mountains in my blood

Somewhere between Lyon and Albertville, France

17 février 2013

Naked vineyards climb snow-covered slopes. Slopes that are angular and rocky. Not soft and rounded like the mountains I come from. Occasionally, a small, ancient castle—perhaps intact, perhaps in crumbling disrepair after centuries of standing tall—slides into view, as though it’s no big deal to be a castle, still claiming a vantage point that assures no marauders can approach unseen. Roofs of all sizes are pitched steeply, ostensibly to keep the heavy snow from collapsing them, but even pitched roofs can eventually succumb to the heavy, wet whiteness, it seems. Along with and sometimes on top of castles, broken roofs, too, have slid past, each scene in view for only seconds—oh, look! now there’s a tall, narrow waterfall outside my window, gushing melted snow—as the train zips on its merry way.

Albertville, France

Even if my weekend in Albertville (site of the 1992 winter Olympics!) had been terrible—which it wasn’t—the weekend jaunt would still have been worth it for the train ride alone. On my Friday exit from Aix to Albertville, views were mostly muted and monochrome, but beautifully so, hinting at the weather that had brought the previous night’s pillowy snowfall. As I return south today, the sky is clear and bright, making the landscape’s every color seem more fully itself: the white, white snow; the deep brown/black of disrobed trees; a blue, blue sky; the warm stone-brown of still-lived-in old houses; multitudes of shutters flaunting bright greens or light blues, cherry browns or apple reds.

And as I observe families of homes huddled together in the shadow of the rocky heights and wonder how the shadows and the beauty mark the lives inside those homes, my train takes me back to other places where I’ve wondered similar things.

Kalongo, Uganda

Suddenly, I’m back in Uganda, wondering about the people of Kalongo who live in the austere but beautiful shadow of that strange, rock-mountain that towers over their round, thatched roofs. And then I’m in Cape Town, South Africa, where Table Mountain marks life for inquisitive four-year-olds such as my cousin’s daughter and for residents eager to return home to the security of their mountain’s austere but familiar footprint.

Cape Town, South Africa

Next, the snowy Alps and the cultivated slopes transport me to the mountain villages I visited while trekking in India’s stretch of the Himalayas. Especially that particularly heart-claiming village where the people were so very friendly and their terraced farmland, so high up, was the picture of order and hard work and healthy harvest. And from there I am back in the Appalachians that birthed me, back in scenes I was reminded of in India.

Uttarakhand, India

Just as certain qualities of urban centers are a culture all their own no matter what nationality marks them, so it is with communities tucked into mountain crevices. I felt at home in Northern India partly because it reminded me of home in Northeastern Tennessee, where a drive along curvy mountain roads showcases sheds of patchwork tin and sometimes-dilapidated barns with partially-intact roofs, clinging to life a little longer in solidarity with their older cousins in the Alps. 

Upper East Tennessee, USA

Africa Upper Room story online

Another of my "official" stories is available online as of yesterday. Click here to read all about how "Africa Upper Room director guides growing ministry."

Last night was my first group report on my travels. My generous hosts for these first couple weeks back in Nashville are part of a group that meets monthly to follow Wycliffe missionaries and missions in general. They invited me to be the "guest missionary" last night. I enjoyed meeting the small group of folks who were there and getting to tell the story of God's work in this season of my life as well as describe some of the impressions I gained through my travels. They were a generous audience!

Today I'm wrapping up the last really pressing article assignment from Africa. There are more assignments to finish, but after today the biggest, hardest, most immediate ones will be done. Hooray! Also today I need to finish a story on the relationship between the church and the arts for a local arts magazine. So, it's a very full day that seems a bit impossible but that's when optimism comes in handy. After today, I'll hopefully be able to breathe (and sleep) again. Here's hoping!

more cousins!!

