I Dream of Africa... I Think.

I thought I was prepared this time. You know, for Africa. I include all things in this statement... the hardships, the beauties, the people, the food, the lifestyle, the roads, the culture. As it turns out, I wasn't much prepared at all. In fact, I am learning that Africa will continue to surprise me.

Don't get me wrong, there are things I have grown accustomed to. I have learned I love ground nuts and chapati with beans and avocado, but I can't stand cassava and matoke isn't so hot either. I know that Uganda is cooler and boasts green and lush mountains, and that Kenya could melt your day away with heat. I know the farm is my happy place and Kampala can choke my patience into non-existence. I know children will move out of the way just as assuredly as I know the careening cars will not hit them. Above all, I know that Peter is my brother and his home is my home as well.

Good or bad, known or mystery, I dream of Africa... I think. Let me explain my thoughts.

Last year I met this man that I thought was incredible. He was tall, handsome, sweet, and a little mysteriously playful. The very nature of how we met was a romance in waiting. It involved a plane, a wedding celebration, the military, a field of horses, music, and one hell of a good bye kiss. It was because of that meeting that it was so hard for me to admit that it was over when it ended. It was a fairytale, a something you can't let go because the way we met was magical. Even though I wanted it to be one thing, it was another.

That is what I meant when I said I think I dream of Africa. It's something I see in my mind because of what little experience or exposure I have, but then finding out it may not be exactly what I thought or pictured. I used to dream of open plains and deserts with animals so thick you had to push through them (let's be honest, that part is true). Or of jungles entangling me with every step as I push through their dense blanket of vines. And, of course, I am trekking to find a hidden civilization or escape a ravenous panther in these visions.

Right? Tell me you haven't lived The Lion King in your head when you think of Africa, and I'll tell you that you're full of it. Again, some of these things are true. Like the gorgeous jagged peaks of Rwanda that are breathtaking in their stark contrast to the open and desolate plains of the Rift Valley in Kenya. It's okay to dream of these things, because they exist to make dreams come true.

But there was nothing that could prepare me for the approach of a woman, slight in build and bright eyed with hope in Rwanda. She reached out with one arm - the only one she had - and asked for money. She was a genocide victim. There was nothing that could prepare me for the Genocide Memorial in Kigali that details the deaths of nearly 1 million people in 1994 because of the association of their tribe or the measurement of their nose. Most certainly nothing could prepare me to face the ignorance of the world during that time, which allowed such devastation.

My heart exploded with fear for the 92 children and their future at the Agape Hope Center Orphanage. Oliver and Maggie are doing all they can and providing all the love in the world, but love provides only some of what a child needs. I had to walk away when I heard the story of two young boys that had been living in a bush for nearly 8 months, living on trash before they were found. I was equally as heartbroken when I discovered one girl had arrived at the orphanage because, while living in the streets, she had been raped by 3 men.

The Africa I dream of evolves the more I go to that great continent. I now dream of an Africa with clean streets, quality education, and opportunities for all in employment and health. I dream of peace and basic human rights fulfilled by the local leaders who are capable of making change. The best part is that I KNOW it can happen because I see it, even in the small slivers I capture each trip I make there. I am eternally grateful to be a part of that change with my microscopic contributions!

I also dream of handsome Sam from the Maasai tribe that promised he'd marry me and spend summers in Alaska, but that's a story for another day. Africa has become my home, and a place I will never give up on. I'll dream until I no longer sleep because all of it will have come true. I dream of Africa... always. 

The Jo Ladder

           For about 3 weeks now, I have been back from Africa and adjusting into to my everyday life. It’s been a fairly easy transition, with great friends that house me (Jenny), great friends that care about hearing my stories (all of you), my work to keep me busy, making plans for the future, and memories to build on. And because that life is my usual one, it has been hard for me to pinpoint what has changed within me. I do know, however, that I have changed – not to mention that most of you have mentioned it too!

