Fail.

Activity at the Kenya-Uganda border, at Busia.

Entebbe, Uganda – I must have seemed illiterate as I presented my immigration documents to officials at the Kenya-Uganda border town of Busia this afternoon.

As I had attempted to fill out the various pieces of paper on the bus, the wavy scrawl of ink had risen and fallen with each pothole etched into the road that carried me from Kisumu. Road crews had mounded entirely insufficient cones of dirt along the road to fill the gaps, but they were of little use just sitting there.

The border featured a slouching metal fence painted in the chipping colours of Kenya’s flag. Buses and trucks alike bunched up as we cleared customs, walked across no-man’s land and into Uganda’s immigration office. Once cleared, we wove between jaggedly parked vehicles to find our bus, navigating through salespeople carrying boxes of beverages and snacks on their heads. Impoverished children slapped at the side of the bus and called up through the open window, making hand gestures that mimicked eating.

Pulling into Uganda, the sky became a watercolour of mottled greys and my nausea increased because of the bus's 1.5-hour late start this morning – and the tight deadline I faced for my plane home. Donning sunglasses, a boxer jogged along the road with taped hands, jabbing at the wind. Each time I checked my watch, I felt as though I had taken one of his punches to my gut.

Farther along, a woman raked the dirt out front of her house with a paint roller that had no sponge. A rural field was speckled with scarecrows whose heads were made from black garbage bags. Clever. In a larger town, a giant billboard featured a man with two women draped over him under the banner, “Be handsome, and fair.” It was for fair skin cream for men. What?

My unanticipated home in Entebbe for more than 24 hours.

It was a pleasant ride I enjoyed with my head hanging out the window at the back of the bus. As we pulled into the hills of Kampala, however, the road was stitched with a knot of traffic. The city has a reputation for slow travel on Friday nights and, true to form, we trudged five kilometres in two hours. At the same time, the hands on my watch seemed to hasten their pace as I twisted my wrist. I still needed to find a taxi to take me the additional 40 kilometres to the airport in Entebbe.

Finally arriving at the bus park, I haggled with the taxi driver out of respect, but hit the road soon thereafter, hoping to eke in under the wire. Naturally, he needed to stop for fuel now that he had a fare. Reaching the airport at Entebbe, heavily armed police pulled us from the vehicle to do a thorough search, and the ill feeling in my stomach rose into my throat.

The city is on edge given recent strikes and violence related to the re-election of President Yoweri Museveni, who was sworn in yesterday. I, too, was on edge – but I had hope.

Unfortunately, that is all I had: I missed check-in by 15 minutes.

Hashtag: Fail.

Seeing the Forest and the Trees.

Looking like an Ewok, a Blue monkey snacks.

Kakamege, Kenya – The sky repeatedly cleared its throat, but the drops did not reach us as we set out through the heavy canopy of the Kakamega forest this afternoon.

Only the sun’s rays and shrill cries of birds filtered through the more than 150 species of plant in Kenya’s last remnant of the Guineo-Congolian rainforest that used to blanket the entire continent. Colobus and Blue monkeys swished through the leaves, sounding as though they were sweeping their porches, and a nearby bird whistled like ascending fireworks.

Spiders wove their looms across pathways carved between centuries-old trees – many of which are endemic here – and 40 types of snake lurked, unseen. Shy vipers, cobras and mambas remained hidden in the vibrant palette of green, which was soon washed by heavy drops.

This turn of weather has wreaked havoc on the bumpy red clay roads that are to carry us toward Kisumu – the ditch seems to be welcoming us as a respite from the slippery clay, but we have maintained traction at the last minute each time.

I love passing the nearby villages at dusk, though, as smoke from countless kitchens carries with it delicious smells before hanging in the valleys like foggy ghosts.

Kerosene lamps, meanwhile, begin to flicker like fireflies and I’m left to marvel at life here.

A New Goal.

DC and Titus, plotting World Cup dominance.

Chekalini, Kenya – Although I do not understand many words of their persistent chatter, the children here sound just like those anywhere else.

Excited. Eager. Proud.

In the blazing heat of midday, this chatter wilted as DC, Titus and I first kicked around a couple of guavas, then a ball crafted from rolled-up felt wrapped in a plastic bag and bound by twine. Games transcend the differences of culture and language that so often define our uniforms.

We laughed as we beat the ball into submission – its felt unfurling like a tail – and we flailed our legs wildly, attempting to communicate through the unspoken language of sport.

