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March in Entebbe

I am sitting at a table with an old Vietnam vet who is writing a book on chimpanzees. However, at the moment, he is taking my requests for Niel Young and John Denver as I work though the last of my work emails. He is now engaged in conversation with this widow who is here with her son’s ex-fiancé’s father who was an international playboy turned travel companion for her since her husband passed. Side note, I want to look like this lady when I am older, she is radiant. They speak of Christians and how they know many atheists who act more Christian than those who claim Christianity. He sings bluegrass and Americana for me, I have told him it will help give me a head start on reverse culture shock. Every song has at least one or two people in the restaurant singing along with him. There are 4 westerners and 5 Ugandans in here. Singing as they check facebook, signing as they watch football, singing as they write blog posts... I woke up this morning , a Wednesday morning, expecting to leave Congo on Friday. Here it is, Wednesday evening and I am having chips and beer for dinner singing along to Margarita Ville. Mmm… I cannot wait to have a good margarita with some proper chips and salsa. 

Know Thy Pilots

A lot of my life is lived in airplanes. Not as much as some people I know, though. One coworker averaged a flight every two days last year, another friend has been on nearly 40 flights since the beginning of this year. I think at last count I have taken about 30 or so flights since January of this year. Its enough to wish "airlines" such as Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF), Avions Sans Frontiers (ASF) or United Nations Humanitarian Air Services (UNHAS) offered frequent flyer miles. They do not. However, there are many other benefits that come with piling into a Cessna Caravan or 206 with cargo and pilots you know by name. Among the many tricks of the trade I have picked up during my time in Ango, one of the most important is to know your pilots.

février2012

"... s'il vous plaît retourner à une position normale." I have sprawled out over not only my two seats, but the seat across the isle and have been mouth open passed out the entire flight. The two ASF pilots are both looking back at me laughing as one shakes my leg telling me to return to a normal position and put my seat belt back on before we touch down on the hilly "runway" from which goats were running as we circled.

mars2012

Is it something that should concern me when the pilot of our little Cessna jerking across the border between Uganda and the Eastern DRC plugs into his oxygen ? From my seat in the very rear, it seems like he is asleep, but I can see his elbow move, so will just assume he is writing something rather than dreaming of winding a jack-in-the-box. Good thing I trust these guys.

avril2012

Story time over the Congo today! Sitting up front is always entertaining, even if only for time to chat with some of the MAF pilots that I only have windows of opportunity to talk to while they are delivering cargo or on the other side of the volleyball net. A month or so ago, while chatting with Jon over the head sets, I learned that his family is friends with the family of my last boss at Crossroads in Hong Kong. Once I got over the initial shock that my most recent boss's mom was currently staying with my bush pilot's mom in the States, I realized that this actually did make total sense. You see, the Cadds and the Begbies are on the same caliber of legendary and once you get to that level and you are in the international aid work circle, it would be weird if your moms were not besties. When I skyped Mal (former boss) about this, he gave me a list of stories to ask Jon about. Jon has been a bush pilot for more than 30 years, holds the highest level hunting safari licence you can get and is basically the best monotone underspoken story teller you can find. This made for a good flight today.

mai2012

Everyone always wants to fly with Jon because he gives in flight flight lessons. Yes, slowly but surely, I am learning how to fly a in the skies over the Ituri Forest. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am pretty sure he is making be believe I am doing more than I actually am, but each time I fly with him it is more and more fun. This last time in particular was fantastic. As much as flying during rainy season around here is more dodgy, it is far more fun. This time of year the patches of savanna tucked within the jungle are bright green and woven throughout by rust red rivers, the sky is a vibrant blue with big puffy clouds… nearly impossible to catch up on your Outlook Inbox as planned when you get to steer around clouds and down through rainbows! Have you ever flown through a rainbow? It bends down away from you as you approach it until it forms a full circle around you. The shadow of your airplane is the center of the vibrant rainbow circle and if it is a day like today, then it is a double rainbow - yeah, a double full circle around you as you fly. Dude, forget pots of gold! 

