the travel blog lives again

July 12, 2011 - Café Nero, Cathedral Street, Borough of Southwark, London

It’s moments like this that there’s no question whether I hope to live in this city one day. After an early morning meeting with a new friend with whom I share an alma mater and a sense of fit here, I have time to sit, to write or read or think, before making my way to London’s western edges to visit friends of friends. I don’t know who wrote “It’s a Small World” or where the person wrote it, but it seems like that title should be the theme song for this city on the Thames. All clues indicate that if I'm ever here longer, an iota of effort will provide me with a very long list of potential friends here who already know people I know.

I’ve climbed the steps to Café Nero’s “additional seating upstairs.” Only one other person, book in hand and earbuds blocking out the pleasant piped-in classical music that’s adding to the moment’s perfection for me, is sharing this spot with me, though two others have just arrived.

Through the wall of windows to my left, I can see one of the brick-paved walkways that winds through the Borough of Southwark here on the southern bank of the Thames. This particular alley is called Pickfords Wharf. Now at 10 a.m. tourist-looking types are beginning to take over from the business-suited wayfarers who dotted the bricks half an hour ago.

Mixed in with my window view of Pickfords Wharf's newer bricks is a somewhat crumbly but beautiful wall, formerly an integral part of some building but now just jutting out from younger architecture, ostensibly suggesting that its stones are still necessary, like an elderly person condescendingly and sympathetically given a task on the sidelines that isn’t really needed and that anyone younger could do better and faster.

The wall dates back ages ago and is fronted by a spot of green space that may be one of the places around here where excavation has unveiled structures left behind by the Romans. I stopped to read the plaque at that spot last week but already can’t remember any details other than that the bricks and stones are old--old by European terms not American ones—and that I really like that wall.

The mishmash of time continues through the windows straight ahead of me. To the far right and almost touchable from Café Nero’s doorway, is the Golden Hinde, a ship or a replica of a ship that’s important for some reason. A pirate ship? A merchant ship? A circus ship? (The red and yellow striped decorations make this seem plausible, though I won’t be wagering any money on that option.)

I’m not sure what its story is as I did not stop to read its plaque when I wandered by last week (and clearly might not remember it if I had). And there’s no googling for details since Café Nero appears to be without free wi-fi. So the Golden Hinde simply increases the intrigue of this cozy, creative moment and serves as a pointer toward the Thames, which is just yards away with its waters flowing around the silhouette of the book-reading person who separates me from the window.

Occasionally, speedboats, police boats, canal boats, and others skim its surface, dashing with or against the current. The buildings fronting the far side of the Thames from me are also a mix of old, old and newer architecture, including the distinctive Gherkin with its elongated egg-shape decorated in glass behind an old unidentifiable-from-here classic columned building.

Red double-decker London buses add well-timed splashes of color as they cross London Bridge (which is not falling down) and disappear into the maze of tan and gray buildings. More-muted color is added to the scene by the green algae climbing a few feet up the river’s retaining wall across the way.

Not adding color is today’s weather. It’s gray this morning and cool, but perhaps the sun will yet make a way through the clouds. Gorgeous days have been leapfrogging gray days since my arrival here last week. Still, even the gray manages a loveliness here. And I’m glad this go-around to be seeing London by daylight. My previous visits were in February and October-December, when daylight manages only about 8 hours of glinting before darkness takes over.

It’s been strange to return here and find that this place is no longer quite foreign to me, but it’s also not quite yet as familiar as home, resulting in the subconscious yet weighty tension that comes when the polarizing categories—such as “home” and “away”--we unintentionally use to help us understand the world don’t work. A little of the inner tension was relieved several days ago with conscious realization of the cause of the inner quibble. All too often strict categories muddy our understanding of the world rather than aid it.

