Highest Mountain in the Newest Nation & I'm still that girl

(2 for the price of 1 because I haven’t blogged in too long)

I remember the early days of my first year in University, so bright-eyed and green—I’d spent a bit of time in Azerbaijan, Palestine, and Kashmir and was planning my next summers in Tibet and Bosnia and Herzegovina—I was fired up about the right to self-determination. I’ve come a long way since then—the agitation for and transition to an independent nation is much more complex than a passionate and well-meaning but ignorant young woman who wants peace and justice for everybody everywhere in the world can grasp, but originally, that was part of why I got into this work. And then last month, there I was up on a mountain— celebrating the independence of a new nation--allowing the contagion of hope that permeated the air to swell a little in my lungs. We were witnesses, part of that historic moment when the flag of the Republic of South Sudan was raised, the new national anthem was sung. A nation was born.

Before starting the drive north from Uganda T and I picked up a tent from a friend who previously worked in Darfur and South Sudan—he jokingly waved us off saying, “you go be idealistic on your mountain.” Experience has left a little taste of cynicism in his mouth—“well, at least it means daddy’s gonna have job opportunities,” he said, kissing his new baby’s head. We laughed, and began driving—about 7 hours on what was a lousy excuse for a road and in some places might more accurately be called a river until we got to the middle of nowhere, Eastern Equatoria, also known as Isohe. In Isohe, we met up with G and 3 other fellow trekkers and stayed on the AVSI compound. The next morning we drove to Torit and then towards where we were told we’d start the climb. Supposedly, the trail up Mount Kinyeti, the tallest peak in South Sudan, began from a little town called Gilo and it would take about 6 hours to summit. When we reached a place called Katire we saw a dilapidated and bullet-hole ridden signpost, which read “Gilo.” But it was pointing straight into thick jungle bush. It was raining, so we sat in the car and wondered what to do until someone passed by. We found out that the jungle in the direction of the Gilo signpost used to be a road—in the 70s . And there used to be a town called Gilo—in the 70s. Now there is no such place as Gilo and no road to reach it. (in case you are ever climbing Mount Kinyetti, just note that it takes about 15 hours and that you start from Katire. “Gilo” and “6 hours” are total fictions.) So, we found a guide/farmer/hunter that knows the mountain well but has very few readily obvious people skills or ability to estimate distances. When we would ask how long to a particular point the totally ambiguous answer was always the same, “still.” We would ask, how many more valleys do we need to go down before we start climbing the actual mountain that we are trying to summit? “many”. Right. It was an exercise in staying present. Letting go of control. Literally willing our feet to take one step at a time. The first night we hiked in the dark until 10pm, tripping on vines and who knows what, calling out warnings to each other “hole” and “log” so maybe the person behind you would be luckier than you who just fell into the hole or over the log. Thank God the moon was out. Then July 9th, Independence Day, we started before sunrise and reached the peak around 3pm. We were sad because we thought we’d missed the delegation that was supposed to arrive by helicopter for a flag raising ceremony that morning. There was only an empty pole when we arrived. An hour later we were enjoying the view and discussing food and water rations when a helicopter came up over the horizon. And from nowhere we found the energy in our weary bodies to waive shout and jump around like crazy people as if we’d been shipwrecked and our rescue depended on it. We joined the governor of Eastern Equatoria, a few other South Sudanese dignitaries and UN mission staff and a bunch of Russian pilots to sing the anthem (which they didn’t know--but we did, thanks to G who sang it repeatedly on our journey. I don’t even know Uganda’s anthem but I can now sing South Sudan’s word for word.) They opened 2 bottles of cava and we all toasted the newest nation in disposable cups. Then we painfully had to decline the offer of a ride off the mountain in the helicopter because we had to go back down the mountain a ways where we’d left one of our companions who hadn’t been able to make it to the peak. We camped again and the next day I felt euphoric despite the knee-grinding descent that I still haven’t fully recovered from. Coming down is never easy. I had several days of existential angst after we got back before I equalized at my normal elevation. Doing things like that feed my soul—an adventure, secret identities (I left that part out because I’m not entirely sure it was entirely legal…) , expanding the limits of my physical body, opening up more space in the world where I have breathed deeply, appreciated life, taken in the beauty and let go of some of the baggage that I pick up along the way of the mundane. I felt free. Alive. An open road. the top of a mountain, windows down, music blaring, singing, shoes off—in no man’s land, between borders—as if borders are irrelevant. The limits of real life fade, and we could do anything. be part of everything. We don’t live on mountains and there are a thousand tethers on our heart whose gravity roots us back down. Something in me tries to possess both--to hold on to the necessarily finite state of abandon. I brought back some wild banana plants from the mountain. I’ll plant them near the super hut. There is something beautifully paradoxical about their wild roots growing down into the soil of our first owned home. I had planned to blog, not about myself, but about South Sudan, a little analysis, and some observations from when I was in Yei in 2007 and ideas about where they’re headed, but instead I’ve indulged all these naval gazing muddles. This new nation, born through decades of labor pains is the bigger story—which I haven’t told.