juin2012

One of my coworkers who will remain unnamed for the purposes of this post helps us out in Ango in countless ways. A particular way is her party going, especially with the ASF pilots. It is these vital networking gatherings she attends that make possible things like the pilot pulling me aside to sneak me a bottle of wine as everyone else is unloading cargo. 

july2012

We have been looking for hippos because you might as well when you have to fly between 150 and 500 feet above the forest floor for a few hours. And when you can't stay on route due to storms, you might as well fly over the rivers, right? I can see the leaves of the vines between the trees that cover the jungle floor. Jon is pointing out what kind of animal tracks we are seeing - water buck, elephant, hippo, cows. This time of year they are not out of the forest often. I asked if I could catch a ride along next time he does game counts over the reserves. He laughs, I hope that means yes. On the landing I nearly crash the plane because I think Jon is landing but at this point he seems to expect me to just take the initiative when it comes to the flaps, lining up to the runway, keeping the nose up... Other highlights of this weather induced tree trimming flight included several Pygmy villages and gold mines. Viva la Congo!

Battleships and Breakfast

Does evil not rest?

I wake up, meet a friend for breakfast and to exchange some files I will bring back to Bunia with me for an NGO he covered while he was in town a few months back. We talk over our lattes and computer screens like a chatty game of Battleship on a Sunday morning in a quasi-euro cafe in Nairobi. He asks if I had heard about the two church bombings that morning up country from us, I ask if he has read this article on dangerous narratives coming out of the Congo, info exchanged on North Kivu, talking about Al-Shabab, commiserating over ineffective and even dangerous aid,  he asks if I heard about the massacre of okapis and park rangers… battleship sunk.

I had not heard. 

Few good things come out of the DRC, in fact, this particular conversation I was having was with a journalist who really aims to report on the progression and positive stories coming out of Africa. Here we are, two people trying to make and find good in a place that is known for the opposite and still, it can feel like such an insurmountable mountain. We know there is good, we know because we see it every day. But my goodness, between the victories are an awful lot of defeats and it can be hard to catch your breath when you are trapped in the impact zone amidst a particularly gnarly set.

The Okapi reserve is a few hundred kilometers from my base in Ango, I have never been there but most of my colleagues have been. It is home to some 14 Okapis, who are on the verge of extinction.

It was home.

Last week it was ransacked by a group of poachers and rebels in response to stricter control on poaching of elephants in the near by game reserve. From what I understand, all but one of the Okapis were killed, five park guards and some of their families were killed, it is unclear if rape was involved. Computers and all equipment stolen, offices ransacked, the entire center destroyed. I met Rosie once when I first arrived in Congo, this was her life's work - she flies back in today, her meetings in the States cut short so she can return.

This was for no political gain, no real reason, just to prove a point on behalf of the rebels.
Point taken, my faith in humanity has been punched in the gut once again.
You just shake your head in wonderment over what the hell is wrong with people.
Seriously, what the fu*k is wrong with people?

You see so much, you hear about so much and you can only not feel so much of it before something breaks through and knocks you backwards for a bit. In a sense, I am happy i can still feel, most the time I wish I could not. It would be easier. However, in stead of giving up, you pay for breakfast, say another of dozens of goodbyes, catch a cab to the airport and sit in the third of 4 planes that will take you back into the middle of it.

I like these plane rides, they give a nice buffer zone between floating in a crystal clear ocean with lazy nights at the beach bar with more bliss filed travelers and the perpetually sweat, dirt and difficult decisions that await me at the base. I must admit, though, I am rested and ready to get back into the fight.
I was not made to sit in the stands and I am not sure if I will ever be able to go back to my seat there for much longer than the time it takes me to catch my breath. Sometimes I need more time, others less, but I am always resting with one eye on the field.

Meeting Mercy

I arrived at the train station two hours early, sat in my assigned cabin an hour early - the train left the station two hours late. 