            I think I may have finally figured it out, and I have decided to call it  the “Jo Ladder”. In order to grasp the full concept, I must start from the beginning.

            One year in college, I had these three best buddies named Tim, Marler, and Brent. To say we spent a lot of time together is a gross understatement. We did nearly everything together. I was at their apartment before class, after class, between classes… sometimes instead of class (whoops). If I didn’t show up, I’d get calls and texts and harassment. ‘When are you coming over Jo? How come you aren’t over yet, Jo?’

            They introduced me to the greatness of Guitar Hero and the TV show 24. I brought into their lives the best cookies they’d ever known, delicious meals, and the brave new idea of a clean kitchen. When it came time to study or do school work, they said ‘bring your books over’. Sometimes I’d crash on their couch instead of walking the 50 yards to my own apartment. If people wanted to find me, they went to the guys’. I remember one time Tim stood outside my apartment door for nearly an hour, yelling at me through the front window because he so badly wanted me to go to Wal-Mart with him. We were all very attached. 

            So the four of us spent that year, inseparable and quickly climbing to a friends forever status. One night, while lounging and laughing together, The Ladder Theory was brought up by Brent. Much to Marler’s dismay, I had never heard of it. Much to Tim’s delight, I was ushered into Marler’s room for a demonstration on the white board.

            The Ladder Theory may be something you are familiar with. It involves the idea of a “Friend Ladder” and a “Love Ladder” and the perils of trying to jump from one to the other, and sometimes back again. I laughed as they explained to me how it worked, because I could recall many instances where men had tried to hop onto my love ladder and vice versa. It was completely brilliant! I think it was in that moment that I elevated them to a God-like status in my mind. I am not sure if they know that they remain there still.

So I was walking Seymoure tonight and freezing my tookus off because it’s freakin’ November in Alaska, and I was trying to think of how to explain all these changes. Not just to you, but to myself. Amidst the attempts of trying to convince my dog not to sniff every chunk of snow and trying to keep my nose nuzzled into the scarf I had wrapped around my face, it occurred to me. It’s just like a ladder! Okay, maybe it was the guy hanging Christmas lights that spurred that thought, but still!

            My ladder theory is of a different nature. You see, I have spent a sizeable chunk of my self-criticism by shoving my accomplishments under someone else’s microscope. Like – “Hey, Nelson Mandela, let me swim in your pool for a while”, then being the sad one in the corner because I feel like no one wants to play with the chubby kid. Comparing myself to others that I think are the standard hasn’t done me well. Part of that is the fact that what I have considered to be “standard” just isn’t realistic. Like Nelson Mandela would ever let me swim in his pool, anyway. Actually, he probably would if I asked him, but that’s beside the point.

            So imagine this giant ladder with all the great people in the world perched on each rung, and that is where you will find I have tried to put myself. I am SO FAR down on that ladder that it is likely that people like Gandhi, Bono, Martin Luther King Jr., and Mother Theresa are all laughing at my feeble attempts to climb up to their level. Angelina Jolie isn’t even close enough to kick me off… although maybe I can at least see Peter and his farm!

            Okay, okay, we all know that none of those people have the nature to actually laugh at me or kick me off their ladder. I am sure they would instead extend me a humanitarian hand, knowing I need it, and being the type to give to those in need. But you get my drift, right? Unattainable, ridiculous, Everest like heights that give me altitude sickness just thinking about it.

            This is where the “Jo Ladder” comes in. I stopped thinking of myself on that huge ladder of thousands of people I won’t likely ever have the resources to compete with, and I decided to build my own ladder next to theirs. Close enough that I could use their ladder as a measurement, but with my own expectations and steps to take. I could clearly see the goals I had set, and what I have accomplished thus far.

            When I put myself on that ladder, I can see where I have come from. I am a far cry from the shy little girl my mother claims I used to be. I’m no longer the chubby, ugly girl from high school that didn’t know she was dorky and obnoxious (namely because I had gracious friends). I don’t resemble the ridiculously immature girl who jumped ship to Alaska at 18 – now I am just a reasonable amount of immature! I’m still somewhat the carefree, adventurous, thrill-seeker that I will always be, but with more responsibility and more integrity.

