I’m in Kampala, the capital of Uganda. The climate couldn’t be more different than the hotter, drier climate of my former village in Burkina Faso. But yet, there is a similarity. A shared resilience and joy that defiantly shines in the face of poverty, war, and disease which plagues this continent. I’m on the complete other side of Africa, in a country which allows the equator to pierce right through the middle of it (thank goodness for modern inventions like sunscreen for fair-skinned boys like me).

Uganda is surrounded by several countries that have made recent international news: Sudan, Kenya, Congo, Rwanda, among others. It is also bordered by the largest lake in Africa, Lake Victoria (quite beautiful, I must say). Uganda recently got out of its own problems, where the infamous Ugandan leader Idi Amin slaughtered 300,000 of his own people and exploited the resources. But it is peaceful now, having survived the onslaught. The country is still picking up its feet, and probably will for many years to come (not unlike our own country, still to this day working out civil rights problems that still plague us 150 years after our civil war.)

The people of Uganda speak English, which is a more difficult transition for me than one might imagine coming from a French-speaking country. I constantly have to force myself to speak my native tongue in a land far different from my own, despite the fact that the “oui”s and “ca va”s want to continually creep out of my mouth. Everything that became familiar and home to me in Burkina has been completely flipped upside-down as I now have to learn so much over again.

I am in Uganda on a 5 month internship with a Christian organization called Samaritan’s Purse. It is an organization led by Franklin Graham, a son of the famed evangelist Billy Graham that responds in America and beyond to natural and manmade disasters in order to show the love that Jesus Christ talked about showing to the poor, the hurting, the orphaned, and the hungry, instead of simply talking about it. For example, they recently responded to the earthquake in Italy, and they still are doing clean-up work based in New Orleans.

But they also do a lot of long-term international relief work after disasters happen (which is where I come in!). Samaritan’s Purse came to Uganda to set up a base to send people in to help settle the Rwandan dispute which led to the genocide of so many people (as in Hotel Rwanda). They actually accompanied the UN on its first mission in while the fighting was still going on. But after that problem was resolved, Samaritan’s Purse decided to stick around Uganda and address many of its own issues that resulted from the war in neighboring Rwanda, as well as several other needs that were not being met.

So here I am, roughly 16 years later, trying to figure out why the heck they’ve hired an army brat with a broadcasting degree to come help them in several of their projects in Uganda. One of the first things I assist on is a project they do to support local orphanages.

Samaritan’s Purse gives training, and occasionally materials, to over 40 orphanages in the capital. They cover things like fire safety, first aid, sports programs, and many other things that our American government does, but not every other country does. I was visiting an orphanage right outside of Kampala this morning with Tred, my co-partner throughout these next few months from Wales, to aid a couple local men that do sports programs with the orphans and relate it to a Biblical lesson and how it can be applied to the kids lives. Along the road outside of town, I passed a billboard which read in bright red letters “STAY ALERT…DRINK UGANDA COFFEE!” with a background of fresh coffee beans. And I thought to myself, “What a great idea—a public service announcement, advertisement, and national identity awareness all wrapped into one!”

Now, I have to attest to this amazing Uganda coffee, and admit that it is pretty darn good (sorry Dad, yours is still good too). One of the toughest things about living in Burkina Faso for me was not being able to have the occasional comfort cup of coffee.

I have a long road ahead of me, and will pass many billboards and speedbumps along this road. And no doubt, I will have many “coffee” breaks along the way. But hopefully I will learn something new. There is a comfort here that carries over from Burkina Faso. Despite the many differences, there are many similarities. Most people of Burkina are Muslim; most people of Uganda are Christian. Uganda is a little more developed than Burkina. But there is that shared joy that makes me instantly feel at home, despite me being an obvious stranger.

There’s a saying for us Caucasians, which says, “If you want to know how white you are, go to Africa.” And let me say, I feel as white as ever. But I know God has called me to this place, and I’ve got many adventures ahead of me. Hopefully I will be able to stay much longer than my initial 5 month assignment. I will assist with many projects, including UN food distribution to those affected by drought, AIDS testing, livestock loaning, and many others. But I know that with my limited knowledge, I will probably learn much more than I will be able to ever help others. But God has given me the strength and desire to follow this amazing dream of mine. And for that, I am thankful. But let’s be honest, I’m also thankful home-grown coffee!

Cory