The cabins of Kenyan Railway cars are what inspire murder mysteries. The narrow corridors that lead down the length of the train are dingy, dark and invoke claustrophobia in the most adaptable voyager. Should you need to pass someone in them, one must back into one of the cabins or yield and reverse until you can cross paths in the noise of the connecting corridor. The rooms themselves have potential, or rather, have had potential in the past. Lights flickered, screens were more or less windows you can't see out of for the caked up dust. The windows did open, which was a relief. 


After a little less than an hour, a baby carrier entered the door, carried by a kind attendant who then helped a woman around my age get settled before going out to help other passengers. My inner eye rolled at the thought of spending the night with a crying kido, but the tension was broken when she apologized that I was stuck with a baby. Honestly though, I was relived for the most part. I had started to really work up this scenario in my mind that I would get attacked and no one would hear me scream due to the noise of the train and I forgot my PEP kit to boot. At least now someone would at least be aware of my demise. 


Funny, I would never advise a woman to travel alone in Africa by herself, but that seems to be all I do all the time. Weird, I'd never thought of that. I've got to check my recommendations against my actions. 


Back in car 2305, cabin E (we had been moved from C because the lights were not working), I formally met Tammy and baby Mercy. We exchanged the basic get-to-know-you small talk before the dinner bell rang. She and her husband run a baby orphanage in Mombassa, Mercy had been in the hospital in Nairobi for the past few days and they were now headed back home. 


Dinner begun before the train left the station (as opposed to two hours into the trip). I wondered through the car, finding few free seats. I heard someone mention they worked in the Congo, so I asked if I could join them. I enjoyed dinner with three of the most talkative and expressive people I have been around for a long time. It was a bit much at first, but a few drinks in of whatever wild liquor they brought with them and I was most likely spotting off just as loud stories and interjecting my opinions every chance I got. A photojournalist traveling with his Operation Smile girlfriend and a Scotsman who worked for World Vision. Conversation was as expected; the discovering of similar contacts, swapping security info on places been and to come, flying stories, kidnapping stories, Turkish pickpocket scheme stories, malaria stories… always the same with these types. Er, with my types, yes, I am one of them. Guilty. At least never having the same people in my life means I will never run out of really good stories that are super competitive, even in tough crowds like that one. 


After a while, it was clear the train staff was waiting for us to go to bed, we made our way to our respective ends of the train. I am convinced that you can walk in a much straighter line when drunk on a moving train, the two equal each other out. Scientifically proven, by me. As I crawled up into my bed without a ladder and fearing slipping and landing on the baby, Tammy expressed her relief that I was not kidnapped. No, sorry, just met some Americans with alcohol. 


I did not fall asleep until perhaps 4am. The train would not just go, it would start forward just a little then suddenly stop, causing our car, many cars back from the engine, to violently shake back and forth several times, accompanied by an atrocious noise that made me wonder if we were in a crash each time. While stopped I would lay in the dark listening to voices outside, avoiding the torch lights that flashed through our window. I know Kenya is a safe place, relative to where I live - relative. Each time we jolted forwards or to a halt, I understood the need for the cargo net that kept me from falling two meters to the floor that I scoffed at when getting into bed. 


After many a night spent in trains across India, China, Alaska and a few other spots, I thought I was going into the night fairly well prepared. However, I fell asleep annoyed around 4am and awoke after 7, missing the best part of the train ride through a safari park. Am I growing less travel tolerant as I grow older. Might be. I swore it would never happen, but I have barely slowed down since. Who knows. All I know is I did not go into this particular evening with high expectations and I still managed to wake up grumpy. 