Taking my hand, Lincoln guided me the long way around the property to show me his school – pointing out trees, flowers and other words he understood in English. With a kind smile, a funny face or an awkward dance, such differences in language can easily dissolve. In fact, sometimes language simply does not matter: some experiences are universal.

And no matter how one says it, I know I have been so tremendously blessed with my good fortune here.

Magic.

Titus, DC and Bobo during one of the welcoming dances.

Chekalini, Kenya – A long but beautiful day on the road has carried us to the most incredible of nights.

After wending our way over the clay arteries that lie beyond Eldoret, we arrived at Eric's family's home in Chekalini this evening. We were immediately greeted by a welcoming committee that framed the front of the house.

Eric dissolved into his mother's eagerly awaiting arms as we shook hands with his brothers and sisters, and high-fived the numerous nieces and nephews. There may have been a few tears.

We entered the house and were blessed with a traditional prayer of welcome and offered a meal. All day, the children had made excuses to stay home from school in case we arrived, conveniently forgetting their pencil cases or their homework. There may have been some excitement.

Initially, the children eyed the large white man I am with a degree of suspicion. Then I showed them just how poorly I dance.

Soon, they mimicked every shake of my arms and awkward rattle of my hips as everyone laughed and clapped along. Consider the ice broken. I soon taught them the 'exploding fist bump,' several new ways to contort one's face and "I've got my eye on you," replete with hand gestures.

They gobbled it up.

The children sang us songs in Kiswahili and English, and I showed Lincoln (Bobo) how to take photographs. He insisted on using the viewfinder, rather than the giant screen on the back. Whatever works. Then he and Titus reached up and took my hands to guide me on a tour of the property. It was pitch black, though the night sky was perforated with diamonds.

"Twende," they said as we wove through the dark pasture. There may not have been much we could actually see, but their pride in their home shone through.

Tonight was magical.

Quite a Rift.

A man rides his bicycle through the Rift Valley.

Chekalini, Kenya – As we coursed along its tongue, the cavernous jaw of the Rift Valley appeared to swallow us, its pebbly walls rising as we wound down serpentine switchbacks into dry pastures of scrub and stretching acacia.

Cacti lined the road, standing sentinel with spiny paddles.

The road at the head of the valley, which leads to former President Daniel arap Moi's home region, is well-paved, but silent. As so few vehicles pass by, locals quip it is best known as a resting place for goats and cows.

Sure enough, around the corner lay a goat, nonplussed, chewing on a long blade of grass.

Crossing the equator and descending farther, however, we rattled across pocked roads as the ground blushed with the red of clay, its lips whispering small puffs of dust. Termite hills as tall as I rose from the landscape like stovepipe hats.

Yet, even as the sun threw blazing rays earthward, motorcyclists remained bundled in down coats – the concept of heat obviously dependent on the climate to which one is accustomed. The whole way, we waved at wide-eyed children in school uniforms who double-took at the palour of our skin.

Toward the end of the day, rain set a local market into motion as tarps were drawn like curtains over stick-framed kiosks selling everything from shoes, to fruit, to suitcases. Weather had signaled the end of the show.

We had been on the road for nearly 12 hours, setting out from Lake Naivasha to see the splendour of the Great Rift Valley and to visit Eric's family in the Western Kenya village of Chekalini.

With a thud in Eldoret, though, we heard the now-familiar snake-like hissing and, for the second day in a row, were roadside – covered in ochre – changing a punctured tire.

This is becoming a habit.

An Abridged Version.

Giraffes watch us as we spin out, stuck on a hill.

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – As dusk settled in like a smudge of heavy eyeshadow, a curious giraffe elongated its neck toward us at the side of the road.

It was close enough we could see its eyelashes, batting like fans.

Despite the pacifist nature of our newfound friend, this was not the best time of day to be stranded in a field of wild African animals.


No, ever-dangerous hippopotamus would soon begin stretching from a day spent staying cool in the water, and foraging with mouths studded by tusk-like teeth. Despite being herbivores, they can be indiscriminate in their violence.

And yet, there we were, tipped sideways in the car, hanging precipitously over the edge of a hill in the riparian area behind the house, the vehicle's belly grounded against a crumbling stone bridge. As we tried to lift the vehicle back onto the road, the tires spun, cloaking us in a cloud of vaporized rubber.

It would not budge.

Yup, we were pretty stuck.

