That's bull crap, Whitney Houston!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming up...