            Through every phase of life, I have lifted myself up to a new level, a higher rung on the ladder that pushes me to be better. I am amazed at how I haven’t given up yet! I’ve been true to myself and fought to accomplish my dreams instead of being content to visit them in my sleep. The friends and love I have found along the way supplement everything I have done, the lessons I have learned carve out the new rungs of the ladder as I go.

            I have also learned from seeing my accomplishments, that I know how to stand up. I know how to stand up for what I believe in, stand up for others that I believe in, and stand up when I get knocked down. That’s the nature of us – we, the dreamers. We are sometimes stupidly blind to opposition in our idealistic ways. It makes us pretty elastic, I’d say.

            So, if you look at the “Jo Ladder”, you may still see how far I have to go. Even I can see how much I have to build up and how steep the climb may be. However, it is a much more manageable distance when comparing myself to… well, myself. So maybe on the “Grand Ladder of The Greats” I don’t amount to much. But on the “Jo Ladder”, I think I’m knockin’ it outta the park. 

Farm time!

           Well, y’all… here it is. The moment you have all been waiting for. I am finally writing about the farm! I can hear the tone in all of your voices as I receive messages asking for the update. Some are impatient, some are excited, and some are just downright eager! I am touched by the interest you have all generated in our little project in Uganda. And for your reward, I am going to tell you all about it!

            That itself, is an arduous task. There is no way I will be able to tell you what I feel in my heart or describe to you the love I have for what we have done. How do you describe such a life changing experience? How do you put words to what only that experience can justify? However, I will do my best. Let’s begin with the drive out to the village.

I felt like a kid again as we endured sweltering heat in the back of Peter’s little car, careening down the broken roadways of Uganda. You know what I mean – being so excited to go, then wondering if you will ever arrive. Getting out of Kampala alone is a trick; you must puzzle piece yourself through the stifling traffic. Sometimes this involves squeezing through a tiny slot and hoping the two cars converging on either side of you will stop.

            Once you are out of the city, traffic clears considerably and your main worry (outside of road conditions, that is) is passing by slower vehicles and trying not to knock down boda-bodas (motorcycles) that pop out of no where like deterrents in a video game. Occasionally, our road to Masaka was a broken down, dirt and gravel mess. I swear I had a layer of dust on every part of my body, since I was in the back seat and Ugandans refuse to drive with the windows up.

            Again, like on the way to the safari, the further we traveled outside of the city, the more I loved it. This road was a different one from our earlier travels, and brought new scenery. More agriculture than open land, although valleys smiled wide at us as well. My favorites are the fields of banana trees. Those huge leaves blow so carefree and happy in the wind, and the maze they create just begs me to come and explore!

            Also, the buildings became sparse as we traveled. Instead of row after row of shacks and fruit stands, huts and homes, and business blocks, it was more like a field of corn or banana trees with a few buildings peeking through the crops. Maybe they are the homes of those who own the land? Maybe a place for workers to rest? Maybe a shed for storing supplies? I had no idea, but I wondered plenty at all the possibilities.

            I also loved the sections of land that popped up sporadically that resembled more the jungle. The trees in these sections were taller, towering, almost teetering in height. And draped across their thick branches were blankets of vines and something I thought might be ivy… but I am sure I am wrong. I would daydream about the adventures I long to have in the jungle. Before too long, however, excitement brought me back to the fact that I was heading to the farm!

            After about 3 hours, we rolled into Masaka district, where the farm is located. There is a larger town of about 500,000 called Masaka town, but Peter’s farm is further off into real farmland. The smells fade from exhaust and pollution (I often wonder how long it will take my body to dispel the massive amounts of toxins I must have breathed in) to the sweetness of crops and earth. The air practically drips with the freshness of growth, and I love it!