But, what then? Create a new category? Perhaps “foreign home” or “almost home” or “place where I have to relearn the cheapest way to ride the trains”? Or instead become comfortable with the in-between? Let London be what it is for me today even if that’s different from what it is tomorrow or even a minute ago? Let it be free to shift between categories, thus shirking them and freeing me from trying to create a definition? Does that help? Or is naming, defining, categorizing an unavoidable, inescapable part of being human?

As I head out now to catch my next train, I’m anticipating the effects of another category mismatch: summer clothes in Nashville and summer clothes in London equate two different clothing categories rather than one. And I think my packing relied a bit too heavily on the first. My reflective wanderings through Café Nero’s windows haven’t yet bought enough time for the sun to find a hole in the clouds. Add in the breezy wind that’s ruffling tourists’ hair, and the word “blustery” seems nearly apropos. I’m not sure I’m wearing enough layers to be comfortable in blustery.

Yet, despite any uncomfortableness, I’ll still be glad I’m here even if I’m cold when I step out the doors (and I really, really dislike being cold) and even if the tension from non-fitting categories persists. Given the choice between comfortable and uncomfortable, the best choice isn’t always the former. Choosing only comfort can cause us to miss out on a whole lot of good. Again, categories are rarely tidy, accurate inventions: getting to "good" sometimes requires being okay with some "bad."

So there you go. Give me a window, a bit of time, a mocha, and some old bricks mixed with new ones, and my inner philosopher is sure to come begging for an audience.

(Photos to be added later when I have a faster internet connection!)

what's your CQ?

I caught the tail-end of an interview on NPR's On Point yesterday. It sounded interesting. Po Bronson was one of the guests. I've not yet read any of his books, but with sincere reading-intentions I did check one out from the library once and read the intro before the book reached overdue status (that's worth something somewhere, right?). I'm intrigued by and appreciative of what I know about his approach to writing, reporting, and people. Due to all these factors, I hit up http://www.npr.org/ to find out what I'd just missed.

Among the topics du jour was Bronson's recent Newsweek article: The Creativity Crisis. It's a fascinating article that dredged up memories of taking IQ tests as a seven year old to see if I qualified for my county school system's gifted program. It also dredged up memories (from much more recent files) of things I observed about education systems while traveling abroad.

For whatever reason, I asked quite a lot of questions of my hosts, especially in Africa, about what education looks like in their locales. Maybe I did this more intentionally once I learned that African school systems in the former British colonies I visited are mostly based on the British system in terms of nomenclature for grade levels, etc., which means the terms aren't completely interchangeable with those of the American system. The British system never completely made sense in my American head, mostly, I think, because no one ever offered to draw me the diagram my visual self needed (all that A-level and O-level stuff doesn't seem to have an accurate American parallel). Eventually, though, many questions later and even sans map, I managed to get the gist of it.

I also had opportunity along the way to spend brief bits of time in schools. The bulk of my exposure was in Uganda where I assisted an aid organization with distribution of some school supplies, including at some schools that had been bombed by LRA rebels; toured and interviewed students at a private school; taught a class of 50-some students for almost an hour; and saw some study materials when kids on an island in Lake Victoria showed me what they were studying. In Zimbabwe I spent two weeks interviewing students at a university. In Ghana we spent time in villages where our guides described the changes Ghana was making in their public education system and the challenges of helping people understand the importance of it. In Haiti I visited a Save the Children summer program set up to prepare rural children to begin kindergarten in the fall, interviewed some older school-age children, and spent time on the grounds of a private school interviewing its founder/director. In London I participated in a junior high career day (students lost a fair bit of interest in my career path when the learned how little we writers make :-) ).

There's just something about understanding schooling that is one of the foundational pieces for understanding a culture. One of the observation gleaned from my educational question-asking in Africa three years ago and more recently from Africa-educated friends who now live in America is that the education systems in the parts of Africa I visited (particularly in Ghana, Kenya and Uganda) are very much based on memorization and rote learning. Training in problem-solving tends not to be a regular facet of mass education in these countries.

