For now, a photo of me with the women and children captured in the video (I am holding the little camera that shoots HD with the furry mic that everyone thought hilarious). Plus we can all start to get excited over the video that will be made from footage I took in Uganda on the last trip. And I can look forward to capturing more fun on my coming trips! Oh happy day.

But the trauma just ended – the camps were emptied 2 and 3 years ago. There is something inside of me that wants something, some relic, to reconcile this reality with this place that flows with life and laughter. Sometimes my colleagues here talk as we drive or walk.

That school over there – that is a girls’ school where the LRA abducted all the girls and the nuns walked for days to get them back. This house, this yard, is where the LRA made a boy walk in circles endlessly after he had walked with a suitcase on his head for kilometers. They left him for dead, but he lived. That camp, it began at the wall of our compound and it went so far – it could house 10,000 people. There used to be two lines for them to use our hand pump. That teacher training school – in the middle of the night someone ran from door to door making noise because the LRA had come – we all ran to town and were safe. Do you remember the days when there were 20 people sleeping under one roof?

I was watching the team do a hand pump repair, and saw a building missing its roof and falling apart. It was the visual image of destruction, pain, and abandonment that I have been looking for. Then I found out it was just part of a former leprosy colony that no longer exists. A few of the other buildings have been absconded to be a nursery school, but this one was left to slowly deteriorate. And so my visual image is really that of a bygone era when leprosy was more common and treatment colonies were the norm. Not a word about the recent history of the region. Not one.

I was asked to lead a mini-workshop on storytelling last week and tonight sat down to read stories that were written by the handful of participants. The goal was simple: write one or two true stories. Make sure that you have included the critical parts of the story and describe three photos you would take to help tell the story. The purpose was to learn to write better stories for grants, reports, and fundraising.

I thought I would get stories about kids with diarrhea, wells being drilled, and latrines being dug. About a third were like that. The rest were heavier. Much heavier. Villages being raided for cattle followed by standing in a stream all night to save your life. A boy being orphaned and always being sick only to find out he has AIDS. But, he received treatment and help, so the future looks good. A friend being killed by the LRA. A story of struggling to forgive the man who tried to kill his mother. I asked for stories and that is what I received. While I am honored to have read these stories, I am thankful that this workshop contained only a handful of people because there is only so much heaviness I can handle in one night.

There are no visual reminders here that an outsider can understand. But the story is fully alive in people’s minds. The empty field tells of where the camp used to be. Buildings and trees and houses hold specific stories. No person was left untouched and each has a story. I am humbled to have been told a piece of a few stories. I think I am going to stop looking for that relic, that visual image. Maybe someday there will be a monument to honor those that suffered and died. Until then, the only thing I know to do to honor the living is to listen. No hunting for a photo to abstractly show the history and no prompting for a dramatic story – just listening to what is told. Maybe then these buildings and tress and houses will hold stories of the past for me too.

Grasslands, forests, an oasis and a lake – not exactly the classic images of a desert, but remember that I was also journeying in the midst of the longest and heaviest rainy season in the last 20 or 30 years. The Chalbi Desert, just north of where we were, was not crossable because parts were flooded.

Nearly everyone who lives in the NFD is a pastoralist. The primary exceptions are the few fishermen along Lake Turkana. The tribes of the region include the El Molo, Borana, Gabru, Ariael, Turkana, Samburu and the Rendille. Could I tell you how to distinguish one tribe from another or where to find each? No. I was told much of this, but my small brain can only handle so much at one time. I can tell you that the Turkana are slowly moving into lands held by other tribes.

It seemed that all the moran, or warriors (aged mid-teen to late 30’s, these men were not married), of the tribes wore brightly colored wraps and as many necklaces, bracelets and rings as I have in my entire collection. Then there were the headdress that often included small plastic flowers and feathers. They stuck out like peacocks against the children, women, and elders. I would not mess with these moran and their sticks, knives, and machetes. But I was told that the Turkana warriors are not so brightly adorned. Is this one way they win battles?

