Friday, November 5, 2010
Food for Food Storage Units
This is a photo of a food storage unit located at an IDP Camp
. Which reminds me of when I met the man from the Karamonjong tribe, a journey I will never forget, and a journey I think of often.
One day Brother Elio, the director of St. Jude Childrens Home, took truck full of volunteers to visit several hospitals in the surrounding North Eastern Uganda region.
Even though I was in Uganda during a time of relative peace, (Lords Resistant Army fled to the Congo), our journey was still dangerous. We were heading to areas were rebels and feuding tribes are known to hijack vehicles and kill the passengers.
As Brother Elio pushed the peddel to the meddle our red smooth dirt road and lush green horizons faded into a faint dehydrated path and desert sprinkled with stubby bushes. And I couldn't help but notice the human skeletons left as road side warnings, kind of like the yellow signs that say watch for falling rocks - just a bit more terrifying. (I said a little prayer, and sang some hymns to relieve my fears so I could enjoy my adventure).
As we drove, ever so often I would see a spec of life in the distance. Tall ebony women wrapped in a colorful blankets, deep green, red, royal blue. It didn't matter what color they wore, everything looked majestic against their black skin. Their presence was exquisite against the harsh desert that seemed to engulf them in a never ending story. The closer we got to them I would try to make what type of load they carried. Usually it was a bundle of the heavy thorny wood on her head, longer than the length of her body. Or a bright yellow bucket full of well water. Almost always there was a child swaddled in a sheet hanging from her back. These women usually walked alone, or with one other women. In a slow melodic rhythm they made their way down a dusty path, in the middle of a dusty desert, with no sign of sustenance as far as the eye could see. Where they were going, I don't know. Home I assume. Where they came from, I don't know. But there they were, and here they are forever etched in my memory. Their eye's, the piercing looks we shared as our old four wheeler rumbled past - I can see the beautiful faces in my minds eye and almost smell the moment as if I were there now.
Then there was the time we stopped and got a tour of a Karamonjong village. Our volunteer group hopped out of the old Range Rover Ambulance and streched our legs while Brother Elio spoke with the leaders of the tribe and explained that we wanted to check out the village. All the children playfully surrounded us, and an elderly woman, and gentleman approached me and spoke to me in their language and made pleading faces and gestures. I thought they wanted money or food or help of some sort. But I didn't have anything to give them. The man led me to one of the food storage's and lifted the lid. There was nothing inside. My heart was pierced sharply by this sight, and I was unable to fight back the tears. These people were in the middle of nowhere with no food, they were begging me for help and I had nothing to give them. Then the strangest thing happened - the man pulled me aside and communicated to me that I must not cry. He - who had no food - comforted me and strengthened my spirit. He gave me hope that I could do something, perhaps at a later time to help these people.
It still baffles me. But I am still alive, and I as long as I am alive I will not forget the Karamonjong man and his kindness.
I hope to return there with a group of permacultural farmers, and some resources to help them create gardens that would be protected from their livestock, and that would produce food for them year round like the one in the video link. I would like to install rain water catchment systems and storage containers. I would like to build more wells in the area too. Lord willing.
. Which reminds me of when I met the man from the Karamonjong tribe, a journey I will never forget, and a journey I think of often.One day Brother Elio, the director of St. Jude Childrens Home, took truck full of volunteers to visit several hospitals in the surrounding North Eastern Uganda region.
Even though I was in Uganda during a time of relative peace, (Lords Resistant Army fled to the Congo), our journey was still dangerous. We were heading to areas were rebels and feuding tribes are known to hijack vehicles and kill the passengers.
As Brother Elio pushed the peddel to the meddle our red smooth dirt road and lush green horizons faded into a faint dehydrated path and desert sprinkled with stubby bushes. And I couldn't help but notice the human skeletons left as road side warnings, kind of like the yellow signs that say watch for falling rocks - just a bit more terrifying. (I said a little prayer, and sang some hymns to relieve my fears so I could enjoy my adventure).
As we drove, ever so often I would see a spec of life in the distance. Tall ebony women wrapped in a colorful blankets, deep green, red, royal blue. It didn't matter what color they wore, everything looked majestic against their black skin. Their presence was exquisite against the harsh desert that seemed to engulf them in a never ending story. The closer we got to them I would try to make what type of load they carried. Usually it was a bundle of the heavy thorny wood on her head, longer than the length of her body. Or a bright yellow bucket full of well water. Almost always there was a child swaddled in a sheet hanging from her back. These women usually walked alone, or with one other women. In a slow melodic rhythm they made their way down a dusty path, in the middle of a dusty desert, with no sign of sustenance as far as the eye could see. Where they were going, I don't know. Home I assume. Where they came from, I don't know. But there they were, and here they are forever etched in my memory. Their eye's, the piercing looks we shared as our old four wheeler rumbled past - I can see the beautiful faces in my minds eye and almost smell the moment as if I were there now.
Then there was the time we stopped and got a tour of a Karamonjong village. Our volunteer group hopped out of the old Range Rover Ambulance and streched our legs while Brother Elio spoke with the leaders of the tribe and explained that we wanted to check out the village. All the children playfully surrounded us, and an elderly woman, and gentleman approached me and spoke to me in their language and made pleading faces and gestures. I thought they wanted money or food or help of some sort. But I didn't have anything to give them. The man led me to one of the food storage's and lifted the lid. There was nothing inside. My heart was pierced sharply by this sight, and I was unable to fight back the tears. These people were in the middle of nowhere with no food, they were begging me for help and I had nothing to give them. Then the strangest thing happened - the man pulled me aside and communicated to me that I must not cry. He - who had no food - comforted me and strengthened my spirit. He gave me hope that I could do something, perhaps at a later time to help these people.
It still baffles me. But I am still alive, and I as long as I am alive I will not forget the Karamonjong man and his kindness.
I hope to return there with a group of permacultural farmers, and some resources to help them create gardens that would be protected from their livestock, and that would produce food for them year round like the one in the video link. I would like to install rain water catchment systems and storage containers. I would like to build more wells in the area too. Lord willing.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
