Thanks.

Hey folks,

Thanks for reading. It has meant a great deal that you took time to read these entries and share this journey.

Hope to see each of you soon,
-trev

Cats.

While in the Serengeti and Ngorongoro my dad and I saw tons of animals, especially the big cats. Here are some of them.
The first lion we saw. She was nursing and looked exhausted.

The only leopard we saw the whole trip. Our guide said leopards are far more dangerous than lions. If a human ever stumbles upon one there's little chance of them living to tell about it.


There were 5 of these little guys playing together. I was tempted to get out of the jeep and join them but they were using their 300 pound mother as a jungle gym.




Either this young lady was warning me with an evil eye or flirting with me with an awkward wink. It's probably the latter.

A family of 5 cheetahs were lounging by the side of the road as we left the Serengeti.


She may be tiny but she's feisty.

Reminder

My father arrives soon and I am very glad. I am glad that he will know this community, its people. He will stand in the prolonged handshakes and the steady evening winds. He will know the smell of omena, the feel of ugali rolled in his hand, the sight of stark white egrets gliding above the lake. He will hear the rains and sense their approach. He will see the sunrise for a few days and see that each is it's own wonder. He will greet the children and the old women. In his time here, he will see this life and help me remember. That is a great gift.

Much of who I am, the parts of me that are worthwhile or good, come from my father. I hope he will see those traits in me, in this place, and help me remember those too.

Glimpses.

Many women of the village are employed in some facet of the omena cycle. This women is throwing fresh omena on the nets to dry. Once finished, the womens' legs and forearms are covered in flecks of silver.



This fisherman is carrying paraffin lanterns used to catch the omena. A boat will spread up to six lanterns along the water's surface, kept afloat by wooden platforms. The light attracts the fish and then the boats encircle the omena with nets.



At around dusk the fishermen start arriving at the beach for the night's work. The long stick in the foreground is used to move the paraffin lanterns.



Kageno runs a tailoring program that acts as a business and vocational training. Salome heads both initiatives and can make anything, ANYTHING, on her manual sewing machine.



Water hyacinth have invaded the local beaches and have done serious damage to the native aquatic life. The destructive hyacinth does, however, bring some economic opportunity. About 12 people have found employment through harvesting the plant, binding it into rope, and then using that rope to make mats, rugs, and bags.


At least once a week, the mere sight of me will send a child into hysteria. Not a good kind of hysteria but the kind that you would expect if a child saw a huge, oozing monster lumbering towards them. They haven't encountered too many white people and are somewhat uncertain. While this little girl wasn't crying because of me, her bottom lip quivered a bit quicker as I approached and she toyed with the idea of running in the opposite direction. Once older, the fear turns to curiosity and if I stand long enough in one place I will feel tiny hands rubbing my bare calves - they are infatuated with leg hair. One little boy reached out and touched my shin only to grimace and recoil as if he had touched a burning coal.


Children here are thrown into independence. They'll walk to school alone at age 5. They also have a great deal of responsibility, like caring for their younger siblings. Child-headed households, where the oldest assumes the parental role, are common.


One of the local birds known as a weaver because of its intricate spherical nests.

Whoops.

I've approached learning Luo with a bit of reckless abandon. Even if I don't know exactly what to say I'll try to use whatever vocab I have to carry on some kind of exchange. There have been quite a few humorous mistakes but these three are the best so far.

I wanted to say, "Adwaro nyoyo," which means, "I want maize and beans."

What I actually said was, "Adwaro yoyo," which means, "I want to suckle."

I wanted to say, "Tedo alayo," which means, "Cook green grams."

What I actually said was, "Tedo alayo," with incorrect inflection, which means, "Cook I urinate."

I wanted to ask, "Ichiew nadhi?" which means, "How are you waking?"

What I actually asked was, "Ichew nadhi," which means, "How are you fat?"

This last slip has happened a number of times but everyone has been gracious, either because they were confused or because being called fat is not such a bad thing in this culture.