I decided to shake off my mood and asked if I could hold Mercy. Tammy said she would love it, but to be careful because her head weighed more than her body and she had just gotten out of brain surgery, so a bit more caution than normal was required to lift her from her seat and place her in my arms. She didn't like it at first, but soon settled down. I asked Tammy what Mercy's story was, how she came to live with them at the orphanage. I appreciated the detailed story Tammy told, it would have been acceptably recited in any pity laden gut inducing manner. However, it was relayed with a mater-of-fact compassion filled resignation of an aid worker no longer new to the tragedies of life. It was refreshing. 

Her details need not be exposed, suffice to say that after he mother could not take care of her, hospitals passed her back and forth and finally gave up. There is no way, in her extreme state of malnutrition, she can be treated for the issues causing her head to swell with fluids around her brain and in that condition, her body will not take on weight or ever be nourished enough. She was on the train with Tammy, headed back to their home to pass away in the best comfort and love they could provide. 


Mercy is 13 months old. She must have arrived in the world about the same time I arrived in Congo. Not long ago at all. As I held her, I caressed her skin covered leg bones, swollen arm from the IV, and panting chest until she fell asleep for the first time in days. Tammy said she was mine for life, I joked that it was fine, as that wasn't much of a long term commitment. To my relief, she laughed along with me.


She also laughed as she said she had spent the better part of the evening fearing being poked by a needle containing a disease and she would not remember my name to be able to wake me up and ask for help. Whew, I am not the only one who dismisses clear and present dangers in favor of fearing the fantastic and near irrational possibilities! 


I was happy to find a comrade who could share the dark humor that must be adopted to survive in our lifestyles. Well, perhaps it is not a must, but God knows it helps. Our laugher laden conversation was interrupted by the journalist from dinner the night before. At the breakfast we did not attend, the conductor announced that a train two stations up had "capsized"  and we could either stay in the stopped train until 6pm or take matatus the rest of the way, from Voi to Mombassa. Matatu it was. After a number of failed negotiations, we found one that would not take too much advantage of our situation and spent the remaining three hours or so speeding past lories, camels and a landscape that dramatically changed four distinct times. At the station, we got our rides to our various respective homes and hotels. I said bye to the girls and spent the next hour in the taxi between dozing and thinking about mercy and its roll in the world. 

You cry mercy when you are about to get something you deserve, right? Or perhaps you do not even have to deserve it. Mercy is when the punishment you are receiving is lessened for no reason much beyond the good will of the punisher's hand you are under. At least that is my understanding of it. 
This world is in such need of mercy, but also of justice. 
In cases like Mercy's it is clear she is not deserving of the suffering her little body has been going through for the past six months or so. In the case of proven war criminals, it is obvious that mercy does not have a place, but justice should be served. The cases in-between are what confound me. Who is to day when justice is deserved or mercy should be given to every day folk who produce a mixture of good and bad deeds woven together in a life that gets by in society? 

For the past few months I have been chewing on a verse from Psalm 27, "I would have lost heart if I did not believe I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living". In my opinion, Christians tend to focus a bit too much on the justice that will come after our bodies die. That's great to think about, but to be super honest, right now, I am here, in the land of the living and that is what I can see and feel and know. 


I expect to see God's goodness here, it is not a far fetched desire and I will lose heart if I do not continually believe that His goodness has a place here, in this life. I mean, I am still fairly certain there is a heaven that awaits me, but Jesus promises a life that is abundant. I can't help but believe that mercy plays a key role in that, but also can't help but wonder where it is, most times. It is hard to see here, but I still believe it when I do see it. 


Every little victory is worth the countless colossal losses. I do believe I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living because I have seen it before and have faith I will again. 


So, soldiers, solider on while fighting the good fight. 
Help kids smile those smiles, use the press to expose injustices, kick start those micro financing schemes, keep caring for the orphans, push beyond the battle lines in search of the faces behind them, expose corruption though it may risk your life, leave all you love behind to fight a losing battle because in the end, we win. 