It's hard to see in the small version of this photo but the red roofed buildings in the center of the photo are the buildings of Edwaleni, the Free Methodist mission station my grandpa Carl Rice grew up on. My great-grandparents Silas and Mabel Rice ran a technical training school there, teaching things like auto mechanics, carpentry, and tanning.

Edwaleni was set in the middle of beautiful, rural, green rolling hills.


Five Rice's standing at the gate entrance to the main Edwaleni grounds: Lauren and dad Jimmy (my dad's first cousin) and James (back row); Carole (James' wife, another cousin-in-law :-) ) and me. James and Lauren are my second cousins. James' dad, LeRoy, was Jimmy's older brother. The general consensus seems to be that I look the most like James and maybe a bit like Wendy (see below). Something about the Rice eyes that have gotten passed on to our generation. My dad and bro have them. James' dad had them. And some other people before that had them.


This stone is on the pillar just outside the right border of the photo above. Rev. J.S. Rice is James Silas, my great-grandfather.


Looking out from inside the old carpentry school building.

James, me and Lauren standing at Rice's Halt, as this spot is officially labeled in government books. None of the locals call it that, which is why we created a neighborhood spectacle when we climbed atop the spot named for our family.

Rice's halt is not far from the outer entrance to the mission station property. It's apparently a bus stop.

Jimmy (my first cousin, once removed), wife Mavourneen (I think I spelled it right! :-) ), Lauren and me at their house in Blythedale Beach, north of Durban.

Vourn, me and Jimmy

Today I enjoyed having coffee with another second cousin! Wendy is Jill's twin sister. Jill thinks Wendy and I might have similar eyes, and both Wendy and I think we have long necks. ;-)

Then we picked up Wendy's daughter Sarah. She turns 9 years old tomorrow! Happy Birthday, Sarah!

James, Carole and I wrapped up the evening with a movie night complete with tasty popcorn!

Just to clarify for you guys (since I don't know how to put a family tree on here), all of these cousins are children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of my grandpa Carl Rice's oldest brother Lowell. Lowell stayed in South Africa as a missionary doctor with the Free Methodist Church. His wife Marjorie was a nurse from Canada who came to Africa on her own. She and Lowell met when she came to South Africa from Rwanda or Burundi or one of the Central African countries. Other than short trips to the U.S., Lowell and Marjorie's kids grew up in South Africa.

list of things

As I look forward to beginning the trip home tomorrow, I decided a list was in order. I also decided that you might appreciate some reading material to peruse while I'm making my way back across the ocean. And then I decided that I should be able to read a lot of books during 19 hours of flying, so I'd better pack my carry-on full of them. Additionally, I decided that carrying the books with me might help my luggage pass the weight limit. After that I decided that, while I could keeping deciding for a very long time, I should probably get on with the promised list.

Things I'm looking forward to:

• doing less math (what do I have to divide by to figure out what this really costs?)
• cereal - the sugary kind!
• driving myself places
• using a flat iron/hair straightener now and then
• buying my own groceries (i.e. cereal!)
• being on my own schedule
• long phone conversations
• winter
• wearing different clothes
• taking naps whenever I want to
• my teddy bear (hmm, am I serious or not about this one?)

Things that might take time to readjust to:

• getting into the correct side of the car
• hearing only American accents
• "normal life" (whatever that is ;-) )
• knowing when and where I'll have internet access
• not prefacing all plans with the words "probably" or "I'll try to" or "I'll make every effort to...depending on whether I have internet access, electricity, and a way to get there."
• always having a washcloth

Things that make me nervous:

• not knowing what's next
• the chance of forgetting important moments from the past four months
• all the work I still have to finish :-)

Things that make me excited:

• not knowing what's next
• worshiping at my church in Nashville again (www.gccnashville.org)
• returning home during Advent
• giving Africa presents to my family

Things I'll miss:

• having to go with the flow
• the tea culture
• the accents and language games
• geckos (they're really cute!)
• traveling
• my suitcases (I'm kidding!)
• my South Africa cousins and other new friends

Things I won't miss:

• having to go with the flow
• not knowing what you're going to get when you ask to use the bathroom
• only being able to get Coke instead of Pepsi
• doxycycline
• trying to decide when to "when in Africa, do as the Africans" and when to just keep being what I am
• sleeping on a different bed every two nights

cape town cousins

I haven't had much internet access in the past week or two, and I've got it today, so this is mad-dash-update day. Hold on! It's going to be fun!