PS. You know how at big sporting events, like the opening ceremony of the Olympics, they'll show a shot of the stadium from a blimp hovering above and you'll see an infinite amount of camera flashes? Now imagine each one of those flashes is a bolt of lightening. That was something like the storm two nights ago.

The Kitchen

It is a place of creation, of expansion.

Outside of this place, women whisper greetings with bowed heads. Here, they boast of their superior strength and throw playful punches. Here are friendships forged during countless hours over many years. It holds contests and races - who can peel the most potatoes, who can fan the fire for the longest. Here are patient teachers who hover over foreign students as they clumsily chop onions and tomatoes. Women nurse and stir the soup. Men stand at the door and tread lightly within.

The kitchen is the center, the keystone, a sanctuary where friends rest and receive news, safe from the tensions of business. Cats and puppies lie beside the cooling charcoal stove and pots simmer over open flames. Hens followed by day old chicks are shooed by a straw broom. Kale, cabbage, rice, green grams, cassava, chipati, ugali; all rest in baskets or hang from the thatched ceiling. A paraffin lantern gives light once the sun has finished. The breeze clears the smoke and brings the smell of rain.

It is a place of welcome. It can generate thanksgiving or reminders of shortage. It is a sacred school where secrets are passed between generations. Here, soil, water and sun become the tie that binds.

It is a place of resolution, a kind and daily end.

Mamas

There are few moments as blissful as when I meet old women along the path and say, "Oyawore. Ichiew Nadi?" which means, "Good morning. How are you waking?" Laughing, they lunge for my hand and grip it with the strength that comes from a lifetime of manual labor. They gently slap the back of my palm and fire off Luo to test my knowledge. My understanding ends so I simply smile, relish their calluses and toothless grins.

These interactions remind me of time spent with my own grandmother, times when she spoke a different language and I could only sit and listen. In much the same way, she held my hand, patted my arm, and warmed me with her laughter.

Rain

It sounds like being inside of a snare drum because that's essentially where I am. The round room with concrete floor and walls covered by a taut metal roof creates a very similar instrument. When it rains, it sounds like I'm trying to sleep inside of a snare drum that is being pummeled by an overzealous adolescent boy who lacks rhythm and inhibition.

The thunder reverberates throughout my entire body. It's like standing in front of enormous speakers that alternate between the same two notes at the bottom of the bass clef. Somewhat unsettling, it can continue for 10 or more seconds and towards the end of that time I start to wonder if a part of me, like my heart or another organ, is going to pop.

I asked the older men at the Kageno Community Center if they had heard the storm last night.

"What storm?" one of them asked.

"You didn't hear the rain and thunder?" I asked, dumbfounded.

They chuckled and shot amused glances at one another.

"That wasn't a storm," one of them explained, "that was just some rain."

I can't wait for the storms.

Alexandria died. She was 16.

One of Alphonces's neighbors, she would come to his house in the afternoon to help prepare the evening meal. It was during those times that I got to know her, as we peeled potatoes or as I marveled at her ability to do three times as much work as I could. A week before her death she was in good health, a lively teenage woman.

Her father came to the shamba this morning during breakfast. He expressed his thanks to Alphonce for helping to pay the funeral costs. He spoke for 15 minutes and made eye contact twice. The rest of the time he stared at the wall or out the open door. His hands never stopped tugging at the frayed edges of his hat.





Ana, the young girl in the picture above, contracted Malaria almost two months ago. During her recovery, bacteria attacked her liver. She received good medical care and medication because both of her parents are employed and can therefore afford the treatments. Since starting the regimen of drugs, her health has improved. The same cannot be said of almost 10,000 other children in Africa who die everyday of treatable diseases. That number can be too big to comprehend until you start assigning potential names to the masses: Ana, George, Dennis.

Peter, one of my running companions, holds Ana. Peter is Alexandria's brother. I asked Alphonce what I should say to Peter, how to best express my sympathy. "Just say you are sorry. To talk about the death would make him focus on the grief." There are close to 10 funerals every week in this small community. The life expectancy is just over 40. With so much loss, people here cannot grieve for long. They must plant before the rains start. They must walk to the lake to collect water. They must find firewood. They must to survive.