There have been a few moments like this recently where I’ve felt so intensely alive—like those early days in University. Sometimes I feel like I’ve moved so far from that person—maybe lost some things about her that I rather liked, but such moments suggest some fundamental part of who we are that doesn’t change. I’ve smiled a little to myself in those moments, because I think: “I’m still that girl.” That mountain-climbing, tree-hugging, cookie-baking, late-night-chatting, freedom-seeking, on-my-knees-praying, heavenward-fist-shaking, open-door-enthusiast that I was when I was 18. My grandmother died. My brother got married. And I climbed a mountain on a historic day. Each of these events invited contemplation and inspiration—and took place with beautiful dear friends around that think with me and bring out the best in me. “That girl” doesn't happen or exist in isolation—it’s like that proverb: “I am because we are. We are because I am.” Change is coming, and I always get a little overly nostalgic and contemplative when I know that something is coming to an end. Our house is a little emptier. My fellow-mountain climber moved out yesterday. In a couple months we will move out of this big communal house, we’re working on the super hut, Z&C are moving up town. We will still be each other’s community, but in the next chapter, we’ll do it from different houses--we won’t be making coffee next to each other in the morning. When Elliyah hears the gate she’ll get out of the habit of running through housemates names and running to door to see who it is. Our garden will only be the product of our own labor. We will miss the little everyday interaction of walking down the same hallway to our bedrooms, and coming home from work to friends sitting on the veranda.

I’ve been mostly writing the last few months so have spent less time “in the field”—and have felt disconnected with the undercurrent of purpose for doing this work. On Sunday night we had a going away party and I looked around at a wonderful group of people gathered around a cello and a guitar with bellies full of good food and wine. New babies were cuddled, hands held—and I just kinda felt “this is what it’s all about.” So, why am I spending all day long reading transcripts of my interviews with rape victims and writing about the ugliest and most awful things that human beings do to each other? (this is a rhetorical question, to which I do know the answer, I just wasn’t feeling the answer) I want to cook delicious meals and eat them with good people and have nice conversations. Of course, that isn’t really all I want because I’m still that girl that wants peace and justice for everybody and have a somewhat more nuanced perspective on what that means now than I did oh way back when—but I’m just not in the mood at the moment. It’s like Pete used to say “I want cocoa and cuddles not rape and murder.”

I haven’t blogged in too long, so this is a rather-bunny trailing one that isn’t really about any one thing—so coming to some resolution to wrap it up is a little difficult. Here’s what I think:

*Mountains are good to climb.

*What the independence of South Sudan will mean is complex, but mountain peaks are not for complexity they are for inspiration, vision and renewing hope in what is possible.

*I am intensely grateful for the time with all “commune-ers” past and present.

*I’m a little nervous, but excited about living with just my family.

*You can come over any time, because if you don’t I might shrivel up from lack of social interaction and die. (PS-there will be cookies).

*The hokey pokey might really be what it’s all about—but it might also be about peace and justice for everybody everywhere in the world--whatever that means.

*I’m still that girl.

Life is like a deep hip opener (read: yoga analogy)

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Right now, my life feels like that exquisite moment--when you've been trying to breathe and relax into a pose that is awkward and even hurts. You know it is creating space, that it will be filled with vital life force, but it's hard--and you've been in it so long you start to wonder if the instructor is daydreaming, or left the room or maybe you weren't listening carefully enough and you missed it when s/he moved on with the sequence. But then you hear a cue. After just one deep inhalation and exhalation you will step out of the pose. It's been painful and good for you, but it's almost over. and then you choose to surrender and make the last moment the fullest expression of the posture yet. and breathe.

