Today, just more than a month back, the road lessons learned are continuing to propel me forward into a new season: I am a runner. And it is possible for a non-athlete to become one if fueled by something bigger than one’s self. Believe. I am a storyteller. And it is a series of of stories in which all of our lives are composed and through them we are exposed. We are so similiar we are. And someone needs to tell the stories. I am a lover of justice. And its possible to discover love later in life. I am loved. And the belief that you are truly loved makes you walk a little differently. You might be less afraid to walk down dark alleys and to jump off of cliffs without parachutes. Love gives you that kind of courage I think.

Project 34.8 – and the journey that followed – changed me. Largely because of the amazing friends, family and strangers that fueled it. And I hope it changed a few of you too. I hope you experienced – in little and small ways – what it means to live recklessly and to dream big things. I hope you recognized some faint glimmer of a bigger story taking place.

This is not an ending, but rather a beginning. I’m hitting the ”pause” button on the Project 34.8 blog for now - only to catch my breath and dream about the next chapter. And I’m looking for co-conspirators, so drop me a line if you’re interested in dreaming with me .

In the meantime, I’m thankful for the discipline of writing that began while traveling. And I need to tell stories to feel like me.  So feel free to read about the next adventure, which begins here: http://karinrosain.wordpress.com/.

And please check in here periodically. I think this thing…I think this thing has legs…

Thank you, thank you, a million times, thank you.

The road trip from PE back to Cape Town via the Garden Route was beautiful. Reminiscent of countless road trips up the Northern California coast on Highway 1 – one side of the road lined entirely by the bluest of seas – the other by mountains so close you could almost brush them with your fingers if you were reaching just far enough out the car window.

Wanting to savor the feeling of bare feet on the accelerator and the freedom that comes with traveling solo and without a schedule, I took two days to drive it, stopping for a night at a hostel in Buffalo Bay - a tiny coastal town and surfing mecca on the Indian Ocean, just outside Knysna.

I arrived at sunset – just enough time to throw down my backpack, change into running clothes, and head out to catch the last few moments of light via a barefoot beach run that I think will go down in history as one of my Top 3 favorites. It felt like playing – dipping in and out of the ocean and back up on to the sand dunes lining the beach – setting sun reflecting on wet sand, turning the earth deep rich purples and bold bright oranges.  Totally surreal.

13 May Buffalo Bay Sunset

The night at the hostel was epic in its own right – a braai on the beach, an open bar funded solely by the honesty of its 7 patrons,  the best conversation with an interesting cast of characters from all over the world.

We watched the stars hang like grapes the way they do and talked about traveling and jobs and the next adventure. And in the morning we watched the sun rise and bundled up in coats and scarves and took coffee for a walk down the beach. I dragged out the departure entirely too long taking the longest of breakfasts outside, squinting into the sun and peeling off layers of clothing as it got warmer.

14 May Buffalo Bay Sunrise

It was 48 hours of bliss followed by another few days saying goodbye to Cape Town and Stewarts - for this season at least.

I took the last run of my trip in Cape Town with an 8 year old Liza the morning I flew out. She was at my bedroom door the second my feet hit the floor at 7am. And she biked alongside me as I ran – down the bike path winding along Liesbeck Parkway and at the base of Table Mountain.

While I’m a bit disappointed to be missing the opportunity to see the country by train, I’m more than happy to settle on seeing it via the driver’s seat of the car, and to return once again to my life without shoes; more than happy for the opportunity to eat fresh oysters and sleep on the beach, and the freedom to decide where and when I stop to take a hike. Road trip.

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I have moved about this place in fear, feeling so infinitely small and helpless in the circumstances I’ve found myself in; feeling infinitely terrified by the hazards inherent (malaria, typhoid, threats of physical violence, etc.) to this beautiful and terrible landscape I’ve been enveloped in.

And I have also moved about this place like its my own personal playground. Free and light and unafraid to launch myself out alone into the great wide of it. Its a playground full of fascinating people and conversation; motor bikes and cheap beer; and where borrowing the keys to the Land Rover for a joy ride is “no problem.” Where mangoes are literally falling off the trees into my hand and I’m bathing underneath a full sky of stars.