At long last! Cousin pictures! Courtesy of the post below, I can now officially introduce you to my SECOND COUSIN Jillian (Jill) Stoltz! Note the cool art in the background...Jill's an artist even when she's not comfortable introducing herself that way! We had a very fun time visiting. Jill is just a couple years older than I am.

Jill and husband Joseph, who I guess is not officially my cousin at all (geneology.com didn't say anything about cousins-in-law), but he still gave me a hard time like any good male cousin/brother/uncle should. :-) They treated me to a little sunset cruise the night before I left. This was my first time being in a boat on an ocean. I liked it!

Cute little Hannah Stoltz, my second cousin once removed, chose me to read her bedtime stories a couple nights during my visit. Fun times! (Unfortunately, I don't have any photos of Gabriel, my smiley laid-back 6 month old cousin. I'll have to add a photo of him later!)

Jill and I visited the Aquarium in Cape Town one afternoon. This picture is from the aquarium's cafe deck.

This photo has nothing to do with cousins, except that maybe they will like the photo like I do. It was taken during my short walk on the beautiful, empty beach in Stompneusbaai (Stump Nose Bay) on the coast a couple hours north of Cape Town.

to help you and me both

As I have entered the land of cousins, I figured it was high time I did some quick research to find out exactly what name to give my relation to these folks. Geneology.com was there for me. Here's what they had to say:

Cousin (a.k.a "first cousin"): Your first cousins are the people in your family who have two of the same grandparents as you. In other words, they are the children of your aunts and uncles.

Second Cousin : Your second cousins are the people in your family who have the same great-grandparents as you, but not the same grandparents.

Third, Fourth, and Fifth Cousins : Your third cousins have the same great-great-grandparents, fourth cousins have the same great-great-great-grandparents, and so on.

Removed : When the word "removed" is used to describe a relationship, it indicates that the two people are from different generations. You and your first cousins are in the same generation (two generations younger than your grandparents), so the word "removed" is not used to describe your relationship.

The words "once removed" mean that there is a difference of one generation. For example, your mother's first cousin is your first cousin, once removed. This is because your mother's first cousin is one generation younger than your grandparents and you are two generations younger than your grandparents. This one-generation difference equals "once removed."

Twice removed means that there is a two-generation difference. You are two generations younger than a first cousin of your grandmother, so you and your grandmother's first cousin are first cousins, twice removed.

wanted: imaginative post titles

I'm back in Cape Town after a couple days north of here in Stompneusbaai (Stump Nose Bay) on the western coast. Today I'm finishing up a writing assignment before going to meet the first of my South African cousins. I'll be staying with Jill and her family for the next few days. She's the same generation as me in the family, and I really don't know much about her, so there will be plenty to talk about.

I'm adding some photos to go with the post below. I wasn't at my computer when I added that post, so I couldn't upload the photos.

the girl in purple on Bukasa Island

Alida, Petronecia, Jonathan, Jonathan, Willie where they live behind a Cape Town liquor store

here, have my milk crate

Yesterday I spent the day traipsing around Cape Town with my Cape Town host, Gavin. I’m staying with him and his wife Avril. They’re great, by the way! :-)

I interviewed a neat variety of neat people, all of whom I enjoyed talking with. Perhaps my favorite interviews, though, were with some folks who live on the streets in Cape Town. A man Gavin knows named Brian spends a lot of time building relationships with this group of street folks. I talked with them as part of a story about the Upper Room’s Prayers for Encouragement books. The books are distributed widely, and Brian gives the books to folks in the group I talked with yesterday.