That's where I am.
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I wrote this last week. And then the moment was over. And this is what I was waiting for:

24 Years Coming

by Holly (I know, it seems so long, you thought the title of this blog referred to our blogging absence--but no, it's about this christmas)

Christmas in Mzee Oling's home, with six daughters, one son, an aunty, two cousins, and some of the most adorable grandkids imaginable. This is where I spend most days learning Acholi and doing "participant observation" for my research. Today is different. It's christmas. The 4 huts that make up this home are teeming with smiling friends, chickens oblivous to their destiny, and kids laughing chasing Ogiko (our dog) who we brought with us. The neighbors father works in the local radio station so he's brought home a huge sound system that is competing with Mzee's small hand held radio to play alternating traditional Acholi and western christmas songs. I found the ladies all in the kitchen, sweating seriously over charcoal stoves and laughing. They got up at 5 am to start cooking and they are still laughing. We laugh for happiness, not an identifiable joke or funny incident. "We laugh to show the whiteness of our teeth," goes one of my favorite Acholi proverbs. Lamaro, my favorite little girl is still getting used to Ben. His white skin and blue eyes are rather terrifying. She's running from the kitchen hut to the bedroom hut to avoid being seen by him (or eaten by him?) She also behaved like this with me for the first few weeks. Now, I've been told she told her father (who comes to visit occasionally) that she has two mommy's, one black and one white. I'm thrilled the affection is mutual--even if she did have to overcome the obstacle of my strange skin.
Ben and Mzee are sitting under the tree discussing Mzee's christmas memories. He recounted christmas parties from when he was in his 20s and worked with Uganda Wildlife Authority and with a big luxury hotel company. His favorite christmas was the first christmas that they spent with the whole family here. They moved here in 1995, the war had begun but it had not yet directly touched the family. They came for access to better schools for his girls--and all the kids were home that christmas of '95. That was the year before he lost his leg in a tank mine explosion while he was collecting wood for charcoal. It was a year before a massacre in their home village, Attiak where they lost many relatives. Even his eldest daughter, escaped narrowly. She had been visiting an aunty in Attiak when the rebels began the massacre. She fell into a pit latrine where she hid until the bloodshed stopped and the rebels left all for dead. "This war spoiled everything," he says, "this is the first year since 1995 when we've felt safe and free to celebrate. It has been 24 years we've waited for this celebration." I can't help but pause prayerfully to remember the Congolese who feel anything but safe. The LRA has reportedly written several letters threatening a repeat of last years "Christmas Massacres." Several rebels who have escaped admitted they had joked about "celebrating christmas" like last year. Fortunately, no reported violence means they decided to celebrate some other way--but no doubt, our friends across the border will have to wait longer to experience the safety and freedom from violence that Uganda is now enjoying.

They really are enjoying it. The girls are dressing up, and combing out their hair. I came with nail polish a few days ago and painted over 20 pairs of hands or toes I'm sure.
The food is an amazing spread and they generously share with us as well as the random uninvited guests that are always welcome: a drunk neighbor who is a widow, a young woman who is only halfway in control of her mind that is happily singing and eating their food, and anyone else who seems to have an empty belly. We brought simple gifts: candy for the kids, a couple of t-shirts for the young men and some jewelry for the ladies, a book written by an Acholi preist on being a traditional Acholi and a Christian for Mzee. As they open each gift, Josephine ululates over the laughter of the rest of us who are clapping and happily watching what the next person is given. I felt some of the gifts weren't nice enough, for this incredible family that has helped me so much. I was worried about the reception--but I could not have imagined anything better! They all claimed that each gift was perfect for the receiver, and none envied other gifts. Personally, I am very grateful for the odii (ground sesame and peanut paste) that they lovingly gave us.