I hope it's more than 1,000.

Since being in Kenya, I've started a number of blog entries that haven't been posted. In spite of numerous revisions and hours spent thinking about how to best tell these stories, the writings just aren't enough. Words fail, or I fail to find the words.

So even though it makes me feel and look like more of an outsider, I've started carrying my camera more often. I hope the pictures will portray what I have thus far struggled to convey.


This is Charlie, the stud of the Kageno's Dairy Goat Project. He was brought all the way from South Africa to improve the gene's of the current goats on the island.



Fishing is the main livelihood for most of this island. They catch small fish called "omena" which are dried in the sun and then eaten whole. These children are resting on one of the boats the men paddle at night as they work their nets. Due to an extremely high unemployment rate, many women have resorted to trading sex for fish. This practice has lead to an HIV/AIDS rate the ranges from 40-80%, depending on the demographic.


Meet George. You may get the chance to meet him in person. He could be sitting next to Dennis on the flight back to America.


The Kageno Community Center shares a beach with the fishing boats shown above. If I had any desire to try omena it was squelched after seeing cows, like this one, drop massive amounts of manure on the drying fish.


At some point roughly 50 years ago a shipment of bicycles washed up on the shore of Lake Victoria and they are still being used today. It's amazing to see a child leap onto the moving bike and then have to lean to the left and right so his feet can reach the pedals.




This is Norah jumping rope behind one of the best schools on Rusinga. There are no windows, dirt floors, and the children sit 4 in a row on a small wooden benches.


At the end of a term, the students line up in front of the rest of the school in order of their marks; the highest are on the left, the lowest on the right. If that wasn't enough motivation/humiliation, the teachers sometimes separate those who failed and those who passed by about 20 feet and then lecture them on getting to the other side of the gap.


Protesting a goal during a soccer match with a homemade ball.

Dennis

My mother expressed a fear that I would bring back a child at the end of my time in Africa. Well, this may be that child.

Running on Rusinga

Here are a few of the obstacles that make running on this island interesting: The deep ruts in the dirt road caused by rain runoff. The rocks of all sizes that are left after the soil erodes. There's only one road. Goats. Mobs of curious children on their way to school. Stomach bugs. The sun that is remarkably powerful within minutes after coming over the mountain. Local custom which requires greeting everyone with at least a "Hello. How are you? Can you please give me details about every member of your family?" Herds of cows and their globs of poo.

Ohhhh, Kigali, with your paved streets and readily available drinking water, how I miss our mornings together!

I have found a couple running companions which make the conditions more enjoyable. Peter is about 22 years old and started running with me for two reasons: he enjoys the activity and he wants to protect me from the previously mentioned curious children. Our first run together he shows up in sandals that cost less than $2. He started the jog with about 50 cents left and ended with no more than 25. We were on the dirt road for the first half and then started up a rocky trail at which point the strap on his right flip-flop broke, thus the drop in remaining value. He just kept on going. The other young man joined us today and reminds me of Preston. At the end of a brutal 7 mile run, which was not even close to challenging to him, he grabbed a hoe and started uprooting a tree. He ran in boots without laces.

How does this affect the current predictions for the race on May 24th? According to the most recent poll by Alabaster, Upper, and Thigh, it's still to close to call. Preston still faces temperatures in the "Stupidly Cold," to, "Are-You-Freaking-Kidding-Me? Cold" range. Steve has trouble finding time to bathe let alone train. Trevor has seen setbacks due to his stomach deciding to go into convulsions every other week. With two and a half months till the big day it's anyone's race.

Mathematics mistakenly holds the title of "the universal language." Yes, numbers have no prejudices and 2+2=4 everywhere, but anyone who has struggled in a calculus course knows that math can be remarkably complicated and confusing.

Laughter, on the other hand, needs no foundation or prior understanding. Genuine, guttural laughter crosses all lines of language, age, ethnicity, and belief. When on the outskirts of a conversation with people speaking an unknown tongue, if those involved suddenly rear back their heads and slap their knees in a fit of uncontrollable amusement it is near impossible not to join them.