These tribes traditionally walk long distances from watering spots to grazing land. Cows, sheep, goat, donkeys, and camels cover these distances with their herdsmen and moran – sometimes as much as 3 days each direction – week after week. And that distance is critical. Some boreholes have been drilled in some of the good grazing land. This took away what seemed to be a water problem… and the nomadic communities moved the area. Then, in a classic act of the tragedy of the commons, the land was overgrazed. When arid or desert lands are overgrazed it is difficult, sometimes impossible, for the land to recover. A short-sighted solution is now part of the problem.

As we left Korr for the last time children, mostly boys, who were in secondary school were trying to find rides out of town to get back to school after the holidays. These ‘lucky’ children each represented families working hard and selling animals to keep a them in school – particularly past an elementary education. There is the hope that these children will find jobs in the cities and support their families by sending money home. Charles, one of the men working on the FH water project I was visiting, was one such case. He went through school and has returned to help his family – both financially and through development. It does happen, but it is rare. Many more are forever lost to the cities fighting for the available jobs, which never seem to be enough to go around.

And so I wonder about false hope. Why do children have to buy and wear drab school uniforms and leave their traditional dress behind? What does a primary school education teach a child if he does not continue and leave the village for a city job? It seems that traditional math, english, and science could be transformed into basic husbandry, marketing, and business – an education that could help each become more successful in their current life. Which makes me wonder if education is always valuable.

I do not have an answer to any of the complexities of this region (I have talked about just a few of them here), and I know that what seem like simple, obvious answers are often blind to the complexities. What this journey has left me with is an appreciation and respect for the families who live in the NFD. This is not to gloss over and idealize their culture or lifestyle – it is hard and difficult, and there are cultural practices that I could not adopt. But these people have survived for centuries, and they and the land live on. I also have a deep respect for my colleagues at FH who work in this region. Simply getting from one location to another is difficult, much less trying to find a solution that can not only be sustained by communities, but also that is environmentally sustainable. It is a system of give and take and much conversation. It is slow going.

I hope to return to the NFD by Land Rover in the future. This year I will likely fly over the land and visit some of the communities we never made it to. But there is something wonderful and alluring about traveling wide open spaces by car that provides a respect and an understanding of the land that is missed by plane. This was a grand journey and I hope for more in the future.

6 months ago Northern Kenya was in the midst of a long drought. The land was dry and the fight was to survive. But in November last year the rains began and they have not stopped; normally the rainy season is November to December and April to May. 4, 5 or 6 days of good rain during each season is what people have become accustomed to. I experienced that many good rains during my 8 day journey. These are the longest and heaviest rains people remember in the last 20 or 30 years. The cows, goats, sheep, donkeys, and camels are fat. The desert has come alive – green grass, trees growing and flowers blooming. The children look healthy. The streams are flowing.

The streams are flowing – overflowing. Day one of this journey found us ending the night with our Land Cruiser STUCK in the Milgis River. We tested the waters and they seemed fine. We just forgot to take into account the length of the Land Cruiser with the deluxe bull bar on the front and extended steel bumper on the back. We fought to not loose the vehicle. By the end of the night we were down a man as Erik H’s hand was wrapped and bandaged (thank you gauze, athletic tape, band aids, tea towel and electrical tape) after slicing his palm and four fingers on the machete he was using as a shovel. We finally crawled into our tents with a small dam made of brush in front of the vehicle and having dug out a channel behind it.

And thus began the grand adventure. Day two found us starting the day mud covered taking shelter from the burning sun under a tree. It is by God’s grace that we got out. When the Land Cruiser was finally pulled out of the stream the following had happened: Erik N had walked 10 km out and then 10 km back to find cell coverage to call for help. Martin, our help had walked 2 km from the other direction because water and mud blocked his path. Martin then sped down roads to approach us from the other direction after walking out with Erik H and taking him to get stitches (Martin, we owe you). Our vehicle was jacked up and branches put under the back tires. At this point we were down to 3 litres of good water. And as we are preparing to jack up the front of the Land Cruiser with Martin’s high lift jack (we broke ours the day before… thank you China), we hear the water coming. The Miligis was about to flash flood – ends up rain from the mountains comes crashing down about 22 hrs later to where we were stuck. We had exactly one shot as the water was rising, and, by God’s grace, those front tires lifted out of their deep holes and an $80,000 Land Cruiser (thank you Kenya taxes on vehicles that NGOs typically use) was not lost to the river.

