Feels like home . . .

Two weeks in Gulu and it already feels like home. At least it’s beginning to.

This definitely didn’t happen right away. It seems like every day was overwhelming at first. And overwhelming in every sense of the word. The language seemed almost as unnatural to my tongue and pronunciation skills as French did for the one miserable semester I studied it. The sun completely scorched me those first few days. I knew no one and was living on my own, not to mention trying to cook. (My sisters would be so proud of me.) I was trying to find my way and figure out what in the world I was supposed to be doing and how I was supposed to communicate to a group of people who knew little English. (And Lord knows my Luo isn’t so good yet.) I was starting to ride my new motorbike around Gulu. (I just learned how to ride 2 weeks before I came to Uganda.) And then I made the mistake of looking at some pictures of my lovely niece and nephew and then heard their voices on the phone for a brief second. Maybe not the best idea.

But then the second week came. I got to know my lovely neighbor girls, Lakisa Rebecca and Lanyero Tracy. They taught me a few words, we danced to some music on my ipod like Feist and Natasha Bedingfield. We found games to play when the electricity went out. They even ate some of my food I cooked (and politely tried to finish it.) They are by far one of the highlights of my days here. And now they’ve begun coming every day. (Which I’m still happy about at this point.)


I also started getting to know the community that I’ll be working with. I’ve spent some time with the Karin Parents Committee as we plan for our upcoming Christmas party (which you’re all invited to) and discussed business names for the handcrafts they’ve been making. This is what we’ve come up with:


I’ve been getting to know the kids as well, particularly a small group of them that tried out for a film that is being produced here by a team from Kampala. They’re also helping me learn the language, as slow as I may be.


Unfortunately I had to come back to Kampala for a few days to finish some work with the fundraising I started during my first month here. I was a bit annoyed because I felt like I was just settling into the place and then had to leave again. I was even more annoyed when a businesswoman who said she’d order 2000 Christmas cards from us (and was half the reason I traveled to Kampala) just decided to do her printing from Egypt instead. But it has still been a promising trip and now we have enough money for our Christmas party on the 12th of December. Besides this, I also get to spend Thanksgiving with some American friends at the University I studied at last year here in Uganda.

The trip was fairly uneventful, it took about 5-6 hours to get here from Gulu. I actually got a ride from a friend who’s working in Southern Sudan that I met a few weeks ago in Kampala. I think I’ll be getting a ride back from Timothy Jokenne and his wife on Friday. Keep praying for safe travel. The following is a blog post I wrote while in Gulu and decided not to post at that time because it seemed a bit depressing:

How much joy and how much sorrow can the heart contain?
How much joy and how much sorrow can a small country hold within her borders?

It seems as though the rule here is one of extremes. When there is joy and dancing and ululations here in Gulu, any festivity at home seems to pale in comparison. Yet when there is sorrow, the pain is overwhelming, tears of mourning are replaced with anger as one wonders what the point of such suffering could be. Really, is there always a point to every tragic event?

Hope, my director, was just sitting next to me as she received a call from her husband.
“Peter? Oh no, . . . oh . . . . Oh God.” She gasped, paused, gasped again.
“No . . . oh no. Let me come.”

Peter, a friendly young man who had only been married to his beautiful wife for two years just died in a car accident. It made me think of the man I saw on my way to Gulu who was killed right in front of us, on his bike. I wish I could forget this image. I’m sure he also had a family. As soon as it all happened, I wondered where his family was, how they would be told of his death. It was tragic, and so maddeningly wasteful all at the same time—it was simply because that truck was going too fast and driving wrecklessly.

If it’s not car accidents, it’s war. If it’s not war, it’s AIDS. If it’s not AIDS it’s some treatable disease that could’ve been cured with a small dose of medicine that costs less than a pack of gum, maybe less than a stick of gum.

I think of that verse about sorrow lasting for the night and joy coming in the morning and I try to believe in its truth, in its hope. I try to believe that this verse is not only true for those of us living in rich corners of the world, but that it is the same for Peter’s wife tonight.

I’m sorry for the despairing tone of this post. I don’t know how people aren’t exhausted here. Such extreme joy and extreme sorrow must be tiring after a while.

Well dear friends, the sun is hot right now and it’s been a long day of running around Kampala connecting with businesspeople and trying to raise some money. My director should be coming soon to deliver some paper I need to bring to the printer tomorrow for our Christmas cards. And then, I’ll be trying to come up with a dessert to bring to our Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m thankful for you. I’m so thankful for those of you who supported me in getting here—with your words, your finances, your prayers. I’m thankful for you faithful friends who continue to read these posts, as if I have something to say. I really am encouraged to know that you care enough about me to read a bit more about my life here.