Anguish can also overcome those same barriers.

A young man was recently killed in the shallows of Lake Victoria less than a kilometer from where I work. While bathing he was attacked and dismembered by an adult hippo with a calf at her side. The day after the tragedy, I was walking with Alphonce to offer condolences and assistance to the family when we came upon a group of fishermen pulling their nets onto the beach. The intended catch, the missing remains of the young man, were painfully absent.

When the empty nets had been brought ashore, an old woman stepped from the crowd and stood ankle deep in the small waves. She faced the water and began shouting a plea to the boy's spirit to return the body and for the lake to ease its journey. She spoke entirely in Luo but her pain and beseechment dug into my chest, burrowed into my spine. Decades from now, whatever Luo I learn will be forgotten but the image of that woman against the vast waters, her wrinkled hands shaking as she pounded her walking stick into the sand, and the sound of her commanding voice will still remain.

The Shamba

At around 6:15, the sun rises directly over the tallest of five peaks, the waters of Lake Victoria reflecting a vibrant blue to the North and South. Roosters start greeting the day at around 3am and by 5, goats, cows, song birds and babies have all joined to make a strangely harmonious chorus. By 7, the residents of Rusinga Island are busy settling into the rhythm of the day as their heavy hoes break the earth.

This shamba, or home, has 40-50 bananas trees lining one side of the plot while young mango and papaya sprout along the other. Aloe Vera grow in the empty spaces and soon corn will cover whatever open ground is left. One massive tree, thick and gnarled, guards the main entrance.

Two dogs, both rescued strays, the older covered in scars, the younger, thin and a bit aggresive, weave through the chickens pecking the dust to find breakfast. Cats often lay in the walkways, immobile and indifferent. A lone donkey munches on the grass and occasionally lifts its sad head.

Two main structures rest on Alphonce's shamba, his compound. Alphonce is the Kenyan director of Kageno, where I am working. The larger of the two consists of four bedrooms made from concrete and a steel roof. Two small beds and a tiny table inhabit my room as well as a number of geckos and a good deal of spiders. At one end of the house hangs a tarp that provides privacy for the shower - a large bucket and old plastic food container. The smaller building is a sitting area with a high thatched roof where Alphonce and guests eat dinner. An outside cooking area stands to the north and 10-15 meters from the sitting area is the pit latrine.

Extending from the roof of the main house is a pipe that runs from the gutters into a 5,000 liter basin. Rain collects here and provides potable water for showering and drinking. A massive basket, 5 feet tall and 3 feet wide, rests on a wooden platform and awaits the harvest.

Once the sun sets, the voices of fisherman preparing for a night's work drift up from the beach and the words of Linford Detweiler seem fitting:

I'm thinking of a place now
Where I used to have to tell myself
Aloud,
Those are not clouds,
They're stars.

While in Kenya, this place is my home. I am so very, very fortunate.

Kenya

I've been in Kenya for just over three days and there are already so many stories. One of the best moments happened this afternoon when James, a boy of about 11, showed me how to make a soccer ball out of plastic bags and old fishing line. Once finished, which from beginning to end took about ten minutes, we played a game of keep-away with a bunch of other kids from the village. The children here are quickly replacing their shy giggles with boisterous questions and it is wonderful. (Their increasing courage may be in part due to my new fedora made from coconut bark, hand crafted by one of the women on the island. It does looks a bit ridiculous but it makes them laugh and it's therefore hard to leave at home.)

The gauntlet has been thrown...

In May of this year, the three Smith boys will run a race together; either the Pittsburgh Half Marathon on the 3rd or the Ogden 20K Classic on the 24th. Like most things that happen in a family of boys, this race will be a competition and the winner will hold bragging rights for decades. Here’s an unbiased and honest breakdown of the contenders.