---
In the mean time, I am going to take a break from the fight. I'll clear my head after a few days with so little energy I basically fall into a trance when handed coconut water upon arrival at Diani Marine Village. An article I read today stated that taking a break and doing mindless tasks helps the brain to solve creative problems, especially surrounded by the color blue. I have many blurred thoughts to organize and feelings to sort through, thank God for R&R. Shoot, man, now this is mercy! Few people are lucky enough to be forced to take a break from life at perfect intervals. 

Rookie Errors

What is happening to me? I have been making the lamest travel errors lately. As much as I hoped it was just a strange symptom of contract break fatigue, it was not. As a traveler, I am regressing. Let's hope it stops here.


Take, for example, the R&R I am currently en route to, sitting in Entebbe airport. (Though, bear in mind my original plans were thwarted at the last minute - well, it was kinda building up but became impossible at the last minute - by rebel strongholds in the park I was planning on spending my time in. I mean, come on, I wanted to see gorillas, not guerrillas… har. har. har.)


I am now going to the Kenyan coast to lay by and swim in the ocean. 
I forgot my underwater camera case and razor in Ango. 
I forgot my sun hat hanging on the wall in Bunia. 
I just checked my bag in, forgetting my Kindle is in the top part of my backpack, perfectly placed to 
     1) be broken 
     2) be stolen. 
Note to self: only post this after you've safely landed in Nairobi with bag and contents in hand. 


So, that said, there are 18 passengers on this plane… I hope that somehow makes people feel less anonymous when handling luggage. One thing 18 passengers on a DC-9 given free-for-all seating does mean is that everyone vies for the "first class" seats, crowding next to each other and leaving all seats in the back totally empty. Usually I am stoked to have the seat next to me free, but I don't know what to do with 80-something of them. I should have brought my laundry to dry or something. 


I wonder when this airplane was built, and who owned it before Fly540, the torn interior looks vaguely familiar. The pilots are yelling at the ground crew. 


Is it strange that after 14 months of my primary transport being bush planes that I feel markedly less safe in jets? I mean, I currently am about to lose hearing in my right ear because they have started up the engines and the door is still open with the stair case up against it for anyone feeling the need for a last minute mind-change. Shouldn't that be closed by now? At least I know the procedures of small planes, I can trust my bush pilots and I can see when they are smiling while going through a storm or throwing their maps on the floor next to them, lost. 


I want to move farther back, it is safer back there, right?


I was asked to stay up front for the safety dement ration (?) (damn you autocorrect) demonstration, then told I could move to the back as we started taxing. 
Exit row never looked so good, thank you. 


It smells like vomit already. Oh my gosh, the oxygen masks have dropped… oh, that was just because we landed. 
Stellar.


How is it that I like flying less and less the more and more I fly? I am regressing as a traveler. This does not bode well for how I have pictured the continuation of this life. 


---
Afterward: All non-forgotten articles mentioned in this post have made it safely to Nairobi and are tucked into a massive empty electricityless house. Bonne nuit.

Oh Little Bird

I am watching a bird from my office window.
He is trying to perch on a peice of grass but is too heavy for it, so ends up just standing on the ground.
This, however, does not discourage him from trying again and again.
Courage, little black and white bird, courage.

Office Webs

You know, I always assumed spiders spider webs were a signal of neglect. However, this morning I got to my desk, plugged in my laptop and before my emails could download I had a spiderweb between my screen and files. 

Ango Awesome.

Perspective

"I thought white people were perfect before I worked with you."

"Um, thank you? You're welcome"?                     

Paraphrased from an explanation of an evaluation with my coworker and one of his staff.

For the Love of Contract Break

For four full weeks I:

Did not have any bug bites or insane itching.

Had no life changing decisions to make. 

Held no responsibilities for any life other than my own.
Did not fear snakes.
Heard silence.

Could expose my knees.
Wore nice things.
Felt like a woman.

Drove 80mph (120+kpm).

Went out at night. 

Went out. 

Could eat anything I wanted whenever I wanted it. 

Had access to Nomad Ventures and Home Depot.

Did not have to put on deodorant before going to bed.

Used my ATM card with no international fees.