I may have mentioned on here before what an honor it was to be invited inside the small one-room tin home of Joyce in Kenya, and I’m still trying to figure out what language to use to even more adequately explain what I mean when I write such a statement. I’m not trying to do the politically correct thing or the polite thing or the “oh, no, the honor is definitely all mine” thing by saying that it’s an honor to talk with folks like Joyce or Willy and Jonathan from the Cape Town street family.

There is something humbling for me in approaching someone whose life is so very different from mine and, well, whose category in society is lower than the one I’d usually be categorized in. To approach them and feel like they have every reason for not accepting me, for not talking to me. But, instead they let me into their space and their home and offer me their milk crate so that I don’t have to sit on the ground while I talk with them. And somehow whether that person knows it or not their willingness to talk with me is a gift of acceptance, a gift I gladly receive, a gift that humbles and fills me in ways I can’t even understand.

Perhaps it has to do with being trusted by someone who has any number of reasons for not trusting outsiders, with being given the chance by that person connect with them. That gift is somehow more meaningful when it is given by people who’ve struggled and been categorized as untouchable types. It’s meaningful in a similar way anytime a friend lets me into their pain, trusts me with their story. But, when a stranger does the same thing, there’s a different sense of accompanying responsibility.

I felt the same way in Nashville last year when I got to visit the home of a woman living in the housing projects. We met so I could to talk with her about her participation in a community garden. I was so thankful that she would invite me into her home, offer me a seat on her couch and answer my questions.

A different situation in Uganda produced the same feeling in me. As we returned to the airplane from our second day in the Lake Victoria islands, a group of school children met up with us along the path from the boat to the plane. Most of them ran on ahead of us, but one particular girl ended up walking much of the way with Layton and me. This girl probably would have been ridiculed mercilessly by school kids in the US for her appearance. She wasn’t ugly but had features that apt-to-be-cruel appearance-conscious kids would have made fun of.

While the pilot got the plane ready, I entertained myself and the kids by taking some photos. Then I began saying goodbye to our hosts from the island. During my travels I’ve shaken lots of hands but exchanged far fewer hugs. I’d already shaken hands all around with the school kids, who were from a village on the other end of the island from the one we visited. They weren’t kids we’d met prior to this moment. The goodbyes to the island church team, though, turned into hugs. And, while the other school kids played and ran around the plane, the girl in purple, as she’s been named in my head, stood on the edge of our group watching these goodbyes. Then all of a sudden she turned to me and hugged me too. And that hug was the biggest, humbling, wonderful gift. Whatever her motivations, this unattractive little girl jumped into my world and gave me this wonderful little hug that spoke of trust and of some sort of relationship that had sprung up without any word-based conversation.

If such responses from me to such actions from others were only about being received by someone different from me, then I would expect to feel the same way when life or work takes me into the homes of the very wealthy. But, in general, I don’t feel the same sense of honor or humble gratitude. I can’t say why or whether that’s right or wrong or something inside me or something inside them because I don’t know. Perhaps it just is. But, whatever the reason, the time with folks like the ones I spoke with yesterday feels like a gift to be treasured.

can't figure it out

Today I’ve had a nice tour of Cape Town. I haven’t really walked any streets yet, but I’ve seen many parts of the city through a car window and been introduced to a number of people from outside the car window. It’s an interesting city, with sections of town that appear quite different from each other. The scenery is mostly all stunning of course.

Also today I stepped into the eastern edge of the Atlantic Ocean. Though I saw the Atlantic when I was in Cape Coast, Ghana, I never made it down to the beach there to actually feel it. The ocean water here was cold but not unbearable even for my cold-avoiding self, though cold enough that I wasn’t tempted to run back for my swimming costume (that’s what they’re called here) so I could jump in. Sometime in the next couple weeks, whether here or later in Durban, I’ll get to check out the supposedly much warmer waters of the Indian Ocean, that ocean we Americans barely remember exists.