What is it that enables such easy laughter? such wholehearted gratitude? It might be a lack of expectation. If so, I(cynically/sadly?)thought to myself while sitting there, this is the first and the last christmas we will experience like this. Next year there will be an expectation. I have chatted with a few friends and family members from home and contrasted the blessed simplicity of christmas in Uganda with the materialistic madness and pressure to buy right, dress right, cook right, etc. of christmas at home. Every year must at least maintain, if not add on to the precedent of previous years. And yet, here, for the first time in decades people are enjoying the relative calm and prosperity so that they are finally able to celebrate materially--with small things like christmas dresses or even little artifical christmas trees--and it is a beautiful thing to see! Is that terrible? The materialism we turn our noses up to at home we welcome here as a sign of the absence of war.

Isn't there a way to maintain expectant wonder for this great celebration and accept every moment of it in whole hearted gratitude without holding it up for comparison to our unconscious (or conscious) standard of "shoulds"?

My friends in Wii Aworanga did it this year. Maybe it's the lack of expectation. Maybe it's the eruption of joy that has been waiting 24 years for peace to allow it's full expression. Whatever it is, I pray it is sustained--and that perhaps, it is contagious.


(Happy 100th blog to us! This is our 100th post. We intend to try to write more regularly in the coming year--yes, it's a proper new year's resolution. Regarding the new blog look and background--the quote on the top of the page must be accredited to Annie Dillard. And I have a confession. The woman in the banner photo is not from northern Uganda. She's actually Sudanese, and I took this photo while doing a consultancy in Yei (the blog I wrote about that time was "What Grows in This Soil". Her face is just so amazing--and I loved it here. I know, I really should replace it with one of the amazing Ugandan faces that I interact with and that grace my iPhoto library, and someday I will--but for now, I share her beautiful face with you and disclose her nationality.)

Bits and Bobs

by Ben

Please forgive us for our lack of communication over the past couple of months. Not surprisingly, life in London is full of opportunities that send my easily-distracted mind (and person) on continuous and exciting tangents.

Maybe we’re still in the honeymoon phase of re-entry, but our transition into London life has been very pleasant, not least because Holly’s parents and sister are nearby and we have a great place to live and fun flat-mate.

My professor of the refugee studies class I’m taking coined the phrase “nostalgic disorientation” to describe a common experience of refugees in asylum countries. It is the phenomenon of a mixture of emotions like frustration, sadness, angst, confusion,……disorientation, but not really knowing why. He talks about the “mosaic” or “tapestry” that is home, including the tangible and intangible elements that are continually processed intuitively. On a much different level than a refugee, I can relate to this confusing nostalgia. A few days ago, I suddenly became aware of the absence of African music playing behind our house and the murmur of men gathered around the drinking pot. Where is the ubiquitous scent of sunflower oil, the warmth of the red earth, the sound of children laughing and crying, the breeze coming through open windows, or the occasional roar of youth watching a football match down the road? Sometimes, I imagine the buzzing of mosquitoes at my ear and try to make sure the net is in place when I fully wake up and realize where I am.

Thanksgiving really highlighted the difference in our new environment. We always celebrated Thanksgiving in Uganda, but I had to kill the turkey, Holly had to roll the pie crusts on the floor, and 50 people came to eat in the front lawn. It was so nice to be with family this year. We shared our thankfulness with one another, cuddled around the fireplace to talk philosophy and theology, and ate delicious food for hours on end.

Jay and Teri wanted to minimize my culture shock so they let me pretend that I was going to kill the turkey (that came in plastic wrap with the inner organs tied neatly inside)




Here is Holly and I hanging the mistletoe. Guess what we did when I put her down :)





Teri thought I would look nice with a raw liver mustache





Last weekend we attended the European gathering, a place for leaders in high profile places and up-and-coming leaders to network and talk about how their faith impacts and influences their work.






The venue for the gathering

Out of Africa

As you can imagine, this photos was not taken in Lira, Uganda. (behind Dad's new boat in Colorado)

The last three years of my life cannot be described in absolutes, nor can the people of Uganda be described in a blog posting. I can say absolutely, however, that I found another piece of myself in Uganda. By engaging in a culture radically different from my own, I have shaken off big pieces of what both cultures have led me to believe as true or right and now live knowing fewer truths, but holding them stronger. It is difficult to hold these worldviews simultaneously. Someone told me in church yesterday, that "our true selves only emerge after being put through trying experiences", using the analogy of a teabag being placed in hot water (a proper English analogy).