Went to bed after 10pm.

Laid in sunshine that did not feel like it was out to kill me.

Spoke only English.

Had no curfew. 

Had friends.

Went on dates.

Spent time with my family, in person.
Got frequent hugs.

Ran errands on a whim.

Streamed The Daily Show.

Did nothing when I could do anything. 

(List is not exhaustive and is in order of how frequently these things come to mind.)

If a Child Falls in a Forest

His little abdomen shakes as it struggles to fill itself and trembles as it releases, his head is resting in my hands as I pray life over him – it’s all I know to do.  Moments ago this kid was not breathing, just before that he was climbing a tree for fruit. 


No one saw him fall - they only heard him hit the ground. 


A man in a shiny brown button down shirt pumped his little legs into his diaphragm, forcing air in and out until his lungs quivered again and began to take shallow breaths. He was still very much unconscious as we called for Ellen, our nurse and health project manager and Dona, a Congolese nurse. People began to move the child’s little body quite harshly, which made me afraid for any spinal injuries, but, then again, I was about to put him in the arms of our HR assistant, Georgine, and drive them over Ango’s rough roads in the Land Cruiser to the hospital. For a bit, the boy tried to cry and began to put his hands to his head, which was encouraging. 
Once he seemed his body was able to keep him alive we called to the crowd to find his parents and meet us at the hospital. We arrived and the doctor (one of 3 within nearly 100 miles) was able to see him right away. His aunt arrived and told us that little Floribert was 10 years old, though I had guessed from his size that he was no more than 8. He opened his eyes and began to look around remaining remarkably calm. 
Aside from pain in his abdomen, he seemed to be recovering quickly and well. With nothing more we could offer, we left praying he has no internal bleeding and that the intense swelling over his eye and the side of his head is mostly cosmetic. 
You never know what a day will bring. One minute you are begrudgingly reviewing financial documents, the next you are an ambulance driver. 

Several days later I asked after him. He seems to be fine, just sore. His parents are upset that Medair is not paying for his medical costs because they do not have money. 
These things weigh on my heart and on my mind. 
If we did not help, he would have died. Of course I was not going to let someone walk him to the hospital when we had a car there and available, but in reality, we were not obligated to take him. I know that people do not have money here, but we cannot help everyone in every way needed. We can do what we can and at that, do the best we can possibly do. Anymore is impossible and that’s where God comes in when He deems it, I guess.

Natural Health

Lizzie: I don't take vitamins. I do eat a lot of pineapple, though.
Me: My lips itch. Is it just me? Are anyone else's lips itching real bad?
Lizzie: Now that you mention it, my eyebrow is itchy.


Lizzie (coworker and friend) and I discuss health habits and issues in the field. 

Dental Hygenius

So, ever since I had a high school soccer coach who barely spoke English, my dad has been calling me Coni.

I have many random video clips of my life in the DRC and I was thinking of making a short film of them.

This morning while brushing my teeth, I had a stroke of genius: it shall be called "Coni 2012".

Un Relief

"Maintenant, les gens peuvent manger dans la base!",
                                      my logistics assistant declared as he held up 12 rolls of toilet paper miraculously found in the market when we were dangerously close to finishing our stock in the nearly full base...

Yodel-eh-hee-who

I do not like goats. I have never gotten gooie over baby animals.

But there are two one day old baby goats outside my office window right now and I want them. Love.

OK, so it looks like one very long baby goat hiding behind a rock... but this was as close as I could get before the new mama started threatening me and the last thing I need is to start my day off getting headbutted in the chins.

Un Bon Anniversaire

How is it even possible that a year ago today my Medair contract started?
This time last year I was signing my life away in a Swiss office.

My greatest fears were the LRA, the elections and a lack of internet.
One year on, my biggest fears are snakes, red ant attacks and an unhealthy addiction to facebook.
I thought I would learn to navigate attacks and survive in the jungle.
One year on, I have learned to manage people better... and I have a lot more to learn.
My Rainbows were left at home in favor of Chacos and minimalism.
One year on it is clear that life out here is  better with some indulgences and I am OK with that.