We had already had to change a punctured tire on a dusty hill in Karagite earlier in the day – an event that had attracted other curious onlookers as we attempted to loosen bolts in the middle of a roughly hewn, angular road, amidst homes fabricated of mud and sticks.

With a series of guttural cries, we wedged our hands under the front bumper and tried to raise the vehicle onto the dirt path. By mistakenly spreading the fingers of my right hand onto the spinning tire, I soon learned the car was front-wheel drive.

And I wondered if my now-erased prints would qualify me for a future career in the secret service.

Standing in a bush of thorns, we repeatedly heaved the car upward while awkwardly leveraging ourselves against the side of the hill. Still, the car teetered and we remained fearful it would roll down the hill – on top of us, no less. With the help of a couple locals, though, we eventually wedged a large chunk of the bridge that had become dislodged under the tire.

Traction. At last.

Nonplussed, the giraffe continued snacking on its live salad of nettles as we pulled out through a growing number of wildebeest, zebra and waterbuck.

I'm on a Boat.

Hungry, hungry hippos, looking for the marble.

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – Hippos cloaked by papyrus snorted like pigs with megaphones and leapt toward the boat with a seismic splash.

Our captain had backed into the area for this very reason.

With a quick crank of the throttle, the nose of our boat lifted from the water and pulled free of the reeds, which it spat into the air like confetti.

Nearby, three families of hippopotamus lay submerged, their eyebrows shrugging and nostrils flaring as they loudly sprayed water in disgust. Fish eagles swooped by with curved swords extended, plucking fish from the lake with a cry as piercing as their talons, before climbing back into the trees.

I was touring the lake with Western’s Ecosystem Health – Africa Initiative, where we conducted interviews to better understand the relationship between the growing community, the billion-dollar flower industry and the health of both individuals and the ecosystem.

Up one hill lays a sprawling, unplanned village without a sanitation program. Its refuse ends up in the lake. The entire slum works for one specific rose grower in the region and, in direct contrast, the owner lives in a white, castle-like home a farther up the lake. These manufactured communities provide their own schooling, healthcare, housing and daycare for employees.

The industry is big business, employing a quarter of the 450,000 residents around the lake, many of whom came to the area during the 1990s when the population was only 20,000. The environmental impact of both human migration and from the flower businesses has been tremendous on Lake Naivasha.

As one local described it: “The flower companies are the mother of Naivasha – a cruel mother.”

In the Backyard.

Dark meat or white meat?

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – Pulling up to our quaint cottage nestled under a trestle of acacia trees, we agreed to stretch our legs after the drive and to take a walk into the field behind us.

Lake Naivasha sprawled below.

Birds chirped against a verdant backdrop that soon exposed dark shapes that moved in herds. Both the house and land surrounding it provided the setting for the 1966 movie, Living Free.

Throaty thunder rolled percussively in symphony with wildebeest hooves parading across the open space.

We walked through constant reminders of the very real presence of Africa’s wildlife, past thorny trees and dry soil littered with the bleached vertebrae of a giraffe, fallen like dominoes and spread as long as its neck was in life. Nearby lay a zebra with hollow eyes and an empty belly.

It was no longer hungry.

To the side, wildebeest banged heads and waterbuck eyed us cautiously. A brown-striped baby zebra galloped beside its mother as a trio of giraffe loped away like teenagers with an awkward gait. Turning to look back at us, they dwarfed the herd of tan antelope with feminine features underfoot.

This is our backyard.

Fuelling Adventure.

Creative means for fuelling a car.

Nairobi, Kenya – After five hours spent waiting for our vehicle to arrive, the orange fuel light menaced us with a winking eye.

Choking on the few fumes remaining in its tank, the large van carrying us to Lake Naivasha would soon be left breathless from the standstill traffic. We looked for a modern-day Moses.

The fuel shortage is currently so serious in Nairobi that people queue on foot for hours, clutching jerry cans even as they stand in suits. Despite the lack of petrol, traffic is chaos as an increasing number of vehicles creep through belching clouds of exhaust.

It takes hours to get anywhere.

Radio chatter alerts listeners to gas stations that have received a new supply, which leads to an immediate rush to the pumps. Soon thereafter, yellow tape is pulled across the tanks like a curtain signalling the end of a show.

As the day’s heat rose, we found a barren station where we could siphon gas from the smaller car we had previously rented, and watched the attendant empty it into a large green garbage can. Using an old plastic oil jug as a scoop and a water bottle fitted with a rubber tube, he cautiously fed the precious fuel into the tank’s gaping maw.