We were freed about 23 hours after we got stuck. Then we drove another 4 hours over roads that should have taken us 2 hours to reach the day’s destination – a clean bed, safe drinking water, and a cool shower. That is how day two ended. And it was par for the course of this trip.

Every day, nearly every hour, of this trip was unexpected. Every tentative plan was dropped and then modified at least three times. By the last days, we spoke not of plans A, B, or C, but of plans M and Z. Most of the time I did not know where I would be setting up my tent or rolling out my sleeping bag until the day came to a close. When paths were chosen in the morning, every alternative option was discussed. When we went into a village, we asked about the roads ahead and if cars (read: vehicles with clearance and four wheel drive) were making it through. The one constant was chai. By mid-day Friday, we were ready to begin what should have been a 1.5 day journey back to Nairobi.

It took us 3.5 days to reach Nairobi. To do this, we bought all the diesel available from a Catholic Mission (20 litres) and all the fuel in Korr (40 litres)… our two 80 litre tanks would have sufficed if we had not gotten stuck or spent our days tracing our steps from place to place as the rains shut down roads. The Milgis River (where we were stuck on day one) overflowed, jumped its bank, and chartered a new course towards Korr transforming roads to mud pits and grass plains to lake beds along the way. We had one option out, through an area where 2 people had been shot in the last 2 weeks. And so we prayed, we drove, and we made it.

If I had made this trip 6 months ago, I would have seen different circumstances and my photos would be filled with more shades of brown. I likely would have been able to visit every community that was on our original list and would have all of the video footage that I would ever want. I would have been covered with more dust than mud. If I wanted to spin things, I could have published pictures of thin children with big eyes as well as black and white images of dead cows on the road. But that is not the trip that I had and I believe in photos filled with hope and dignity.

The trip that I did have taught me about the land and the people. And it filled me with compassion for everyone who lives and works in this diverse and harsh land. In colonial times, the district was referred to as the NFD, or Northern Frontier District. The acronym has made a comeback, but now it stands for Northern Forgotten District. Roads that were once tarmac are now gravel and dirt. The most basic of infrastructure has broken down having a domino effect on access to supplies and other infrastructure. Our last night on our 3.5 day return to Nairobi was spent in Maralal. We joked about having ‘re-entered’ Kenya that night. There were gas stations, a run-down safari lodge, fruits and vegetables, and cold drinks.

Note: To read a different and more detailed account of this adventure, check out whiteafrican.com, Erik H’s personal blog. Besides, it is a good blog worth following.

Laughter and stories. Clanging metal tools. As I approached the outdoor shelter that is the small biosand filter factory, I wanted to join the work so that I could be a part of this team of women. Their job is to make biosand filters several days a week – the small ‘factory’ needed to increase their output, and these particular women had proven their skill and work ethic in recent trainings. Extra income for the women, extra output for the factory, and more people with safe drinking water in their homes. A good day.

Each one of these women has a story that deserves to be told. But today I only have time to tell you about one, Dainess. She is 25 years old, is married, and has three young children. She has an engaging smile, can read lips in Bemba, the local language, and writes basic English. Our conversation began with me writing, “My name is Pamela. What is your name?” Then the other women joined our conversation and simple sign language combined with lip reading took over. I am hesitant to say it, because I do not want Dainess to be categorized and put in a box, but she is deaf-mute. I dislike labels and boxes because they evoke specific emotions that might or might not be appropriate. Here, Dainess’s deafness is part of who she is, but does not define her. Instead it is her family, her smile, her work ethic and her interaction with her peers that tell us about her character. Given the opportunity, I would choose to work beside her and hope that she would want to be my friend.

This entry was written for Blood:Water Mission. Check them out at www.bloodwatermission.com/blog.

Today was spent with a Rwandese colleague and friend discussing monitoring and evaluation. Not exactly most people’s idea of a grand day. Given the choice, my workday would have been filled with visiting projects because being in the field fills me up and reminds me why I love my job. Instead, today was a reminder of why hours spent in meetings, days spent in the office, and seemingly weeks creating plans are worth it.