Among all the inconsistencies there has been one expectation that has stood tall and strong despite everything reality has bombarded it with:

This was the right decision, I am exactly where I should be doing exactly what I should be.

What an incredible privilege to live and love such a life.

News Flash

Life is not fair.

Unintended Compliments

Today, in passing, a girl staying on the Medair Ango base told me, "Structurally, this base is not better than ours, but there is something about it that feels more comfy, makes me like it more. Maybe its the chickens."
Well, it was something of that sentiment.

It lifted my whole day.

Our base is not that bad, all field bases considered. We have electricity from our generator, decent internet, pit latrines, some "running" water and a good community of people that makes life here liveable. Yes, I feel dirty and like I am cabin camping at all times, but it is alright. 

When people arrive in Ango, though, often they do not know what to expect and being so remote, they expect the worst. It is nice to see nervous faces at the airstrip relax as they settle into the base. It lifts my spirits that passers by through Ango can feel home here and comfortable. We try to make people feel welcome, our team here is super nice and usually socialable. I have taken to spending weekends sewing curtains, couches and organizing cupboards so we feel a bit more home than we would, say, in a depot. I have never exactly thought of myself as homemaker (shocker, I know), but I always have really appreciated making my living spaces my own -
- feeling at home in a laundry closet, a boat, a studio, an apartment, a brick and bamboo base.

So, when I heard today that she felt comfortable in our base because of some unknown vibe, it made me happy. I mean, lets be real, these two years will be the most stable living situation I have had in my adult life and I love that it can feel like home to more than only me.

Ango Awesome

Justice Served

We have about 10 chickens on the Ango base and I am particularly amused by them. I do not know why, its just how it is. This last week we had too many roosters around (or more fittingly, lets call them by their French name... cock). The trick is, when there are too many cocks around, they don't do their job - they spend too much time fighting and not enough time making me eggs for breakfast or chickens for future lunchtimes.
Cock-block anyone?
So, this week I had had enough. I sentenced them to death and they were delicious.

I got way more joy out of seeing those headless cocks in my kitchen than I think would be considered healthy. This past week, injustice was waiting for me at every corner, every step, every moment of the day and night. Funding for a health project runs out, death rate skyrockets. Local military exploiting the population they are here to protect, all remain quiet out of fear. Evaluator comes to inspect projects, takes 2 unnecessary days of stress to work with then changes it all, throwing off 3 days of planning for our current projects. Empty markets for fear of theft. Village leader drowning in the river. Armed roadblocks. Beatings unseen. Killings unresolved. Rapes normalized. Authority abused. Children sick. Mothers abandoned. Fathers workless. Dogs abused. Chicks eaten. Young men dying. Young women sold. Families torn. Cultures lost. Disease prevails. Death steals.

If I were living a "normal" life, perhaps getting such joy from eating a mean chicken would be unhealthy.
In Ango, it is just how I cope.
How I can control at least a bit of the injustice we wake up to every day and go to sleep with every night. 

What's in a Moon?

Co-worker: Does it work in English if you say someone is "in the moon" if they are forgetful?
Me: No, but that is awesome.

"Il est dans la lune."

Lost in Assumed Translation: Revisited

The next day I went to the home of the deceased to pay my respects. The old man was buried a few days prior and things seemed fairly normal, if a bit subdued in the compound of several mud huts around a mango tree.

As I sat with the family, listening as they switched between French, Lingala and Kizande I caught on to them talking about a strange occurrence the night before. Upon my enquiry in French, they went monolingual for me so I could keep up. It seems the previous night a woman "possessed by a devil" was brought from a neighbouring village for help. The man's home we were at is a very devout Christian and a member high up in the local Catholic church, so his response surprised me. He said that they took some leaves and herbs from the forest and forced them into her nose, which has an effect on the nervous system and calmed her down. I asked if anyone ever prayed for possessed people, he said it depended on what type of possession it was.