With its thirst quenched, the engine sparked to life and the fuel gauge slowly tilted east, even as we headed northwest through the Rift Valley, looking over Longonot Crater and onto Lake Naivasha, which is ringed by the shiny tarps of flower production.

Hamna shida: after yet another hour, we were back on track.

Marketing.

Vendors hawk their wares at the Maasai market.

Nairobi, Kenya – A muted brown field hosts the weekly open air Maasai market in Nairobi, and it seemed to be transformed into a tulip farm by all the brightly coloured goods for sale yesterday.

If only it smelled as good.

Sitting on grey tarps covered with wood and stone carvings, beaded jewellery and toys, blankets and paintings that repeated themselves from shop to shop, women constantly implored us to check out their wares. Maasai sat draped in traditional beads, their stretched ear lobes grazing their narrow shoulders. Gnarled fingers became artfully entwined in wires-full of beads, dancing as they crafted ornate neck pieces.

If the vibrant colours were not enough to make you think your brain had been inserted into a kaleidoscope, the sheer hustle and bustle may have.

And hustle they did.

Before so much as entering the market, we had already made many new ‘friends’ who promised to guide us around and help us make a deal. I soon had three, who placed items in which I had expressed a mild interest into a shopping bag. “These are ‘the maybes,’ we call them,” one said.

They were very friendly, but tenacious. Shopkeepers called over: “promote something of mine – buy something, even small.” Word of our presence spread quickly and everyone always seemed to be aware of where we were, what we had looked at and what we might be interested in. This, despite the size and commotion of the market. One salesperson even came up to me and said I worked in communications.

I had not told anyone.

Colourful fabrics hang in the Maasai market.

Having finished stepping through the labyrinthine path that divided the tarps, my new friends spread my wares onto the grass and began to negotiate, writing the numbers 1-4 on a piece of paper. This was where we were to respond to each other’s pricing salvos. The larger of the men placed 16,000 KSH beside number one.

For a half hour, we shared back pats, laughs, jokes and conversations about our families. Numbers and conversion rates turned to slurry in my mind.

I negotiated down to 14,500 KSH before giving him 2,000 KSH and asking for change. I had not converted correctly in my head and I soon realized the extra zero I had overlooked made for a ridiculous price. I walked away anew, saying we were not even close enough to begin a negotiation.

“Name your price, my friend,” he said. “You’ll be insulted,” I replied. “Insult me,” he added with a big smile. The game was back on.

I felt no pressure because I did not need any of the gifts I was purchasing and I have plenty of time to pick something up – outside the city where prices are generally lower, no less.

Sensing a deal slip away as I inched closer to people I knew who had finished their shopping, one of the salesmen left, frustrated. His two colleagues did not give up so easily. They kept at it, taking turns, and eventually offering 3,500 KSH – even trying to play to my emotions. “I have five children and two wives, and I haven’t eaten today,” one said.

I decided I would not budge from 2,400 KSH and held strong until we finally agreed for 100 shillings more – minus a necklace of trade beads they said they wouldn’t even take less than $50 for on its own.

While I may have still paid mzungu prices, I was comfortable both with my purchases and with supporting the local economy. It was exhausting, and while I do not tend to enjoy haggling, it remains a central aspect of the culture here. This time I even had fun with it.

“You are a hard bargainer,” one said before shaking my hand goodbye, his eye already tilted toward his next mark.

Stage Fright.

Some materials distributed at the Africa Institute launch.

Nairobi, Kenya – Gazing out from Taifa Hall's stage at the University of Nairobi, I was a little surprised to see the room half-filled with students.

It was 7:30 a.m.

Both Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton have spoken from the spot on which I stood, and I was mildly encouraged to see two young men begin untangling snakes of wires to set up a PA system. Then they indicated it was for the class they were holding in a half hour.

Our event was to begin at 9:30.

It was a rather inauspicious beginning to the launch of The Africa Institute at The University of Western Ontario, which is the whole reason I am here in the first place. Though we had reconfirmed the location the day before, we quickly began the mad scramble for a new space.

Moving to a room thick with brewing humidity, we hastily began moving chairs, placing materials, building the dais, removing a giant Chinese bust and summoning water for guests. Several key people were nowhere to be found and, even after getting the room set in time, the waiting game began for various officials. Sometimes, one must simply roll with the cultural differences that can exist related to time and organization. Hamna shida, as they say here.