Stephen Stewart Smith – 5’10”, 160 lbs, 29 years old.
Strengths: Steve’s the oldest and therefore used to being first. He also has as obstinate drive to not let either of his younger brothers beat him at anything. As a third grade teacher, he used to sustaining an elevated heart rate over long periods of time. Perhaps his greatest strength lies in his fiancé and coach Nicole. She’s run countless races and knows a great deal about training. Michael Phelps asked her to help him prepare for 2012. Steve recently gained an unexpected boost - the endorphins that he got as a result of the Steelers’ Superbowl win will still be raging through his body in 3 and a half months.
Weaknesses: As stated above, he’s an elementary teacher that spends 10 hours a day in the classroom which doesn’t leave much time or energy for training. Furthermore, he’s planning a spring wedding which consumes whatever moments he’s not in front of a couple dozen eight year olds. Lastly, he’s quickly becoming an old fart.

Preston Taylor Smith – 5’11”, 175 (shaved) 190 (with a few days of stubble), 23.
Strengths: He’s a mutant. Preston possesses a gene unknown to the other Smith boys. After lounging on a coach for three months he can effortlessly trot along at a sub five minute mile pace. He started running track his junior year of high school and quickly earned the nickname, “Prefontaine.” Even with this innate physical advantage, Preston’s greatest asset comes from a desire for revenge. Winning this will give him a chance to repay years of torment from his older brothers. The bragging rights might be enough motivation for him to exert a super human effort.
Weaknesses: He’s in Iowa. It’s cold in Iowa. Running a few miles in 14 layers of clothes and boots heavy enough to anchor a small house in a tornado is rather challenging. Preston knows he's a strong runner and so therefore might not log a whole lotta miles before May. He's working in construction, as he has been for the last 6 months, and is slowly but surely getting a bit thick around the middle.

Trevor Heyward Smith – A tall and lean 6’4”, 185 pounds. He has the perfect blend of youth and maturity at the crisp age of 26.
Strengths: Trevor’s already averaging 15-20 miles of running per week in sunny Africa. Those runs take place in the hilly Kigali that sits at over 5,000 feet in elevation. His regiment will only increase and by the time the race rolls around he may be bagging 20k’s on easy days.
Weaknesses: Trevor has more screws and pins in his knees than in most kitchen appliances. It’s anyone’s guess as to when some of this hardware might shoot out and turn into shrapnel. Before either race, Trevor will have recently returned from time abroad and an long international flight. Jet lag could steer him off course to find a bench or just a grassy patch for a quick nap.

No matter who wins, it will be a great time. If anyone ends up bleeding let's just hope it adds humor to the memory.

Please make all wagers through “Papa Smurf Booking Agency” at 1-800-745-8738. (That’s 1-800-PIK-TREV)

Ready.

I only have one more week in Rwanda.

Most of the students know my name and I know many of theirs. I can correctly pronounce the majority of Kigali's neighborhoods and give decent directions. The moto (small motorcycles used for public transportation) drivers no longer get more than the fair price for the trip from the office to my house. The man with good tomatoes at the market expects to see me on Sunday mornings. La Sierra sells the best, and some of the only, whole grain bread in the city and Ndilo’s supermarket has the cheapest peanut butter. I can run for hours without getting lost and focus more on the morning fog hugging the hills than on the stares from people I pass. I’ve taught dozens of classes, started an internship for students, and initiated a few other projects at Orphans of Rwanda. Kigali, while it still holds mysteries and unknown corners, has become comfortable and provided a good group of friends.

For all those reasons it is time for me to leave.

I came to Africa to be challenged, to throw myself into situations that were foreign and uncomfortable. The first month in Rwanda met that desire. Backpacking through Uganda brought plenty of those kinds of situations. Over the last few weeks, the strange and new have become the familiar. I feel more irritated than humored when merchants try to charge me double or people assume I can’t eat a plateful of bananas and beans.

It would be easy to stay in Rwanda. Kenya, however, will be quite different. Rusinga Island is remote and very poor unlike my current home in one of the nicest and safest African cities. I look forward to the new surroundings, different language, and opportunities to feel out of place. In Kenya, I get to once again learn without asking questions. It’s a thrilling experience to rely solely on my wits and the graciousness of strangers. I’m glad I get to go through such an assimilation process again.