As I mentioned, it’s beautiful here. It’s a different kind of beauty from the other places I’ve visited on the continent, which have mostly all been stunning but in a plethora of different ways. I think I feel different coming here after three months in other parts of Africa than I would if I’d just arrived here on holiday (it’s beginning to seem odd to use the word “vacation”…holiday is quite a pleasant word). I think it’s also different being here to work rather than to holiday (um, I’m not sure you’re supposed to use that word that way, but, hey, I’m in Africa; I should experiment, or something). This place is a beach town. Parts of it even have a Mediterranean appearance (I say that with a superb level of authority, of course, based on all the years I’ve spent idling away along the Mediterranean). It seems like a place for vacationing, in spite of the obvious work being done by the employees in the maritime industry I’m realizing know nothing about.

All that said, I can now say that there’s something in my response to this place that I can’t identify. After all my talk about not categorizing people and places because it can be so detrimental or limiting, I find myself trying to figure out what category to fit this place into, at least to fit it into long enough to help me figure out what nags me. It’s still Africa, but it does feel vastly different from most of the other places I’ve lived during the past three months.

When I consider whether I will ever live on this continent and if so where (which, by the way, I’m not feeling called to do in a long-term way in the immediate future…but maybe someday…and maybe a sooner someday than I currently expect…anything’s possible at the moment), it seems that Kampala and even the rural parts of Uganda, for example, felt more comfortable to me than Cape Town does. And I think it’s because somehow the category-driven part of my head says that if I were going to move somewhere like Africa, I would want to live in a place that was obviously different from what I’m used to because then I would anticipate the uncomfortable things I’d run into but also maybe because part of the attraction of living outside America would be living outside America. Here, it seems like it would be easy to live a life that almost allows to you avoid really living in Africa. And then I’m not even sure what I mean by that. This is the first place I’ve landed and wanted to say to it, “Don’t become too much like the West! Don’t lose your unique beauty!” I might have thought that in Joburg, too, but I didn’t end up seeing a whole lot of Joburg, and maybe it helps that my early days there included a visit to the informal settlements in Soweto. But, then I wonder why I think all these things. Is it because this Cape Town Africa doesn’t fit so neatly into the categories that persist in my head--even after these months of category breaking--of what Africa is supposed to look and sound and feel like?

This continent is vast and varied, complex and contradictory. It should not be expected to be homogeneous. It’s so easy to try to fit all of this place under one umbrella description: things that are true about Africa. And, certainly, there are some general characteristics that hold true throughout, but one must leave room for all the things that aren’t the same from place to place. And perhaps that’s what’s nagging me as I stand between Cape
Town’s sea and its big mountain enjoying the view.

Also of note is a sense gleaned from conversations during these two and half weeks of South Africa that racial issues are complex here these days. You can feel that things are still being worked out here. In other places I’ve been, while there are certainly white Africans in them, the majority of the white people I saw were still expats. Here the majority are South African, many of whom have families that have been here longer than my family has been in America. I would never call myself anything other than American, and I’m not regularly asked how long my family has been in America. Yet, here I find myself asking my white hosts such questions in an effort to figure out what’s going on here.

I am almost more aware of my skin color here than I’ve been during other parts of this trip when I’ve been the only white person for what appears to be miles, like when I was in downtown Nairobi visiting some alumni from Africa University. Here I wonder what assumptions are connected to me even though I’ve not been a direct part of the history of this place. Even in Zimbabwe, I didn’t encounter this sense of racial difficulty. The everyday Zimbabweans I encountered seemed much more concerned about economic crises than anything race related.