I like analogies, more so, I like twisting or stretching their meaning past the original intention. If I am a "teabag" and have been placed in hot water through my experience in Uganda, and am now being placed in another cup of hot water in London, I ask myself, "Is my flavor going to run out or get weak?" Before landing in London, I was accepted into a PhD programme for the therapeutic care of refugees at Essex University. I also decided that I was going to find a job and work full time. In other words, I wanted to put the same used teabag into another cup of boiling hot water. After some prayer and reflection, I decided that I needed something else this year. As a counsellor, I have given advise about self care to many burnt out, disillusioned, cynical, and angry workers who have depleted their energy, ambition, hope and meaning. I made the tough decision to seek spiritual and psychological restoration over my drive to excel academically and professionally. I will not be joining the PhD course this year.

What this will look like is still unfolding, but I already have a good start. I am looking for part time work and voluntary opportunities with agencies who work therapeutically with refugees (and have a few leads). I am creating enough space to respond spontaneously to artistic and intellectual events. I have already attended public lectures by : Lord Nick Stern (leading climate change activist), Luis Moreno-Ocampo (Chief Prosecutor at the International Criminal Court) and tonight Thomas Friedman (of the NY Times). I am also looking for ways to rejuvenate spiritually, both in community and individually. I will still be attending the most interesting class of the PhD programme called "Working with Refugee Families". I also realized that overloading myself with work and school would distract from my desire to be more available and loving to Holly, so one of my goals is to be a better support to her this year. And, I have joined the LSE orchestra! We had rehearsal last night and I am overjoyed to be playing cello again. Lastly, I wanted some time to think about and potentially start fundraising for a very exciting idea that has been surfacing regarding an initiative with war-affected youth in Uganda next year (Ask me more!).

So, family and friends, go get another teabag. Life is too short to spend it spent.

Happy Days

My sweet little sister, Mrs. Tina Randall James is now married to this dear Mr. Mark Randall James. The wedding was beautiful, the time was beautiful, and Tina was, of course, beyond beautiful.

It was great to have family together. Here three generations of women with "hidden" names. At the rehearsal dinner, the groom shared about names, and especially the ways in which the hidden maiden names and what they mean have contributed to the character of our families.
It was a happy day. I was just so happy. I loved seeing the happiness of my parents and especially, the happiness of my sister and my new brother-in-law.

Listening to my sister, a person who is, more than anyone else, kindred to me, say her wedding vows, made me think about my own. It was less a reminiscence of my own wedding day, six years ago this Saturday, but a remembering and affirmation of what I have promised before God and a community of supporting friends and family. So powerful and right the vows are and yet somewhat ambiguous. There is a bit where we promise to be a comfort to each other. Comfort is a continuum. There are times in marriage when we are guilty of inflicting pain rather than offering comfort. But happy days, like July 31st for Tina and Mark, and August 16th for me and Ben remind us, inspire us, to live out our promises to the fullest.

15 Minutes or Never

Mom and dad visited a couple of weeks ago. We took them to Kampala and booked rooms, but there was some mix-up and their room was not self-contained room. Wanting to make my parents feel comfortable in my Ugandan home, I tried to convince the lady who ran the place to give them a room with an en-suite bathroom. There was an empty room but it needed some cleanup, so I asked when it could be ready. Her reply: "15 minutes"...long pause, "or...never."

With all the momentum behind the Juba Peace Process--the plan to negotiate the last item on the agenda and have all parties sign within a few short days in April--it seemed like it was all going to happen, in perhaps the same time frame as my parents' room. 15 minutes...or never.

The first time we really expected/hoped/doubted that Kony would sign the final peace agreement (April 10th) I was on Ssese Island for the CPA staff induction. I sat with Immaculate, Sylvia and Tonny on the edge of the water and we watched the sun set while we listened to the day's news on radio. In this case, no news was bad news. If the peace agreement had been signed, something would have been reported. But it got darker and still the announcer said nothing about what we hoped to hear.

While peace delays, our days have been full. We finally had some time in an Acholi village--something we've planned to do for a long time. We spent a week in grass thatch hut. We were hosted by a Parent Support Group that we've interacted with a lot over the past years. Ben spent time in the garden with the men, constructed a chicken house and swept the compound.