            We turned onto a road from a little village town, and Peter told us his farm is about 5 kilometers down. Out here, this far, there is no trace of electricity. No lines, no poles, and no sign of it any time soon. The headlights of the car reflect off of small houses with a flicker of a candle or the glow of a lantern. I wonder what it would be like to be in darkness when the sun goes down, at the mercy of the star. Here, you learn to rise and fall with the sun, I guess.

Once at the farm, Peter starts in right away with the tour. And thankfully, the piggery – our piggery – is the first stop. I could hardly contain myself as we walked to the cleverly constructed pens. The floors are lined with beautiful stones, kept relatively clean by these tidy animals. The walls and doors look almost like driftwood, but are woven so tightly and expertly that I doubt anything could crash through them.

The pigs are HUGE! One big massive male, dozens of slightly less massive females, and a few new litters of tiny little squealers playing around or vying for food. They all have a fuzzy layer of hair and big flapping ears, with tiny eyes that train on us as we approach. The grunts increase, the curiosity fades, and they go back to scrounging for food.

All I could do was stare in awe. These are the pigs we paid for. This is the piggery we bought with hard work and dedication, with countless hours of planning, preparation, and love. This is the project that will, over time, change the lives of thousands of people. We gave each other a hug and just chuckled in disbelief. We have done it, I remember thinking. We have really done it.

The piggery isn’t even the most amazing thing about the farm. I could write a hundred pages on the projects Peter has to fuel his people. Orange trees to pay for orphans to go to school, a mill for the community to grind their corn, a well that hundreds of people come to each day for clean water free of charge! There are beehives to cultivate honey, banana trees because they are always in demand, goats, chickens, cows, beans, potatoes, plans for a seed bank, and sugar cane. Everything designed to give to the community to build them a better life.

Farmers will borrow from him on structured plans, and after attending training classes to learn how to farm efficiently. This is true for all of his projects; you are only allowed to participate after completing training. There are even sewing machines for people to train on, then they are given the machine on the stipulation that they teach another 10 women to sew and get certified.

The list goes on and on and on and on. It is dizzying to think of the thousands of people influenced by Peter and his farm each day. His entire dream, passion, and goal, is to change the world around him. And it’s not just his world… it’s everyone’s world. Make life better, but do it the right way, without cutting corners and without holding back. It’s so inspiring that I couldn’t begin to describe it to you. He even took some donated money to build a community center for the village to gather in, and learn from him in.

The well was especially inspiring, as Peter requires nothing in return for its use. I saw the children lining up and filing away with the heavy burdens on their heads. Can you even imagine living life like that? Having to haul jerry cans across the village on your head, just to retrieve clean water? How desperately close we all are to oblivion, and how sad I felt at the things I miss because of convenience. We wandered through the rows of corn, past stalks of sugar cane, plucking papayas as Peter instructs, and I couldn’t help but choke up.

We sat beneath the shade of a few trees and chatted as we ate sugar cane and oranges. We kept talking about Peter’s dreams of expansion, which are too many and too great to describe. We got on the subject of coffee, so the girls and I ended up buying Peter nearly 1,700 coffee trees, then spending the afternoon and next day planting them.

Each tree will produce about 1,000 seedlings in a few years. Each seedling will be given to a farmer who has completed Peter’s training program (someday I will go into detail about that for you… his co-operative structure is AHmaaaaazing!) to take home and cultivate. Since coffee is always in demand, that farmer, with patience, will have an income to support his entire family.

1,000 people from one tree. That cost me about 20 cents. Mind blowing. That means that someday, those trees have potential to reach millions. To make even a slight difference in the lives of millions of people is a privilege I can never comprehend fully. Even if only half of them, one quarter of them, a fraction, stick to their training and change their lives, we have changed the world. Be it ever so slightly.