In the midst of a seven hour conversation, my friend told me of a Rwandese proverb. Farmers spend hours working their fields with hoes. To turn the soil, they grasp their hoe with both arms and use the strength of their body to lift their hoe high and push it deep into the soil. When the hoe comes down on an unseen rock, the shock of the hoe hitting the rock reverberates through their entire body, hurting to the core. But, if the rock is seen, the farmer can avoid the rock and the ensuing pain.

Most of the time I tell stories about partners doing amazing work and communities being transformed. Stories and images that inspire. But we spend a lot of time looking for stones that could cause roadblocks and pain along the way – stories that are untold. Weeks, months, and years invested in the details and in communities. Stones mean that a water project takes longer to implement, a latrine is not constructed quite right, communities are not transformed, expansion happens faster than is sustainable, or that needed funds are not raised. Monitoring and evaluation plans are about looking for stones. It is not glamorous but is critical to success. And so tomorrow will be spent just like today: seven hours of conversation looking for stones.

This entry was written for Blood:Water Mission. Check them out at www.bloodwatermission.com/blog.

I feel as if I have recently taken a breather from weightier books, and I am diving back in again. This poem comes at the beginning of the introduction to Paul Farmer’s Pathologies of Power:  Health, Human Rights, and the New War on the Poor, and it struck deep chords inside of me. It struck deep inside because I like to believe that I do not classify people as nobodies, but the truth is that it is a constant battle.

In my work I have to ask the questions: How many people will a certain project reach? What is this project’s cost per person? Are we meeting our numbers? Or even this… let’s expand the merchandise we sell to include local handicrafts made by some of our partners. Each question is well founded – we want to reach as many people, as many individuals, as many communities as we can with every dollar raised. We want to be responsible with our funding. We want to hear stories of people no longer skipping school to carry water or girls staying home because they are menstruating and have no private toilet facilities. We want to support local groups who use their art, their crafts, to create income and become self-sustaining. Behind each number and question is a story of a person who is not a nobody, but we must fight to make these bodies the driving force, not the numbers.

And so today I am excited to dive into heavier literature that forces me to think, to remember why I do what I do, and to re-examine and expand my own thought processes. To be challenged is a good thing.

That’s right. All it costs is $85. In terms of i-pods, it is a 3 for 1 deal: 3 biosand filters for families for the cost of 1 i-pod classic 160 gb. A few days from now is the famous ‘Black Friday’ in America when there are super sales and people get up at unbelievable hours to get that perfect deal. All for something that is, likely, disposable. A biosand filter is not disposable and will transform the life of a family by providing them clean water for 10-20 years. Consider ‘buying’ one as an alternative Christmas gift this year at: www.bloodwatermission.com/christmas.

Laughter. My time in Uganda, was filled with laughter. We laughed when we saw each other in the morning, when we told stories, when we walked through villages, when we shared tea, and simply at a funny look. In a moment there is laughter. Contagious laughter. So beautiful. I wish I could bottle it up and take it home. I once got an email from a colleague listening to my laughter through our shared wall that was titled, “I love your laughter.” Man she would have loved to be in Uganda with me.

Speed talking. On day 3 of my work in Lira, Faustino declared that he was terrified that he would be placed on my team the next day for our work in the village (his statement was, of course, topped off with loud laughter). For the first two days of discussions, we were a group of Ugandans, two Americans and two Canadians. The discussions were good and kept moving. Excited and surrounded by North Americans, I moved into my rapid-fire speed talking that is a clear indicator of how fast my brain cells are working. The poor man was struggling to follow and never bothered to say anything. We were partners for the next couple of days during which I spoke African English, we shared life histories, and we laughed more than one can imagine.

Science revisited. Do you have any idea what a petri dish of cultured e-coli smells like. If the word poop comes to mind, you hit it. The thing about testing water quality for e-coli is that when you have contaminated water, you are effectively multiplying the e-coli, containing them in a petri dish, and then opening the lid and counting the blue and purple dots (e-coli colonies). You use a little magnifying glass and get real close to make sure you count right. It smells. You loose your appetite. You are thankful that you do not drink from the river. Then you take a shower and then go to dinner.