As much as possible, I wanted to do what a traditional Acholi woman would do. I woke up each morning and swept and mopped the hut and then carried water from the well (on my head) and prepared the water for Ben to bathe. I had to take a break from feminist practice in order to really experience tradition. I practiced Acholi and listened to countless stories of village gossip, usually involving someone allegedly stepping on charms, speculation about who was charming who, etc. I wanted to learn Acholi cooking, so every day I went to a different household to make lunch and dinner. That meant twice a day of collecting food from the garden, pounding sesame or ground nuts, then grinding, cooking, serving, kneeling for washing hands before eating. All the pounding, grinding and cooking takes place in kitchens that have charcoal fires and virtually no ventilation. After the first day, my back ached, my eyes burned and my hands were covered in blisters. Because of the novelty of it, and because my effort was so appreciated--it somehow retained an element of fun. Were I born in that village, and the work was all I knew and it was as thankless as it is for most of the women, it would not have been fun. It is tough being an Acholi woman. And they are tough.

After supper, the drums come out and there is dancing for those with any sweat left in their bodies.

One evening after we danced we sat around a fire and told stories. It felt like any typical campfire, and they told stories with an easiness in their voices. The ensuing laughter would have given the impression to anyone that subject matter was light. But they were all stories of war, encounters with rebels, nights spent lying in maize fields shivering in terror in hope of escaping being burnt in their huts. They could laugh, because they felt safe. They felt like what the recalled was behind them. The unspoken claim was, "It's over." One of the women my age turned to me and said, "I've never known anything like peace in my life." I held her hand, and hoped that it really was over, and that she would know peace now. It is all so fragile, maybe deceptive--this fake or fragile peace we're enjoying in northern Uganda.

It was wonderful to spend time with my parents when they visited. We shared a taste of life in Lira, work in Gulu, Philip's traditional marriage in Kampala and a game drive and relaxing at the lodge in Murchison. My favorite animal is the giraffe.

We thought we'd miss the big cats. The grass was so tall, my dad said, "they could be 15 feet away and we wouldn't even know it." At that moment we saw this one, a baby, even less than 15 feet away. It's mother woke up and another cub emerged and the threesome ran off.

Mom and jelly bonded.

We finished our time with them dropping them off for a conference they had in Jinja. An hour before they had to arrive dad suggested bungee jumping. I've never had any desire to do it (I don't like the sensation of my heart being in my throat), so mom and I watched Ben and dad leap off a huge tower at Bujagali falls down to the Nile below them. I think we were more scared than they were.

I can hardly believe how soon we will be leaving for London. In periods of transition time takes on a curious character. The days somehow seem longer, but the months fly. I find myself in the middle of a tension, straining toward what's ahead and dissolving into nostalgia/regret on what's past. I find equilibrium in the middle of that tension. I manage to be fully present. In those moments every conversation has it's own life and meaning and each encounter is accepted and appreciated for what it is. It's often humbling. Sometimes, my expectations far exceed the reality and I wish for more. Usually, I feel grateful.

Last Month By Picture --by Ben

We are sorry that is has been so long since we last posted. The past few weeks have flown by. Here are a couple of recent highlights.

STAFF INDUCTION

Here is a picture of me given a presentation on personality in the workplace using the Enneagram exercise


Holly and Immaculate. We reviewed procedures and policy during the day and enjoyed our evenings growing closer personally and as an organization.


Holly flying her kite on the beach of Sesse Island where we conducted the staff induction.


After session beach ball

CPA CHAIRPERSON

Angelina, CPA's Chairperson left for a six week-long advocacy trip with MCC in Canada and the US.

FINANCIAL COMPLIANCE MEETING

Christian Aid, one of our partners, brought us together for a week long capacity building workshop to improve our financial compliance to EU funding.

PSYCHOSOCIAL TRAINING

Here is one of seven groups of trainers for the second phase of the psychosocial training.

GODFREY AND TONNY'S BIRTHDAY

We had fun embarrassing Tonny and Godfrey


It turns out that we played the same games at childhood birthday parties as our Ugandan colleagues, so we thought it would be fun to reminisce.

MONITORING VISIT TO PARENT SUPPORT GROUP

We were making an assessment of a Savings and Loan Group. It's hard to visit without a dance show. So here we are watching.