When a driver was picking me up from the b&b I stayed in my last two nights in Joburg, the host’s elderly aunt accidentally left the house door open when she came out to collect the key. The family’s large, black and potentially-mean dog came running out toward Patrick, the driver, and me. However, the dog bypassed me and instantly ran up to the driver. The aunt apologized profusely and told us all to stand still until the dog calmed down. There was never any clear danger, but, then, I wasn’t the one with a big dog bounding toward me. Later on the way to the airport, Patrick, a very nice, pleasant man, commented, “Did you notice that the dog came to me? It’s been trained to see color!” I asked how that made him feel. I’m not sure he answered my question, but he did note that there’s a hard history between black people and dogs here. He doesn’t especially like dogs because they’ve been used for some bad things.

And so it goes. It seems almost nothing is simple here. But, maybe that’s true everywhere.

cape town, how do you do?

Hi, friends! Just wanted to let you know I've arrived safely in Cape Town, where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet, where cold water joins warm water. Famous Table Mountain was completely hidden behind clouds when I arrived yesterday, but today it's been in full view. I'm quite backlogged in things to tell you. Time and head space for writing haven't kept pace with things to experience. :-) Stay tuned for more. You may have to keep reading this blog for a year after I return just to catch up on all of the worthwhile stories. :-o!

it's been a while

Hi, friends! Sorry for the long delay in new posts! I've arrived safe and sound in South Africa. I'll be in the Johannesburg area for another week before heading to Cape Town for a week and a half and then rounding out the trip visiting relatives in Durban.

You haven't heard from me partly because I've just been tired of writing. Yes, that even happens to writers. This first week here in Joburg has turned out to be unexpectedly refreshing, though. The first half of the week I overlapped here with some friends from Nashville who were my original connections to working for the Upper Room. We've never spent so much informal time together, so it was a treat to visit with them here.

The second half of the week I had planned to do some interviews, but the people I needed to talk with weren't available until this coming week. I ended up with about four days with nothing scheduled. The down time has been great. I've slept a lot and had time for praying and reflecting and trying to catch up with my email inbox (putting all those things in one sentence shows I'm not buying into any sacred-secular life divide, right? :-) ), and I feel ready to work again. I did have a bout of loneliness yesterday, but God unexpectedly managed to provide a good conversation with an instant new friend and prove that He's watching out for me.

As my itinerary marched toward South Africa, folks have commented fairly regularly along the lines of, "Oh, it's a lot like America." And, I have to say that it was nice to arrive at the airport and find that that comment seemed true. And then to leave the airport on roads that felt like roads at home. And then to eat at a nice restaurant that seemed much like something from home, except for the "monkey gland burger" on the menu. Go google it to find out what it is if you're curious enough. My second day in town I made a quick shopping trip. Somewhere along the way I commented that it seemed like the racial mix might be similar to that at home. Are there really so many more white people here than in the rest of Africa?

My friend explained that South Africa is actually 80% black and 20% white. It really is still Africa here. Places have been built so that you don't always see those percentages. Oh. On Day 3 I went along on a tour of some of the informal settlements where folks with the ministry Come Back (who I'll be interviewing this week) work. It was interesting to find so many similarities to things I've seen on other parts of this trip. It doesn't feel strange to be here because it feels familiar now. And it's different from America. This is really still Africa.

And then I started wondering how often at home we don't see the poor places where the people who live with less live. How often are those places hidden away from view, suggesting a reality to casual travellers through our cities that isn't real. I've been struck before by how pretty and glossy things can seem in Nashville. It's the good life there. Then I would meet the homeless man who frequented our Starbucks parking lot. Hmmm.

I don't really have many conclusions to share yet. Just these observations. I'm still in Africa.

And though I'm ready to be home, I'm still glad to be here. I've been here long enough that it's almost beginning to feel like I live here. Things are starting to feel normal.

Family Ties

I talked with my Grandpa and Grandma Rice tonight and got the run-down on exactly which of my relatives are in South Africa and how they're all related to me. The downside of not having a family that lives together all in the same holler (that's Stoney Creek--the community I grew up in--talk for hollow/neighborhood in the mountains) is that you have relatives you're closely related to but have never met and whose names you don't even know.