Biosand filters. BSF. Based on an old technology that was modified for an individual household used less than two decades ago. BSFs can be made locally and, when properly cared for, reduce pathogens by 98%. I saw these in Uganda and Zambia. Everyone I asked who used a BSF loved it. But, the best part, is that the cement and sand act as a water cooler. And so, often before I was told about how the kids do not have diarrhea and their skin no longer itches, I was told, “The water is cold.” You think that is not a big deal? Yeah. You probably have a fridge and ice. Some brilliant person should start marketing BSFs as water coolers in places where there is no electricity with a side benefit of eliminating disease.

Latrines. I love them because they reduce disease. I love them because when I am in a village their presence means that when I need to pee, I have a place to put my white butt that does not involve mooning the world. But sometimes I think people building them are dense. For example, I used several latrines this trip with a hole that could not have been more than 6 inches square. I think a man made that hole and I wanted to kick him. Seriously though, every time I use a good latrine, I think of the girls who now have a place to pee during the day with dignity. And dignity begins to change this world.

Hand washing. What formal meal have I been to in America where everyone went to wash their hands before going through the buffet line? Can’t think of one. Matter of fact, I cannot think of a single meal in America outside of a home where this was the practice. Hamburgers. Fries. Pizza. Let’s not pretend that we do not eat with our fingers. How can I say this? Hand washing changes health. For the last month, I have washed hands with my friends and colleagues before meals. In the bush, we used bottled water and a bar of soap stashed in the glove box. At the formal dinner, we traipsed into the bathrooms. No questions asked. Do me a favor and think about that the next time you have a french fry.

Safe water. Latrines. Hand washing. Three key aspects to a healthy home & a healthy village.

Books. A part of my nomadic life is stashing books in my luggage. A few days ago someone asked me if I was well read. I am finishing book five of the month, an interesting collection of short stories of Indian immigrants to America (Unaccustomed Earth). Books one to four included good literature making me want to return to Savannah for another vacation (Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil), B-grade action (Clive Cussler), learning to cook in Paris (The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry), and an excellent book on community development (When Helping Hurts) that you should read. Last year the (former) president read more books than I did, and I somehow doubt his book list included beach trash. Some day I think I should read Plato and Aristotle. Then I will consider myself well read.

Safari. This one day safari in Botswana could be characterized by ‘elephant’. I do not think I am exaggerating if I say that I saw a couple hundred elephants – almost all headed to or at the river. The joy of it being deep into dry season is that the water holes in the park have dried up and the animals all flock to the river. As we sat in the boat, family groups of elephants headed to the river. At the sight of the water, the younger ones would start to run – the dust from the earth flying around them. 10-20 elephants walking and running… and not a sound. I want to say that they were light on their feet… but they were elephants. They were huge. Reaching the river, they drank their fill, then splashed water and mud onto their skin. Some of the kids rolled in the mud and sprawled  out. You could almost hear them sigh and say, “Mom, do we really have to go? It is hot out there.”

Seasons. In Uganda they said it had been dry, and not too much rain. Everything was green and lush. There were a couple thundering storms during the night. The maize was  growing. But, the real rains were just getting ready to start. The days hot and relatively humid, the nights cool. Zambia was in the dry season. No questions. Roads were dusty, the plants coated with a thin film of dirt, and I used lotion. The days were headed towards hot, but the nights remained cool. Each day I was here, the temperatures increased a bit… the locals say that October is the hottest month of the year, then the rains start in November. Between the dust from the earth, the dust from the cement factory, and the heat, it sounds like not a lot of fun. Please remind me to not visit in October.

Singing. Somehow I sing in languages I do not know because one cannot help but sing when surrounded by the voices and rhythms of Africa. Each region’s music is different, and each confirms that I have no sense of rhythm and sing off key. One morning Peter teaches a new song he has just written. Within a minute everyone is harmonizing and I feel blessed to be in the middle of this awesome beauty. In heaven I want to be that white girl in the crowd because I am convinced that my off key singing, clapping at the wrong time, and awkward dancing will somehow fit in just perfectly. Until then, I love that my African brothers and sisters include me in their worship.