Journal Entry from the evening of January 20, 2009

A slight breeze and the possibility of rain gave the already cool evening a bit more energy. The American embassy sits on top of a hill in Kigali and tonight it hosted a broadcast of the presidential inauguration. Tonight, America’s today, Barak Obama took office. Roughly 300 people had gathered within the United States compound to watch the ceremony shown live on 3 TVs and a projection screen. One of the commentators said that more people would watch this event than any other in history. There would be far more viewers outside of the US than within. The statistic rang true for my immediate surroundings; over half of those standing beside me were not American. Rwandan, Kenyan, Russian, British, German, Canadian, Dutch, Congolese. We huddled together and watched, stood and bore witness.

Why? Why were all of those people there? Why did the African men in the front row stomp and shout at the mention of Obama’s name? Why was there a pervasive spirit of joy and anticipation from so many non-Americans? This was not their president, not about their country.

They came and watched because for them, I believe, it was a homecoming, a returning. All had gathered to observe a historical event but their excitement was for something bigger, more important.

People from other countries want to see an America hell-bent on idealism and compassion. They want to believe in a country that is fair and just, especially when their own is riddled with corruption and violence. A powerful county choosing a young minority male as its leader gives hope to a world, not just a nation. Foreigners relished this induction because it is signified America returning to bold and idealist truths. It reaffirmed the possibility of “The American Dream.” It was a homecoming, a wayward nation taking steps to return to its source of glory and pride.

While Obama was taking the oath, I looked to my left and right. All gazed at the screens, transfixed and beaming, some with tears in their eyes. He repeated the creed and in that moment it felt as if could be well.


And then the power went out.

Oh well. He’s still the president.

Fun Games to Play in Matatu Parks

Matatus are the most common public transportation in eastern Africa. Minibuses that should seat about 14 people, matatus congregate in droves and wait for all the slots to fill. Not just fill to the suggested capacity, fill to the point of eruption. There are no more than a dozen and a half seats. The drives don’t even think about moving until they have 20 passengers. I've counted as many as 28. Therefore, if you get onto a matatu early, when there aren’t many other people already on board, you can wait for some time. An hour or two is not uncommon.

Vendors roam through these parked vehicles selling a huge assortment of goods: water, fruit, candy, grilled meat on sticks, sunglasses, socks, calculators, etc. Carrying their items on or in huge cardboard displays, they approach people sitting in a hot, stationary bus with a glint in their eye. Fish in a barrel – easy pickins’. The sellers knock on windows and can haggle for a long time. To make this waiting time more pleasant I have created some patented diversion techniques.

The Ridiculously Low Offer Technique: If they’re asking 2,000 shillings, I’ll offer 5 and stick to the price no matter what the item, no mater what the argument. The jewelry merchant made her pitch until I employed this procedure a few times. Eventually, she smiled, threw up her hands and proceeded to the next bus.

The Subject Change From Deep, Deep Left Field Technique: After a few offers and refusals, I’ll ask something like, “What are you doing tonight?” or depending on the looks of the vendor, “Are there any good bars in town?” Generally this leads to a pleasant conversation during which their resolve to sell something gives way to friendly banter. This worked especially well around New Years.

The Buyer/Seller Switch Technique: If a few "No thank yous" don't do the trick, I’ll pull whatever out of my pocket and try to sell it to them. Lip balm, receipts, and pieces of string are potential items. This normally leads to enough confusion that the all transactions are halted.

The “How’s Your Family” Technique: This one is a favorite and works efficiently without fail. Much of my time waiting in a matatu was around the holidays so if one of the vendors looked like he or she was old enough to be a parent, I’d ask, “Will you/Did you get to spend the holidays with your family?” If they answer yes, game over. Then its just a matter of “How many kids? How old? What are their names?” and by the time I’m done questioning they are grinning from ear to ear and have forgotten all about their business venture.

A Great Ending.