It was fun to talk with my grandparents about my trip. I appreciate their support and shared excitement. It's been very cool the way my Africa plans have made it more of a priority for me to learn my grandpa's history. You see, my grandpa grew up in South Africa. His parents were missionaries there. He turned a year old on the ship taking his family to South Africa, and, minus a few years here and there for furloughs (during the Depression when they had to stay in the States longer than planned because they couldn't raise enough money to return), he lived in South Africa until he was 19 years old. That's when he returned to the States for college, which is where he met my grandma, but that's another story.

Tonight Grandpa said that he wishes he could climb into my suitcase and go along. It will be fun to come back and compare stories with him. It's nice that South Africa is the last stop on my itinerary, so the experiences there will be freshest when I get back State-side to catch up with folks.

Grandpa's advice to me tonight as we talked about places like Edwaleni and Izingolweni and Port Shepstone was that, as I write, I try to understand the people. He says so many of the books Americans write about Africa don't really come from an understanding of the culture. His advice is very much in line with the purpose around the writing part of this trip that I'm slowly able to articulate better and better. When I began planning this trek to Africa, it was just sort of a murky sense that was difficult to put words to.

My concern as I sign up to do some writing for various organizations working in Africa has been that I do not want to go to Africa and write stories about all the things the Americans are doing to save the Africans. I don't think those stories would be true, and I've wanted to make sure I'm not partnering with organizations that want to tell those stories and want me to help tell them. Instead, I'm very interested in telling the stories of what folks in Africa are doing. Sometimes the purpose of telling those stories will be so that we Americans and others can come alongside them with the resources we've got to support the work they're doing. There will be many different versions of what "coming alongside" will look like, but all of them are a more whole, more body-of-Christ way of understanding our relationships with each other. Just like the way I need folks to come alongside me and help me get to Africa.

I'm also hopeful that God will use me to tell the stories of folks whose stories need to be told but who have no outlets for telling their stories, in essence to give voice to the voiceless. It is humbling to think of the possibility of being another's voice, of representing that person well and truthfully. And, then, as I type that, I realize that God himself already has given me and all Christians the task and opportunity of representing Him well and truthfully. So the idea of representing others, of being their voice is nothing new.

South Africa meetings and plane tickets

It's always quite exciting when another piece of this trip falls into place!

I had a good meeting last Tuesday with some of the folks I'll be working with in South Africa. Roland, the South African head of Africa Upper Room Ministries, has been in the States for a few weeks, so I met with him, Renny (hr/finance person for Africa Upper Room) and Dale (the State-side AUR coordinator). We continued a conversation Dale and I began a few weeks ago, filling in a few more of the details of which stories they'd like for me to cover.

Currently, it looks like I may spend about a week in four different South Africa locations on both the east and west South African coasts. I'll also likely end up working with a media guy there on some video projects telling the story of some of the folks AUR gets to work with. I'll be the script writer. There's some possibility that all of my travel in South Africa will not be by plane, allowing me actually to see the country instead of just flying over the top of it from one spot to another.

In addition to filling in more details, the meeting was also a nice chance to meet folks I'll be connecting with on the other side of the Atlantic...instead of having to wait until I climb off the plane into a crowded airport. :-)

I still don't have plane tickets. They're in the works, but my itinerary is quite intensive (probably the travel agent version of those terrible math word problems: if Train A leaves Nairobi at 10 am traveling 80 km/hour, what time will it cross under the airplane carrying Kami and hopefully her luggage, too, to Kampala at a speed of whatever speed airplanes go?), so it's apparently taking some time to work out. And my sister Erin and I are trying to go to Ghana at the same time as everyone else in the world who's heading there for Ghana's big celebrations. So, prayers for all that ticketing to come together for as low a price as possible are appreciated. That might include praying for the poor travel agent on the other end of the itinerary. May he be rewarded with a big bowl of ice cream or his favorite candy bar or something once he gets it all worked out. :-)