And with that, I hope you Americans have a lovely Thanksgiving tomorrow. There’s so much to be thankful for.

It’s time to say Good-Bye.

Yes, the time is near to say good-bye to my most recent home. I must say, although it’s treated me well, I’m ready to leave and find my home in Gulu.

I had an unusually longer than expected stay at a backpackers hostel in Kampala. It’s a strange culture, the backpacker’s world—I dreamt often of the sociological studies I would do in such a place. It’s quite intriguing.

The worst part is forming a small family of other individual travelers and then slowly watching them leave, only to be the last one remaining.

Here’s a small snapshot of some from my “family” that have already left:

· Steve, American guy drilling wells in Southern Sudan. Was supposed to come down to pick up a landcruiser that was “ready” only to find out it was far from ready for him to pick up. His trip down to Kampala turned into over a week and a half of waiting and negotiating.

· Naa’ma, Israeli girl who started a small Non-Profit in her past trip to Uganda. Came back to work with the kids and start a womens group. Hard to picture her petite self in the stories she told from her jobs in the Israeli required military service.

· Tony, 60 year old British guy who started a charity in England to link to a charity here in Uganda. I was sad to see him leave as we often ate our meals together, had good chats about politics, and people watched around the hostel (and often judged backpackers rather harshly.)

· Tyson, American guy who runs his own online business where a portion of profits are donated to entrepreneurs in Uganda through Kiva. Decided to come check out the entrepreneurs himself. Came up with a new business plan of what he would do in Uganda every morning it seemed.

· Gil, 21 year old guy from Tel Aviv who called me mum because I’m so old J. One of the last to leave and I was very sad to see him go. He’s been travelling by himself for quite a while now through Africa and had some great stories that only came out in time, and as if they were no big deal (like being detained by officials in Northeastern Uganda for four days, having a cavity search there, the whole deal.)

· Lindsay and Katie, two American sisters who came to work in an orphanage and had a bit of a disheartening experience. Ended up staying at the YWAM base where I first stayed five years ago. It was wonderful having these girls here and I wish they could’ve stayed longer.

· After most of these people were gone, I’ve also spent some time with an Australian couple. The guy is 52, the lady 42 and they’re travelling Africa for 2 years by motorcycle. Not only that, they’ve already done South America for two years by motorcycle (and from their stories, it also sounds like most of South and Central Asia as well.) They’re a lovely couple, live very inexpensively, and shared their guacamole on chapati with me numerous times.

· And did I mention the German guy who also joined us who is travelling the world on his bicycle? He’s already ridden his bicycle from Germany to Uganda. 11,000 kilometers, friends. You should hear his stories about following the Nile River through Sudan. He said the Sudanese people have so far been the friendliest and most hospitable.

One more story of someone I ran into at the hostel:
A Ugandan guy was playing pool with a friend and quickly stepped in my direction and asked if my name was Dana. I said yes, he nodded, turned and took his shot.
Shoot, this guy doesn’t even look familiar in the least bit. And he could tell that I couldn’t place him.
“Who are you?” No use pretending this time, it was obvious. But I’m still embarrassed because I’m usually pretty good at at least remembering faces if not names.
“You studied at UCU last year didn’t you?”
“Yes”. But I still couldn’t remember even meeting him. “Who were you friends with, or where did I meet you.”
“Don’t worry, I only met you once. I was playing a game of pool with some friends at UCU and you walked past by yourself. I asked if you wanted to play. You said you would, but you didn’t want to embarrass me in front of my friends. From then I remembered your name and face.”
I started laughing and said yup, sounds like something I’d say. Let that be my lesson—some people have great memories and remember the ridiculous things you say.

And now it’s almost time to leave. More than anything else, the people who work at the hostel have become like family and I’ll be sad to leave them.

Tonight is an all night election party at the hostel and it should be interesting to see who actually shows and how long people stay. In case you’re curious, I’d love to tell you who the rest of the world (of which I am in right now) would like to see in the Oval Office. I’ll give you one guess . . .

The other day I saw a cardboard life size cut-out of Barack Obama on the sidewalk where people could stop and get their picture taken with him. No joke.

With my end to my time in Kampala coming quickly, my new life in Gulu will begin. And I am ready. Not ready in the prepared sense, or as if I know what to expect. I’m just ready to be there.

And I hope to have even half as good internet connection as I’ve had here so I can tell you all about it.