So, turns out the haunting voice echoing from the jungle was also keeping tired mourners from sleep.

That said, I stick to my statement: May I never sleep through human suffering. Let it always jar my soul.

2:07am

I am not sure if I awoke from she shrill rhythmic screams of agony or my heart beating out of its chest. Perhaps both. Once on my feet, I listened again thinking perhaps it was a hurt animal caught in a trap set by the hunters. I do not remember the moments between waking and standing out in front of the gate to our base. Staring into the jungle of the most absolute darkness, my chest pounded throughout my whole body. The open wailing of funerals here are some of the most harrowing guttural cries, buffered, thankfully, only by the circles of drums and shakers and chanters echoing back and forth exchanging rhythms through the trees.

This is now the fourth and final night of mourning for Gabriel's brother, who was nearly 80 years old in a village where life expectancy is about 47 years. The woman has calmed now, her whooping and shrieking has turned to weeping and crying out a phrase that sounds similar to the French word for 'beans'. The drums and chanting are growing louder now, in tune with the crickets and calls of the birds in the night. My heart has reached a normal waking pace.

May there never be a time I can sleep though the sounds of such raw human suffering.

Lost in Assumed Translation

While waiting at the airstrip for Avions Sans Frontiers to come, I had a shot at some small dialogue in Lingala with some local kids who did not speak any French...

Me: Mboté
Kids: Mboté
Me: Sango Nini?
Kid: *something I did not understand but assumed it was a standard answer to my question*
Me: Malamo
Kids look confused then sad.

I turned to one of our staff who was there, laughing at me. I asked him what they said...

Me: Hi
Kids: Hi
Me: How are you?
Kid: We are hungry.
Me: OK, fine.
Kids look confused then sad.

Compassion at its finest right there. You're welcome, world. 

If home is where the heart is, mine is not here.

As I approach year 10 of seemingly constant transitional living, I find myself more and more disillusioned with where and what “home” is. However, on the same breath, I can tell you I have come more and more into what I know is and is not “home”. 

I go back and forth between these polarities at least several times a day, no matter where on earth I am. 

On a recent trip home, I felt the sunshine penetrate my every cell, the ocean filter through my hair and my clothes smelled of my mother’s laundry soap. I found, though, that by week two, I was wanting to be back to work, and was happy to return back to what has become my newest home - even though it is lacking in comforts I have always associated with home. Apparently my subconscious' definition is malleable. 

What I have come to is a state of recognizing that if I am just a sojourner in this life and my home is in heaven, the only place my soul will ever feel at rest or content – if home is where the heart is and my heart is not tied to earth, but drawn to Jesus – then wherever I am on this planet is just as much not-home as the next place. So, really, as it is all temporary, it does not matter what sense of home I do and do not have. I am free to live and love anywhere, wherever I am called. Some people feel "called" to one place or another, I never have and it has taken me some time to work out how that manifests in my life.

Earlier this year an Utmost for His Highest entry spoke of Psalm 139 and bent it in a fashion that revealed a soul longing for what was beyond the hopes of the horizon and for a love that was more vast than the depths of the seas. We were not made to be content with the things of this earth. 

Even as I write this I feel a struggle within me. One part is saying if I keep looking, one more assignment in one more land then perhaps I will find it. The other side evokes a near physical lifting sensation in my heat and gut that reminds me that, no, I will never find it here. It is not here.

My longing and lack of satisfaction is by design, it seems. 

Hebrews 11 ¹³ These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off were assured of them, embraced them and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. ¹⁴ For those who say such things declare plainly that they seek a homeland.

Matthew 8 ¹⁹ Then a teacher of the law came to him and said, “Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go.” ²⁰ Jesus replied, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

Acts 7:49 “‘Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. What kind of house will you build for me? says the Lord. Or where will my resting place be?