My dad is coming to Africa. He arrives in mid April, two weeks before my planned departure, and we will fly back to the States together. During his stay, we'll head to Tanzania for a short safari and then to Rusinga Island, Kenya, where I will have been living for the previous couple months. It will be a joy to share this journey with him. I can't wait.



This picture has nothing with my dad coming to Africa. It just shows that he's hardcore.

More pics.

http://picasaweb.google.com/tsnoworries/Africa#



.

Kisoro, a small, rural town, is a few hundred miles from Kampala, Uganda's capitol city. On Tuesday morning I was in Kisoro and on Wednesday morning I needed to be in Kampala. From there I would catch the bus for my Christmas safari. Innocent, the young man from the Mgahina Community Campground, said there would be plenty of buses from the small southwestern town to the bustling metropolis. I got into Kisoro about 8:30am and went to the bus headquarters.

There was a huge charter bus sitting outside the office which seemed like a good sign. The one man leaning on the plywood desk at the Horizon Bus bureau raised his eyebrows when I walked through the door.

“I would like to take a bus to Kampala,” I stated.

He didn’t answer right away but looked beyond me, through the open door. Eventually he said,

“Bus left at 6. No more buses today.”

That presented some obstacles.

“No more buses? I need to be in Kampala tomorrow morning. Is there any way?”

Again, no response for a while. Then,

“That bus is for refugees to Mbarara. Talk to him,” and he pointed to a well dressed man eating breakfast and the restaurant next door.

Public buses and vans have a driver and a conductor. The driver, of course, drives. The conductor deals with money and watches for hitchhikers. The man by the desk directed me to the conductor for the refugee bus. He said he could take me to Mbarara and from there I could get a bus to Kampala.

“When will the bus leave?” I asked.

“In a while”

With that assurance I sat down for breakfast. About halfway through my Rolex, a rolled tortilla with eggs and avocado, the bus started to move.

“Is the bus leaving?” I frantically asked the person closest to me.

“No. It is turning around.”

Which was true, it was turning around. It just didn’t stop moving once it had completed its turn. A new set of obstacles.

Luckily, the conductor was still eating his breakfast. After he saw me quickly approach with a bewilderment oozing from wide eyes, he said that there was no problem. We could take a bodaboda, or small motorcycle used for public transit, to meet the bus.

In a few minutes we were both seated on mopeds heading down a dirt road. About 10-15 kilometers later, the bus came into view. It rested in a field surrounded by white tents with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees initials and symbol painted on the roofs. There were people, families, calmly waiting beside the bus. An American woman with a clipboard motioned people to move forward and she called out the numbers on their wrist bands. Other than that woman’s resonant voice, there were only whispers.

The conductor of the bus came to my bodaboda driver and slipped him an extra 500 shillings. The bodaboda driver then turned to me and pointed to the backseat of his moped.

“We go,” he said softly.

“Where?”

“Not far.”

The conductor would not miss an opportunity to charge for a seat on his bus so I knew there would be a space for me. As this bus was chartered for refugees, he probably didn't want the UNHCR folks to see the American backpacker bumming a ride, which explains why he wanted me out of sight. The bodaboda left the field and stopped a few hundred meters down the road where I waited on a grassy but exposed hillside for about an hour. Swipe, a boy of around 12, befriended me and we had a decent conversation until he asked for money and then left when his request yielded no donation.

Soon enough, but not before some worry began festering, the bus came lumbering down the road and slowed enough for me to jump through the creaking door. Jumping onto the moving bus was a bit awkward because of my huge backpack which I quickly unbuckled and set in one of the front seats. Once free of the load I looked up and met 80 eyes staring silently at me.

Kisoro is the first major town once across the southern Uganda/DR Congo border so it was pretty clear where these folks were coming from. They were refugees from a country ravaged by war and unaided by other nations. I was in the midst of a two week holiday and had a 35 pound bad that stood 3 feet high. In the luggage racks above their seats were a couple dozen duffle bags.