The elevator had broken, too, and a couple of us set out to carry a handicapped alumnus who could not climb the three flights of stairs to the event. Sundry duties as assigned. Unfortunately, we did not make it in time and he had already left.

A banner announces the institute at University of Nairobi.

At this point, I have managed enough events to know they generally work out, despite the often-harried preparations that go into them. I liken such announcements to weddings: sometimes specific details do not fall exactly into place, but at the end of the day, meeting the objective of professing your love or meeting with partners and launching an institute is what is really of importance.

An hour later, the Institute was officially announced. The initiative brings together more than 150 researchers, graduate students and postdoctoral fellows at Western who are working with partners across the continent to advance research efforts with, by and for Africans. It seeks to become a world-class institute advancing scholarship and policy development related to African society, politics, economy, culture and health through research.

After hearing from a series of dignitaries and researchers, we broke bread on the lawn at the centre of the university and had an opportunity to speak more informally with guests and enjoy a Kenyan lunch of ugali, chicken, beef, vegetables and assorted other tasty morsels.

By all accounts, the event was a success, and the Institute has been formally announced to the world.

Even after two hours of madness, that’s what really matters.

Coffee and TV.

Facing of one of the buildings at University of Nairobi.

Nairobi, Kenya – As we sat down to breakfast this morning, several Kenyan military vehicles sped past, with one stopping to unload in front of the hotel.

There’s nothing like an AK-47 with your morning coffee.

Osama bin Laden’s death has brought heightened security throughout the city, particularly for potential Al Quaeda targets. It makes sense given that bombings at embassies here and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania in 1998 first brought bin Laden into the American consciousness.

Despite the commotion, today was spent preparing for tomorrow’s launch of The Africa Institute at The University of Western Ontario, being held at the University of Nairobi. In the morning, we visited the campus – conveniently located a zebra crosswalk away, directly across the street – to scout locations and to take photographs. At one point, we were questioned to see if we had permission to do so, and were escorted by an older man with a cane to the security office we had just visited. Confident there were would be no issues, we dropped the Vice-Chancellor’s name during the walk back and awaited his verdict.

Of course, by this point, we had already amassed all the photos we needed, but we were given the okay to continue.

The afternoon was spent preparing marketing materials for the event, and my floor was quickly littered with empty plastic bags from the lapel pins I speared into business cards. I looked like a drug dealer with an abundance of dime bags. As time progressed, my fingers numbed from repetitively opening and closing the clasps, but the pins look good, and will be a nice token of appreciation for our guests.

With all of our team members in town, we held a team dinner at the hotel restaurant, Tatu (no longer just a Russian pop group). As my stomach rumbled, my plate arrived with tandoori spiny lobster and truffled Parmesan French fries.

Need I say more?

Snakes on the Plains.

How many politicians do you spot?

Nairobi, Kenya – As clouds recoiled into the sky, trees of snakes waved hypnotically like Medusa’s uncoiffed mane.

We decided to visit the Snake Park at Nairobi National Museum, which consists of a few glass cases containing a cobra, some rather large pythons and a number of mambas, as well as a treed, open-air setting with dozens of snakes. In turn, they rose and fell like the LED lights of an equalizer.

Some green, some red, others silver, the thin reptiles slithered out of the foliage like living branches. Others attempted to climb the wall that divided us, but could not sustain the strength before they fell back to the grass.

All the while, two tortoises moseyed along, ambivalent.

At the end of the visit, I even had an opportunity to wrap a ball python around my neck like a fine patterned, scaly foulard.

Meat being roasted at The Carnivore.

If I had worn it to dinner, the snake would likely have wound up on the losing end of a traditional Maasai sword, and thrust into a charcoal pit.

I have long looked forward to having a meal at The Carnivore, which has twice been named one of the world’s top-50 restaurants and boasts (and bastes) an assortment of roasted meats. While exotic game is, obviously, no longer available (no need to decide between the dark and light meat of a zebra), we still had waiters making rounds between our tables with swords of meat they would cut off onto our plates: camel, crocodile, ostrich, ox testicle, lamb and even a full turkey.

Appropriately, to signify the end of the meal, you don’t just raise a white flag, you try to summon the energy to lower one at the centre of the table.

There’s a reason The Carnivore is referred to as “Africa’s best eating experience” – it was a tasty show.

Make No Bones About It.