I’m yet to understand how its possible that I can – in multiple times during the course of one day (hour or minute) here – move back and forth between the fear and the playground.  But I am savoring it all – both the heavier things and the lighter things – and ready to take the next chapter on the road.

And on the following day, on that particular morning, he took his own life.

And it was also on this particular morning, that baby Poni arrived at the orphanage by way of an entourage that included two great uncles – both visibly intoxicated have just left a funeral celebration – an auntie, and the young girl who had birthed her into the world.  The baby was clearly malnourished – no more than a little skin hanging on tiny bones. The girl was not more than 15 years old, and was clearly suffering from some kind of mental handicap – which we would later find out was the result of frequent seizures.

This girl – Poni’s mother – stared in wonderment as the trio accompanying her – speaking in somber Arabic – unpacked the story of how the baby had come in to the world.  Her breasts hung openly from her torn and soiled dress; her swollen belly revealing that baby Poni had not been born more than a few months ago. As they spoke, the girl was being coaxed to breastfeed by the auntie, but she was unable to focus her attention for more than a moment, and no milk was coming.

Baby Poni had been the product of a rape by an older man in the community who already had a wife and several children. The uncles were related to Poni’s mother by marriage, not blood, and through a complicated series of events, unwantingly found themselves caring for the two. Without the desire or means to care for a mentally handicapped girl and a small baby, they had essentially neglected the two to the point of starvation. When the auntie – who lived a good distance away – came to hear of the situation, she traveled the many kilometers by foot to intervene and begged the men to forfeit baby Poni to orphanage where she could at least be cared for properly.

And so this morning soon became afternoon – one in which we would eventually track down the girl’s rapist outside his home and have him brought to the local prison. Here he would give his statement  wherein he admitted to the crime, only to be set free to return to his home that evening – the police unable to do anything to assist because the rape had happened so long ago, and by this point, through the apparent “ceremony” of rape, the girl was now considered his wife.  And because of the way in which things work here, this man – the rapist – was given transport back to his home by way of our own vehicle, which carried in it also his victim – Poni’s mother – baby Poni, the two uncles, the auntie, the manager of the orphanage, our driver, and me.

And on this particular morning, which became afternoon, and eventually late evening, I was invited to enter in to the story simply by way of holding baby Poni. So there I sat, with this near lifeless body in my arms – under the shade of trees at the orphanage, straining to grasp the story that was unfolding through loose translations of Arabic; in the front seat of our Land Rover on the bumpy, windy road to the prison; in the prison courtyard amongst murderers and theives shackled to one another and casually taking their lunch of posho and beans knocking down mangoes from the trees; on the somber ride back to the orphanage – the rapist in tow and now sobering up from his own morning of drinking – and a stop on the way home to bring back our empty soda bottles (This act – the stopping first to take back the soda bottles before ensuring the rapist’s safe arrival back to his home – is the clearest picture I can paint of the juxtaposition of life and death in Africa).

And on that particular evening, I looked down at her face and in to the hollow eyes of baby Poni – brought into the world by seeming force in the most ugly and heart-breaking of ways – and I wondered what in the world I was supposed to pray.

As I looked at the glassy-eyed uncles from the rearview mirror,  I wanted to pray that God would spare her from the life that had started for her in such a terrible way and just end her story here, in my arms. I actually spent a good amount of time watching the rising and falling of her chest – half expecting to see her last breath. But I couldn’t bring myself to form the words in my head as despite her sickly body,  I could feel her heart beating strong against the fold of my arm.

Angry tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to punch something – all three of the men in the back of the car that allowed this to happen; God Himself for allowing this injustice to happen and for this half-life that emerged from it. But my arms were full of her. The reality and beauty of this little living thing that I all at once began to love.

(Baby Poni, above)

And somewhere in the silence on that car ride home, some assemblage of these words were spoken in me: “She is my Beloved, just as you are my Beloved. I sent her into this world. She will be a gift.”

And it was on this same evening that we arrived back at the orphanage with baby Poni – who will now call the orphanage home and is already stronger than the day she arrived – to find the results of blood tests which we had taken earlier that week, determining that three more babies living with us had HIV; two with cases so far progressed (CD4 cell counts so low) that its not likely they’ll be able to fight it.