5.5 million people have died in Congo in the last 6 years. 5.5 million. The last time that many people have been killed in a conflict was during WWII. The rebels use rape and mutilations with escalating atrocity to inflict wounds that will last generations. There is too much malice, to much anguish for the lives of these people to seem possible.

They had almost no belongings. They had almost no words. Yet most striking about this small group of refuges was the singing. It began soon after the bus started climbing through Uganda’s cultivated mountainside. In a call and response style, one person would sing a line and the rest would answer. Started quietly, as if unsure if it would be permitted, would survive, their music spoke of hope and memories. Unbridled above the other singers, the men and women who sat with eyes closed or gazing toward the approaching East, rose the strong and pure voices of children.

Pictures.

Here's what I have posted so far:

http://picasaweb.google.com/tsnoworries/Africa#

More pictures should be up within a few days.

By the way, one of those 50 pound clusters of bananas from the yard came to fruition and has been sitting in the kitchen for the last week. Since it would be a terrible waste to let that free, delicious fruit simply rot, and since I'm the only one in the house that eats bananas, I've been averaging about 8-10 per day. That rate of consumption has some strange side effects.

Mt Muhavura

Resting in the southwestern most corner of Uganda is Mgahinga National Park. Encompassing only about 24 square miles and three extinct volcanoes, it is part of a larger conservancy it shares with neighboring countries, Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Of the three volcanoes, Mt Muhavura is the tallest, peaking at about 14,000 feet, and visitors can climb all of the mountains with a guide and a guard. The guide directs visitors along the appropriate path and keeps hikers from damaging the delicate surroundings. The guard, and his Cold War Era AK-47, protects hikers from foreign rebels and buffalo. The guide and guard were much more concerned about the buffalo.

The hike began at 6am because it needed to finish before nightfall and all together it would be about 10 or 11 miles in length with more than a mile in elevation gain and loss. The Ranger Station, where I met the guide, stood roughly 100 meters from the Mgahinga Community Campground, a great little operation that served as my home for a few nights.

Essentially, the day consisted of two major undertakings: going up and coming down, both of which were challenging in their own regard. Some stretches of the trail were boulders that arouse out of vats of mud. Others were so steep that the guides had constructed crude ladders of tree limbs and twine. The scenery was amazing and the hike enjoyable but near the top it got hard, really hard. 14,000 feet is approaching 3 miles, well above any elevation I’ve experienced. For the last few hundred meters, my heart, more than my legs or lungs, slowed my pace to a crawl. My heart rate would skyrocket within a few steps after a rest. I felt it in my temples and fingertips. There was a point when I wondered if I could physically finish. That’s not a familiar feeling.

Eventually, after much effort, I made it to the top and took a nap while wrapped in every article of clothing I had. As stated earlier, the day consisted of two undertakings. The first was over; the second loomed in the near future.

Innocent is the young man who acts as the concierge, cook, and overall manager of the Mgahinga Community Campground. He smiled every time he spoke and carried himself with humble poise. Although he had already done it a few times, Innocent decided to climb Muhavura and was behind me for much of the downhill. He wore rubber gum boots which cost roughly 1/40th as much as my fancy Gore-Tex lined Asolo’s. Even on the mud covered ladders and the patches of hardened earth slick with dew, Innocent never lost his footing, never even slipped. As one of the Peace Corps Volunteers keenly observed, I “breakdanced” through portions of the descent with an emphasis on "break." Some unlucky shrubs softened a sideways tumble.

The hike finished just before sunset and I went to sleep with a strong sense of accomplishment.


Since being in Africa, there have been times when I’ve ached to be with people I know in someplace familiar, another new feeling, similar to what I physically experience on Muhavura. Thankfully, those periods of longing are always interrupted by moments of wonderment and gratitude. Dancing in a living room with other grown men; watching a student eyes widen with discovery; the conversation with Innocent during the slow descent down an ancient volcano: the company of 6 incredible Peace Corps Volunteers while in a beautiful corner of Uganda. I’m grateful for the times of yearning for they enrich the moments of joy.

Pictures will soon be posted, once the internet here starts working properly.