A skeleton at Nairobi National Museum.

Nairobi, Kenya – The full-bodied smell of a brewing storm blends like spices with the city’s other pungent aromas: flowering jacaranda trees, acrid charcoal fires, bus diesel and human sweat.

To avoid an afternoon spent dancing with raindrops, we have opted instead to roam the vast halls of Nairobi National Museum, which has left me astounded at the history set out before me.

All around, children scramble to pose for photos in front of murals depicting pastoral scenes, or beside artifacts that testify to the nation’s history. Tying the past to the future, a vendor has painted their faces with tribal markings, and their excited cries echo through monuments of their – and our – history.

I am not the only one giddy.

Standing here, it is abundantly obvious: there’s Canadian and European history, which remain significant, but pale at their ability to trace the roots of civilization, which began just up the road. The past in front of us may be local, but its impact is much farther reaching in terms of our understandings of human evolution.

In room after room, this history becomes tangible as ancient skulls rest, poised and unstaring in their hollowness. Bone fragments are epoxied together like jagged human jigsaw puzzles – as is history itself. It is completely humbling to consider the insignificance of this passing moment in the context of millions of years.

It resonates particularly strongly with me that many of these artifacts are in fact original, rather than plaster cast reproductions of some of the earliest origins of species.

And then, in one moment, my eyes widened in excitement – my mouth, similarly agape. I was staring at the skeleton of the famous, 3.2-million-year-old ‘Lucy,’ an early hominid I had read about as a child in National Geographic, and subsequently studied in school. Nondescript in a plain case with other artifacts, she seemed to shrug at her placement: "That's just how much history there is here."

I was rendered speechless, so I simply basked in wonder and in my love for this continent.

Brevity III.

No home, but a boat, no longer afloat, on an otherwise empty lot.

poseidon, enraged
The city disappeared
in spinning ghosts of wind;
half, never to re-emerge
from under Poseidon’s trident.

A softer whisper
carries the mournful cry
of brass,
still strong in its sadness.

Yet now, the ghosts seep still
from the crevices
of lonely, misshapen timber
of homes
since forgotten.

Nacho Regular Reflection.

A week of teamwork turned this lumber into something tangible.

New Orleans, LA – “I’ve ministered all over the world – from Africa to Haiti – but in a minute, the third world came to us,” said Pastor Randy Millet of the immediate and continued devastation of his city.

As ever, his eloquence was spellbinding. In a paean to seize the moment and create change, Pastor Randy spoke of how we generate snapshots in time in our lives and that he hoped our experience in New Orleans had become one for us. Heads nodded in unison. With that, he urged us to take the lessons we had learned home with us, to become successful and to remember to continue to give back to – and build – our communities. More nods of promise.

Despite the obvious nature religion plays in the Pastor’s life and words, the lessons he imparted perfectly encapsulated ASB’s objectives of learning from the communities in which we are working, incorporating this knowledge into our own lives and sharing it with others.

Having bid a fond farewell to Pastor Randy, we continued with ‘Nacho Normal Reflection™’ – our final team reflection session, led by Tyler and Katie, over a dinner of nachos for 40. Yes, that did, in fact, include eight pounds of ground beef, an equal amount of grated cheese and a dozen large bags of chips.

The mental commitment to reflection after hard days of physical labour has become one of this team’s hallmarks. Not only willing to share deep, personal emotions, team members have consistently offered extremely profound and thought-provoking observations that have generated emotion-filled conversations. There was no shortage of tears, reciprocal hugs, smiles and ponderous looks. It is obvious we have been tremendously affected by the people and devastation of New Orleans, and by the strength and friendship of our own teammates.

I feel extremely privileged to have experienced the bond and trust that formed so quickly with this team. That alone has been reflection worthy for me.

Now for 20 more hours on a bus, a return home and some tough goodbyes.

For now.

Music to our Ears.

A jubilant team and homeowner on the last day.

New Orleans, LA – The strains of Brooks & Dunn’s “Proud of the House we Built” breathed poignantly across the worksite as we approached the 4 p.m. deadline on our last day. It was both fitting and serendipitous.

Not to mention emotional.

As with all week, we had pushed hard throughout the day, installing tin flashing onto the cinder blocks to prevent termite damage, and both building and installing the subfloor. As we toe-nailed boards into place, heads popped up through the framework like a whack-a-mole game at the carnival. The rhythmic drumming of hammers on wood blended with strikes on flashing that was reminiscent of steel drums in the Caribbean. It was music to our ears.