            The day we left the farm, we passed out the pigs to the first wave of farmers to receive. I would say close to 100 people showed up for this humbling experience. Again, I cannot begin to describe it to you. Part of me doesn’t want to, and the other part doesn’t know how. I watched all of those people so eagerly breaking into groups and following Peter’s structure, so willing to change their lives.

            We would be passing out about 40 piglets to group members to take home and begin the journey. Groups are formed of about 8 farmers, and one will receive a male to service the rest of the group’s sows. They are to form a co-op, rely on each other, and help each other. Within a year, a business will be started that will launch them into the middle class. We’re talkin’ – being able to pay for food, school, supplies, medicines, and savings. We’re talkin’ about a new life.

            When it came down to it, I handed that first farmer his piglet and I cried. I cried this time because every one of their eyes conveyed what their words could not translate to us; thank you. It was a thank you for caring, for being aware, for working to accomplish the goal, and most importantly, for changing their lives. An honor, for which I will never, ever, not one day in my life, be able to deserve.

            I will never be the same. 

For Uganda

As usual, this morning I am woken by the sounds of roosters, hollering their annoyance at the rising of the sun. However, I think I just might be adjusting, since I was able to go back to sleep instead of plotting their deaths. I feel pretty rested, considering the tone of our last few days, which is what I will write about now.

            We have been on Safari in Queen Elizabeth National Park! Though an unexpected trip, it was an incredible one… truly a rare and amazing opportunity. My whole life I have dreamed of going on Safari – yet this trip was to be dedicated to the farm, so I didn’t allow myself to hope for it. Luckily, Kyle and Jessie were planning on going and were gracious enough to envelope us into their plans. I like them more and more!

We took a old rickety van with a grumpy back bumper that rattles for the 8 hour ride to the park. There is so much poverty here. There are children in tattered clothes, running around in the dirt and laughing. Or women standing in doorways, washing clothing in buckets, and tending to other chores like food and babies. We drove past so many swinging a single garden hoe in endless rows of crops, or hauling bags of goods on their heads, or manning a shack of vegetables, hoping for a sale.

            After many hours, the mountains came, tall and daunting to our right hand side. For a while, I was satisfied to be wrapped in their beauty and imagine myself standing in their shadows and feeling awed. But then Kyle made the fatal move of telling us what they were.

            Congo.

            Congo is the place I have wanted to go for as long as I can remember. The place I have dreamt about, read about, and wondered about. Congo – the wild, the raw, the untouched, the unknown. As I leaned further out the window, straining to be just a fraction closer, I felt so much stir within in me. It challenges me to its mischievous danger; tempts me to answer the call. I had to shake off the desire to cut and run to its enchanting mountains.

The Safari was incredible! This land is teeming with wildlife. There is no way you could go into a space this large in the United States and expect to see this much local talent! But here, it is everywhere you go. Before noon on the first day we had seen so much! Water buffalo, kob, waterbucks, warthogs, hippos galore! A rare sighting of a leopard! We even saw a pair of lions, off in the distance, tumbling and playing in the grass after the storm. It had thundered and bolted with lightning in an impressive display of African rains.

            My favorite was probably a small family of elephants that we encountered, just a few feet off the treacherous road we had been traveling on through the park. Elephants are one of my favorite creatures, and they are so incredible in the wild! Even the smallest would tower over you! They have dull gray skin, that folds neatly across their bodies and lands in tapers at their massive feet. Tiny tails flick hopelessly at the flies, and their trunks curl around leaves and branches with ease. Some have threatening white tusks, but I can’t get past their eyes, so small and contemplative and kind.

A mother in the herd stood close to her young, an adorable little guy probably less than a year old. At one point, she linked trunks with him. Then she looked up at us and flapped her giant ears. Maybe it was to shoo us away, or maybe it was to give a friendly hello. I am inclined to believe the latter.

I could go on and on and on, but that is not the tone I wish to convey today, so let’s skip ahead. After the safari, we drove back to the outskirts of Kampala, where Peter lives. Our adventure was over, and had been very successful. I think we were all tired as we piled in to return home. Even the constant drumming of the back bumper against the rear of the van seemed less prominent. Though it was the same route we had taken to arrive at the park, it was so enchantingly beautiful that it seemed new again.