Fun with a camera

STEP TOWARDS RECONCILIATION PROJECT

Holly has been busy helping the Peacebuilding Programme Officers train community mediators and develop a new curriculum for youth to reintegrate ex-combatants.

LABOR DAY PICNIC


Holly and Sylvia at Karuma Falls on the Nile


Philip was very proud of his fish

STRESS MANAGEMENT AT HOME


Here is my new demonstration plot for tomatoe plants


Jelly is always so dirty


Here is Ogiko getting headbutted by Jelly

Leb Ngec by Ben

Life has been flying by since we’ve been back in Uganda. Here are a couple of pictures of a recent hunting trip I took with some CPA colleagues. We stayed in tents, deep in the bush, in a place called Leb Ngec (the monitor lizard’s tongue). The entire experience was more natural than I knew this world could be. My sister in law, Erin, told me that people can store memories more permanently when they try to isolate each sense and get their full benefit. As I explored my surroundings with my eyes, hears, hands, and nose, the atmosphere came alive.

(Philip and I, trying to look like hunters)
It was a time of incredible bonding. We stomped through the tall grass for hours on both days until we were exhausted. I learned how to hunt different animals and live off of wild fruits when meat wasn’t available. We all related freely-I only wish that my Luo was better.

(Ben and Robert-as the sun goes down and the fire comes up)

(The landowner's cute son)

Work is going really well. I have been coordinating a baseline survey for the EU project, as well as orienting our new Psychosocial Programme Officers to the re-implementation of the project I have been working on for the past two years.

Holly has been traveling a lot recently. She has been co-facilitating and monitoring trainings of community mediators for the Steps Towards Reconciliation project funded by MCC.

Meet Jelly Belly

For my birthday, Holly gave me a ticket for "one young, good-lookin' cow" (just what I wanted). Today I woke up very early and went to the cattle market and waded through thousands of cows and people to find Jelly, my new cow! She is one and a half years old, weighs about 200 pounds, eats a ton, and has a nice loud voice.
Ogiko and Jelly are still working out their relationship. (Jelly has kicked Ogiko in the head several times, and he hasn't seemed to learn the lesson.)

Beautiful Floating Popcorn

A Ugandan friend told us his impression of snow the first time he saw it in the UK, “It’s like beautiful popcorn floating slowly.” We remembered his description watching the snow fall in the Porter backyard, enjoying a white Christmas with new perspectives that have changed our appreciation of snow and everything else.

It has been over two years since seeing the Porter family. Our family grew by two people since we've been in Uganda. Meeting and getting to know Anya and Dmitri (our niece and nephew) were highlights of our visit to Colorado. We even saw our soon-to-come niece on a 4D ultrasound and felt her kicking. We celebrated something almost every night (Dmitri’s 2nd birthday and Ben & Josh’s 30th, Christmas, Baby showers, breaking through the ceiling, New Years, etc…).
Evenings were filled with good food (thanks to Mom Porter’s mouth-watering culinary skills), conversation and music. We also had a chance to stop by Celebration and reconnect with dear friends. Though all of us have experienced profound change in our lives we clasped hands again with deep appreciation for a community of friends that continues to march to the same beat. We witnessed the beautiful transformation of friends becoming parents. Holly held Kellen’s hand and recalled the Acholi saying, Dako nywal ki nyeke—a woman gives birth more easily when her friend is with her. Ben accompanied the Kents playing their songs wrestling with mortality and outrage about injustice in northern Uganda. We entered the New Year with Ben playing cello with other classical musicians and Austrian New Year traditions with his former cello teacher. On our way back to Uganda we saw the Randall clan in the UK, went wedding dress shopping with Tina (who looks absolutely beautiful in everything she puts on), discussed theology, community and gender with her fiancé, ran around London looking at possible PhD sites with Travis, and had sweet conversation with mom over tea and with dad in a local pub.

As per the Austrian New Year’s tradition, Holly dropped melted led into a cold bowl of water. The shape it takes is supposed to show your fortune for the year. It looked to us like a funky clump of metal—but we’re sure it meant that 2008 will be a great year. It was nice to play in the snow, but our feet are happy to be in sandals walking near the Equator again.