Adrenaline and energy had begun to flag after a long week of steady days spent lifting, hammering, mixing concrete and digging in the heavy heat of N’awlins, but we still had our eyes on one last target that would help illustrate our progress.

Walls.

So, with the country tune in our ears, we hefted two of the exterior walls we had built earlier in the week onto the freshly built floor and nailed them into place – wearily raising our arms in victory. With that, the homeowner, Joyce, began to cry. Her home at 4768 Flake Street was very much becoming a reality.

At the end of the day, it was but a small step in helping rebuild the city, but to Joyce – and to our team – it remains a very significant feat indeed.

Magic.

Brevity II.

Far too many homes lay empty like this one.

in frame
Piles of photographs of homes
erased from lots,
lonely,
lying fallow beside
shattered shelter
formerly

what brought photographs
to life
and life to photographs.
 

the cross
Leaning houses, tattooed
like genocide survivors,
a constant reminder
with every cross
of the threshold.

The cross lays crooked
on the living room wall,
worn brown and faded
like the vibrancy
that once lived here.

Stilled, but smiling,
Steeled, but rising.

Cementing a Reputation.

The new house is being built beside and abandoned one.

New Orleans, LA – As we raised pillars of cinder blocks – which came to be named ‘Cindy’ by many of our crew – the bubble in the level danced animatedly.

All the while, the incessant, high-pitched beep of the laser level chided us for having too much or too little mortar in our stacks of five blocks. After the first, third, fourth and fifth, we would beckon the measuring team – “Major Laser!” – who would carefully scrutinize our ability to spackle mortar between the heavy blocks.

Add or subtract, mix mortar and repeat. This house must be level.

After several days of heavy lifting and the repetitive motion of hammering, today was an exercise in precision for many. For others, there was still the thankless, but necessary, task of digging out the wooden framework that had been used to form the foundation.

While Habitat for Humanity has not traditionally built foundations themselves in this area – opting instead to hire contractors – they have begun to do so to save costs for homeowners and themselves. This, in turn, allows them to build yet more homes. At the end of the day, that is, of course, the whole point.

Despite having had a short day that ended at 2:30 p.m., we became the first group this chapter of Habitat has had complete all of the house’s pillars – which will hopefully minimize damage in the event of another flood – in one day.

Our reputation with the Habitat team was solid before, but really cemented with our effort today. *Groan*. (Yes, it has been a week of construction-related puns and jokes.)

A Strong Foundation.

Tyler makes the sparks fly, cutting rebar.

New Orleans, LA - Building, day two: More lumber, more lumbering across the lot with materials in hand. More hammering, more door frames, more excellent energy - paired with improved tool skills.

More cowbell.

But then, the day changed as the concrete truck arrived and unfurled like a praying mantis, breathing life into the house's foundation. Made smooth, we had built the base of not only a house, but someone's home and, hopefully, a small piece of a new New Orleans.

Building Progress.

Marta's a cut above (saw that one coming).

New Orleans, LA – Since Hurricane Katrina five years ago, Habitat for Humanity has built more than 400 homes in NOLA. While significant, that number is but a drop in the bucket – so to speak – when you consider more than 80,000 were destroyed by the storm.

It was with this sobering message we excitedly began our service-learning project today, pulling into an empty lot framed by abandoned homes that continue to shrug at the weight Katrina has imposed upon them. High-fives flew from fresh muscles, but only with a stark reminder of what has transpired here.

For nine hours, we created rebar frames to reinforce the foundation, lugged hundreds of pounds of lumber and materials, and hammered at nails that softened in the sweltering heat. We worked side-by-side with Margie, a homeowner at another location, and a pair of family members who were contributing to her sweat equity hours.

The Habitat program requires homeowners to contribute 350 hours of community service as a down payment – an effort that does not need to be directed toward their own home. This “hand-up, not a hand-out” approach also provides an interest-free mortgage on a house that is 80 per cent volunteer-built. While we remarked at how tired we were at the end of the day, we also thought of Margie, who still had an eight-hour shift to complete at her job when she had finished working with us.

Looking back at the sunburned team dwarfed by a tall stack of completed walls, I am convinced we will likely be one of those teams fortunate enough to actually see tangible progress at the end of our tenure here. Then again, this is a special team.

And a special city in which tangible progress is still very much in need.

Parading Around the French Quarter.

One of the many street performers in the French Quarter.