I was watching the sun swollen earth fly by, trying to leach out every ounce of power and spirituality it offered. I kept thinking about how, just that morning, I had wandered over to the lodge and sat on a deck above the water. I could hear the hippos from across the channel, maybe a mile away, their grunts echoing to me where I perched.  I had been contemplating life and where I currently stand. I found myself falling short in so many ways. Somehow, what I am doing here begins the process of closing that formidable gap, but it is only the beginning.

Michelle, ever inquisitive, was asking Kyle about different projects that GO is working on, their success, what makes them so, etc. I listened to him chat with her about genocide reconciliation projects in Rwanda, the success of Peter’s farm, the models he wants to give to other locals. The way he talks about the ideas that the natives have in each place shows that they are eager to make change, full of possibility, yet lack resources and organization.

With all this talk of farming and money and ideas to improve the dismal state that so many find themselves in, I was watching the endless miles of one-room mud homes and thinking of a small fishing village we visited. It had been a place where poverty reigned and my heart sank with each step I took through the mud. I felt as if that mud was pulling me down off of my pedestal of a life (by comparison), back to reality.

Not because they seemed angry or sad about their state, but that I am so oblivious sometimes to suffering. I couldn’t begin to tell you of their lack of electricity, food, clothing, money, and even medicinal care. One teenage boy shivered in the chilly morning in just a t-shirt. Did he even have a sweater? I consider myself to be quite aware because of my travels and living in a third world country… and still I don’t realize sometimes.

We pulled up to the office of a non-profit organization called Uganda Rural Healthcare Foundation, so that Kyle and Peter could reconnect with some gentleman they knew from 2007. I was already feeling emotional and overwhelmed from the nature of the conversation in the van, so stepping into their humble office threatened tears. I managed to keep composure, however, and we sat to listen to their ideas and improvements they wanted to make. New agriculture projects, new healthcare initiatives, etc. were the theme.

The more the gentleman talked, the more excited he got about what they are doing. I pondered his enthusiasm and how incredible these people are. How the fight in them is immortal, how they never tire, never stop trying to make life and community better. Again, what they lack are resources; resources so easily obtained from others if only they are aware. Resources you and I wouldn’t think twice about, we would just reach up and take them. When was the last time that a few dollars meant life or death to me? Yet here, it is a story that is told every day. 

Finally, I couldn’t hold it in anymore and I excused myself. As soon as I stepped out of the door, I began to cry. I sat by that rickety old mud-covered van from the safari we had all so easily been able to pay for, and I bawled. I bawled for the feeling of not having done enough. I bawled for the hope that I see in their eyes. I even bawled for a crumpled old man who walked by me, collecting charred bits of wood in a plastic bag. What was he using them for? Couldn’t I give him something so that it wasn’t necessary to pick through the trash infested streets?

A very still silence fell around me, and I wondered what the women carrying bundles on their heads that passed me thought – to see a white woman sitting in their neighborhood and crying. I felt ashamed, but I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t go back in. I even felt selfish that I was crying for the fact that I was feeling so helpless. And finally, I composed myself in time for the others to return.

As we completed the drive home, I had a lot to think about. My eyes returned to Peter, dedicating his life to his country and the improvement therein. I watched Kyle and Jessie who are so heavily involved and sacrifice so much. I watched Kristin, having given a semester of her life to the betterment of life here. And I see Michelle, so inspiring and interested in what she can do to help.

That is when I realized that there is enough love in the world, if you know where to find it. There is enough generosity in the world, if you know how to seek it. And sometimes, it is even within yourself. For the third time in my life, I have lost my heart to a place. Although maybe never quite this completely before.

If you are interested in knowing how you can make a difference, please go here:

www.groundworkopportunities.org/champions/joandmichelle/