The End

So, the Internship came to an end. Assuming that a summer spent in a culture that excuses all late meetings with “African time” would allow me a slow, methodical experience, I was caught surprised when it passed with the same speed that I’m sure all of yours did. As mid- August came and went, this inner turmoil began. Competing emotions tumbled around in a mental Laundromat. Yearning to see family and friends, I also felt it was impossible to leave, as I had only scratched the surface of what I wanted to accomplish in Uganda. To further encourage this inner drive to stay, I was offered a job and opportunity that presented a pretty ideal way to stay out here.

The following passage chronicles one of the most unique weekends I have ever had, which gives the context for what decision I made, in regards to my life beyond the internship. If you are short on time and want to know my future plans post- Internship Uganda, just skip this blog and move to the one below it titled: “My life and job anew”. The pictures that follow that blog serve as a visual to the story I am about to tell, a weekend pilgrimage with the choir to Kalongo, Uganda for a huge ceremony.

August 19th came, the known deadline for deciding whether or not to use the plane ticket, which had sat in my room for the last three months, dated August 26th. With only a week left, I boldy asked for an extension through the weekend to clear my head. I had been in Gulu for months on end without getting out of this one-horse town (literally- when I asked if there were any horse in Gulu, a guy responded, “yeah, one… over there by the Cathedral). It was the perfect weekend to get out of town, as my choir was planning a journey to sing at the Ordination of a well-respected Deacon. This event had been highly anticipated, (how much so, I did not even understand at this point) but we had been practicing intensively for a month, every day in preparation of this event. Each choir member had struggled for months to pay the required 13 dollars to travel there. Their determination to go was proved in singing at the Invisible Children office party. Twenty five people showed up in their formal wear, and sung into the night, walking back home, to earn enough money to pay for four of their members to go on this trip. The Choir Master, also the principal at one of the schools that Invisible Children is sponsoring, wrote permission slips, asking that each choir member be excused from their jobs on Friday to attend. Friday morning came, and nearly all 80 people showed up to board an enormous truck (called a Lorry, which in the States would never be seen as a possible means to haul anything but construction materials) rented from the local all-girls Catholic High School.


Leaving Friday morning, we trekked past vast blurs of “bush”. 300 kilometers of red-dirt road, filled with pot holes and deep, rain drenched sand led us. As we bumped along, the Lorry blazed past dark clouds emitting tremendous lightening bolts that shocked the sky on either side of this roofless truck, but for some uncanny reason, there was always blue sky right above us. As if we had a special VIP ticket to travel from heaven and God was looking down from his aerial view to see this pathetic orange truck bobbing along in the middle of this chaotic ominous environment, he seemed to be swayed by the continuous hymns that faintly hovered over this faith driven truck, that he decided to spare it from harm. Through treacherous, imminently impending obstacles, the truck cruised on. Every time a pot hole was directly hit, the whole truck would jump, and everyone would uniformly lift an inch. In response to this discomfort, I would clench my teeth in anger and self-pity, while the other 70 on board would respond by shrieking in laughter and joy. Slowly, over the course of the 8 hour expedition, I shredded all standards and expectations of comfort, and learned from these ever-adaptable people. They met each challenge with acceptance, tolerance and a sense of shared togetherness. The younger ones would jump out and push when the truck would get stuck, and collectively fix the tires when they would give out. The voyage came to full fruition upon seeing Kalongo- a green Empire towering over endlessly flat African plains. It was the gate of a mountain chain that dramatically rose out of nowhere. It completely caught me off guard to see mountains- which I hadn’t seen for three months, and the majority of my choir hadn’t seen ever. It excited me beyond what I would have expected. It brought me home, to what I love most, nature in trees, green and dramatic levels in landscape. It was a beautiful arrival scene, as the sun was just cresting over the top of the mountain and the church stood proudly at its base. The whole scene was something out of an old dream. Handmade streamers swept the sky, wrapping around the outdoor arena, greeting us in the spirit of this weekend celebration. Throngs of people were gathered to greet us, Acholis from all over the North were arriving in whatever transport they could arrange. Dirty and dusty, I was now better understanding the magnitude of this event, as thousands of people were to attend this ceremony.

That night, bathing using faucet, sleeping on floor mat, and waking to drink tea from a bucket made for hundreds of visitors, I knew that I had somehow stumbled upon an experience that few outsiders had ever seen. This was true modern Acholi culture in action. I was realizing a totally different set of priorities than those of the West. Here, they cared most about savoring the joy in each other, in community, and in this moment of simple pleasure. It was very interesting. The ceremony was incredible. It was the unique mix of Catholicism with Acholi culture. The Priest-to-be was carried in on a seat by 20 other deacons. Dancing in celebration, women in their bras, and men in their loincloth outfits stomped their feet, and chanted in procession. Women throwing flowers came next, and a whole procession of priests and the Bishop followed, dressed in white robes. Our choir joined four other choirs- all singing the same songs, the Deacon visiting each choir months before to present the songs, some written personally for his own ceremony. Drums wailed, and the sound of this now 200- person choir rolled up the entire mountain behind us, into the heavens. After the ceremony, the celebration, dancing and singing continued into the evening, as a dinner was served to hundreds of people.

The following day, Sunday, I was determined to climb up the mountain. I had met two really cool Seminarians my age, and they were willing to sacrifice a Sunday Mass to physically reach heaven. We set off at dawn, and headed out, first getting clearance from the military, who had a fort on top to watch for threats to security. We spent the morning climbing up this massively impressive rock. We talked of philosophy and religion, and I really came to really respect their viewpoint. That respect increased exponentially when I found out that both of these guys, who had quickly become friends, had both been abducted by the LRA. One of the guys was willing to describe his life spent with the rebel army, even detailing how he and his Mother, and sister were abducted, forced to walk for days on end without food, and then permanently separated. It was a tragic story, but his attitude towards it, deeply rooted in faith, was incredible.

We reached the top of the mountain, at the same height as the clouds. I explained to them that this was how it looked outside of an airplane’s windows. Immersed in clouds, we couldn’t see anything below, but could only guess how far up we were, judging by the faint music that filtered up from the Mass going on, thousands of feet below. We spent time praying and meditating, when suddenly, the clouds were rushed out of the way by a new wind. Sun reigned down, as an incomprehensible scene emerged, mountain ranges dotting an ever-expanding horizon. The African plains were endless, towns and people like blips of activity- almost insignificant in their ant-like efforts. It was then and there, as I looked out over this vast green landscape, I realized there was so much more I had to explore, learn and do in East Africa. I descended the mountain, while monkeys climbed the rocks, and farmers picked groundnuts, knowing that this final frontier was where I was meant to be for the next year.