And so finally, it was on that same evening that I sat on the concrete floor of my tukul and wept.

The day before we left for Kampala, our list was comprised of paying school fees at the bank, purchasing school supplies12 kids (which include books, pens, toilet paper, soap and – in all seriousness – a hoe for digging), shopping for a new plot of land for Amazing Grace orphanage (current complications with the landlord are forcing them to move), slaughtering the chicken we purchased in Kajo Keji, and going out to the field to dig holes for the eventual planting of groundnuts. I suggested a “divide and conquer” approach – largely to evade the last two items on  the list.

So, on that ordinary Thursday morning, Golda, Piting, Morris and I went into town and proudly laid down the money that was raised for Project 34.8, paying the school fees for 11 secondary school students, for the remaining two terms of the year.

I was later told that before the Project 34.8 money arrived, Mama Susan had been prepared to tell the children they would not be able to return to school because there was no money to send them. Without sponsorship to cover their school fees, they live by faith alone, hoping and praying that money will come in, and when it doesn’t, resigning themselves to stay home and dig in the fields or try and find ways to make small money in the town.

The funds we were able to raise with Project 34.8 came just in time – and needless to say, the kids were THRILLED. It was so awesome to be able to tell them that so many people in the U.S. had contributed in order to make it happen. And – in typical African fashion – they all send their thanks and greetings to you.

Wanted to also let you all know that the money stretched a little further than we thought. In addition to school fees for 11 kids, the money also purchased:

• Tuition for Augustine’s computer training. He’s the secondary student who had to pause his schooling due to losing sight in one eye. He’s now taking computer courses while he waits to re-enter school next Feb.
• Tuition for two additional secondary school kids – Nasande and Jackson – both in Kajo Keji, Sudan (St. Bartholomew’s orphanage)
• School supplies and uniforms for all the students (including those in primary at Amazing Grace)
• A water tank for the Kampala orphanage – the first step in a massive project to get safe water on the compound. (Currently, the bore hole to draw water is about a mile away – and in addition to being relatively unclean, fetching it currently takes a lot of time away from the childrens’ studies)

Thank you for helping. The difference it made in the lives of these kids is huge. More to follow…

But on Saturday, for no particular reason at all, Piting Annet, Guo Betty, and Poni Evaline asked to join me on my afternoon run. Just as I was leaving the compound Piting called after me, “Poni, we’re coming with you!” – and the three emerged from their Tukul in t-shirts, shorts and sport shoes, and with the widest smiles I’ve seen on them yet.  Having never run more than a few laps around a football field, those girls ran alongside me for 5K. I have never been more proud in my life as I was running through Adjumani town with those three.

And this morning, on a new route which led me to the other side of town where the chickens looked fatter and the bore holes seemed more crowded, a woman (whom would later tell me her name was Joyce) dressed in a three piece business suit and carrying a briefcase, joined me in the running for a good 5 minutes – wobbling in her heels on the uneven road but beaming with pride at the two of us – just running together.  She left me eventually, with a giggle, well wishes, and a now familiar, “Thank you for running!”

And yesterday, when the internet crashed and there was not much left to do but grab a beer, I stole away to the local bar – which was completely empty but for the four bartenders sitting at the bar chatting about footie – and made a fast friend in Masu – a University student with aspirations to be a professional soccer player – a confident young woman who – within 5 minutes of meeting – pointed at my chest and noted that we both make good athletes because of the small size of our breasts. She said she had seen me running through town and that it made her happy to see a girl just out running – that it encouraged her.

It is for the women – it would seem – that the running speaks to.  It speaks confidence and freedom and pride.  It seems to speak strength.  And it has allowed me to speak solidarity, when I have been unable to speak it any other way.

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Tomorrow we’re planning to head back to Adjumani, where I’ll spend another few days at Amazing Grace orphanage. The current plan is to do some filming, get in a few more runs with my girls, spend some time looking at land on which the orphanage can be moved, work with Lupai on updating the Amazing Grace blog, and not contract malaria (so far, that has been on my “to do” list every day). And next Friday I plan to head back to Kampala where I hope to play the role of tourist and get out to see Lake Victoria, have a beer (or three), and take advantage of (I hope) running water and a real toilet. Hoping to have pics from Sudan uploaded over the next few days.