New Orleans, LA - The morning fog that greeted us broke into cloying humidity as we set out to see some of New Orleans this afternoon.

First off, Pastor Randy directed a tour past some of the devastation from Hurricane Katrina. In St. Bernard's Parish, where we are staying, water levels had ranged from two feet to 28.5 feet. And it came in quickly, rising from a foot to nine feet in five minutes. Everywhere I go, I imagine – or rather, try to – 30 feet of water.

Now, empty lots rest as patchworks of dry greens and browns, framed by crippled fences bearing all-too-silent witness to a hurricane that completely destroyed the Parish. Five years later, broken windows still lean as though in a shattered mouth, doorways are shuttered and spray painted digits mark faded houses with a history that lingers still.

These derelict houses sit for sale, but unwanted: following the storm, the proud Parish's population dropped from 70-thousand people to 30.

Like the theatrical masks you so often see in boutique windows, however (grinning and sad alike), there are two sides to the city. Visiting the French Quarter, we were greeted by a vibrance and hospitality that belies the faded homes nearby.

Looking for the legendary Bourbon Street, half the team was suddenly swept into a parade. And, to paraphrase: "parades are awesome." Especially in the Big Easy. Carried away in a giddy sea of joy, we cheered, and were cheered, as the police car escorting the revelers blinked behind us.

Our fitting message from the City of New Orleans: seize the moment, because you never know what the next might entail.

Mardi Gras Meat.

'Team Lunch' and a cart-full of bread.

New Orleans, LA - Crossing from Mississippi into Louisiana, the road that never seemed to end dissolved into a ghost of fog.

On a bus for 22 hours through seven states and a province, we have set up camp at Adullam Christian Fellowship – also known as City of Hope – in New Orleans, preparing to spend the afternoon in the French Quarter. Spirits are high, and not just because we can hear the faint strains of Sunday service wafting through the air.

After a group meal at the International House of Pancakes, we broke into 'Team Breakfast' and 'Team Lunch,' invading the local Wal-Mart to gather supplies for the week. Three heads of lettuce, 24 loaves of bread, six gallons of milk and nearly 10 pounds of sandwich meat: the trappings of a few meals for 40.

Greeted by a thick accent matched only by his smile, the man behind the meat counter talked us up, and started teasing us by saying "eh" and "aboot." And asked of we had driven down through California.

Then he gave us free meat to celebrate Mardi Gras. Long live southern hospitality.

Brevity.

Rebirth, and destruction, side-by-side.

a relationship soured
Faded colours of a vibrant past
lie muted
and too tired to cry,
scribbled with exes
and numbers from a hissing can;
make-up, faded and smeared
framing windows of jagged teeth
punched in:
for sale,
but unwanted.

Eerie tombstones
of a history that didn't vanish
with the wind.

orphaned
Empty lots dressed with crippled fences,
palsied limbs
folded over themselves
as memorials to history;

Grey and green
for 40 miles
bear silent witness
to 29 feet of water
since seeped away,
leaving but memory
and memorials,
orphaned.

A sad horn cries in the distance.

Hammer Time.

The road ahead is long for the Mustangs.

Jackson Centre, OH - Like a cement arrow pointing to the bayou, 20 hours of road unfurl before and behind us. Now a third of the way in: New Orleans, here we come.

Building on months of preparation and anticipation, the excitement of 39 Alternative Spring Breakers has seemingly been bottled into the bus like a soft drink, shaken vigorously. Soon, the building will become more tangible as we begin a Habitat for Humanity project in the Big Easy.

Despite some apprehension at the border as we waited to see if one of our team members would be turned back because of a misplaced passport, we were left with a relatively uneventful crossing. Exhale. A stunned jubilation took over from there, fueling this strangely exciting road trip.

With Ontario and Michigan behind us, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana still loom lazily ahead. It turns out folding 6"3 into these seats comes as easily as sleeping in them. Which is to say, not.

Several hours in, the chatter persists. Cell biology texts lay strewn across upholstered seats, Shark Week has given way to the O.C. on the DVD player and a deck of cards shuffles between seats. Aces.

And the stale smell of french fries lingers still.

kentucky hills
The sun scorches behind
the scratched-out erasings
that carve jagged brushstrokes
folding over the curves
of these hills.

In darkness,
the lines shine brightly,
a second on,

a second off,
like a light switch
switched
hypnotically.

The beauty of not having to drive,
for once.