In the meantime, wanted to say “Thank you” – my amazing family and friends – for the texts, emails, Facebook messages and prayers this week. Though I can’t respond to them all, the encouragement has sustained me. 

I am awake and alive and thankful for this one gorgeous and hair-raising life I’m living.

I crossed the border into Sudan last Sunday afternoon on the back of a bota bota (motorcycle taxi) – can’t possibly convey how awesome it felt to ride free and open and wildly across the bumpy red dirt road, through mud puddles and villages and whizzing pasts tukuls and babies and the general reconstruction of Southern Sudan.

I arrived to find that St. Bartholomew’s Orphanage has nearly doubled in size since I visited in 2005 and is now home to more than 100 Sudanese orphans – the bulk of which are under the age of 3.  While there are some general cultural similarities to life at Amazing Grace, life here is a stark contrast – partly due to a life centered on little ones, and partly due to the general lack of resources/infrastructure of the fledgling region.

Because people are just now returning to Mamaland, so the area is sparsely populated. And the rate at which people are returning is slowing down too due to an impending election in 2011 – wherein Southern Sudan will vote to secede from the North and become its own nation – which may likely result in a resurgence of the war.

I feel like I am in the middle of nowhere.

It seems that somehow – in the traveling north – that I hit a turning point in my trip. In the last week my days have been guided largely by crisis.

In the last week I have found the joy and comfort of unexpected new friends – Allie and Kelly – Americans and recent college grads closing out their last week of a 9 month stay at St. Bart’s; Allie serving as the orphanage “doctor”, Kelly as the manager of a project to install running water on the compound. I have also found incredible and surprising joy in being surrounded by babies. I am thankful I have arms strong enough to hold up to three babies at one time – and enough love to keep me energized and continuing to nearly suffocate them with affection and kisses daily.

Thankfully I’ve personally remained healthy and safe, but I’ve received a crash course in childrens’ medicine and administering treatment for illnesses when no other doctor is available. I have been witness to one too many stories behind how the children who live here came to be called orphans. I have peed in the latrine of a Sudanese prison (not surprisingly, it was unpleasant).

Each day in Sudan has been a mix of terror, sadness, joy and hope. There are moments I’m doubled over in laughter – others I’m fighting back tears. Life is just fragile here – and despite this being now my fourth trip to Africa – somewhere between Moyo and Kajo Keiji, the veil lifted on my previous idyllic/more sheltered experiences to reveal an Africa that is crying out in pain.

I am unsure how to summarize the last few days – and reticent to share the details of the painful stories for fear they will blot out the hope I am also experiencing daily.  I am just constantly amazed by just how intensely joy and pain can be felt together in the same day.

God remains mysteriously present amidst the beauty and yuck of it all  – my constant comfort and source of strength – and my daily prayer (stolen with gratitude from Fredrick Beuchner’s “Hungering Dark”) is becoming:

Father and Lord,

Most near and most far, listen to our silence before thee as well as to our prayers, because often it is the silence that speaks better of our need.  Speak thy joy into our silence that speaks better of our need.  Speak thy joy into our silence. Breathe thy life into our less than life, not for our own sakes only but for the sake of those to whom, with thy life in us we may ourselves bring life.

Much as we wish, not one of us can bring back yesterday or shape tomorrow. Only today is ours, and it will not be ours for long, and once it is gone it will never in all time be ours for long, and once it is gone it will never in all time be ours again.  Thou only knowest what it holds in store for us, yet even we know something of what it will hold. The chance to speak the truth, to show mercy, to ease another’s burden. The chance to resist evil, to remember all the good times and the good people of our past, to be brave, to be strong, to be glad. We know that today as every day our lives will be touched by thee and that one way or another thou wilt speak to us before we sleep, for the very moments themselves of our lives are thy words to us. Give us ears to hear thee speak.  Give us hearts to quicken as thou drawest near.

Amen.

Juan Annet Carrying Jerrycans to the Bore Hole to Collect Water

Konga Robina cooking dinner in Mama Margaret's kitchen