And, unfortunately, that reality bears out in many of the contemporary challenges that plague these particular countries. People complain of infrastructure that isn't maintained, systems that aren't effective, and other problems that can result when situations inevitably arise that require some imagination to solve, situations for which the rote answers that were hammered into them during their formal education aren't adequate. This is the state of things not because of lack of ability in the people but because they aren't taught or encouraged to think freely, to think outside the box, to figure out innovative solutions. Freedom and encouragement are key nurturing elements for creativity. Doing things as they've always been done and following the pack are not.

These observations all jive with what is described in Bronson's Newsweek article. The disconcerting evidence presented in the article indicates that while countries like China are making the switch from rote, memorization-based learning models to creativity-building models, American education is reverting to a less imaginative, more straight-laced model.

I'll throw my hat into the ring of agreement to say that based on my cursory observations abroad of the way lack of training in creativity impacts societies, this shift does not bode well for America. I agree that it's imperative for our own future problem-solving good and for the good of the rest of the world for us to re-incorporate creativity while we still can. Start by reading the article and then thinking of ways to solve this new crisis. Don't be surprised if you also find yourself wondering what your own creativity quotient, your CQ, is and how you can grow it.

being welcoming

You never know when you'll run into a good story. Who would expect that an errand-in-the-middle-of-rush-hour to replace a headlight you just noticed was out (I got tickets the last time my lights burned out before I noticed they were out, so there was no time to spare this time) would turn into a gem of an interaction?

As Lloyd helped me replace the worn-out headlamp, he happened to say something about welcoming people to America. He told me this as we walked out to the parking lot of an auto parts store not far from my house in the more immigrant heavy part of Nashville. There's a lot of Spanish spoken in this store, and probably some other languages too.

Lloyd prefaced his welcome-to-America story with a story of his own lack of welcome somewhere outside the States: As a soldier, years ago it seems, he was out and about somewhere in Europe when a man standing with a girlfriend asked Lloyd if he was "Americano." Lloyd, in his military get-up, said that he was. And the man spit in his face. Lloyd, as he tells it, is a redneck, so he charged the man. But the man's girlfriend held them apart. Some welcome.

Fast-forward to sometime more recently: Lloyd was helping a customer and asked the man where he was from. "Laos," the man replied. And Lloyd said, "Welcome to America!" And the man started to cry. Lloyd was afraid he'd said something wrong. But then the man explained, "I've been in America for 19 years, and you're the first American to welcome me here." Wow.

That gets you in the gut, doesn't it? Our pride in being American should translate into welcoming new people into our midst. Unwillingness to be welcoming sure looks a whole lot like insecurity and a whole lot like not loving our neighbor as ourself. How would you want to be treated if you were the new person in town?

keep following the news from Haiti

Blogs from folks I crossed paths with while in Haiti in '08:

Life of a Blan in Haiti
Lemuel Ministries blog
Hopital Bienfaisance/Promise for Haiti

If you're looking for places to donate, here are some reputable options that, because they're small and well connected locally, can get aid to needy people more quickly than some of the big organizations. These are all organizations I worked with while in Haiti and can vouch for.

Hosean International Ministries - housing earthquake refugees in facilities at the camp they run; also working to increase the capacity of their schools in order to get displaced kids back in school; supporting needs at Hopital Bienfaisance; helping with the airstrip in Pignon that is providing another way to get relief supplies into Haiti (since the Port au Prince airport is so clogged)

Hopital Bienfaisance - well-equipped hospital in Pignon, which is outside Port au Prince and has been treating earthquake victims

Lemuel Ministries - one base in Port au Prince and one far outside; also connected to and helping affected ministries and missions closer to PAP

Michael and Karen Broyles - friends who hosted me in Haiti; Michael stayed for a couple weeks after Karen and Kaydence were evacuated; now Mission Aviation Fellowship pilots are rotating through in Haiti; MAF is well-positioned at the PAP airport, where they already have offices and a hangar; they are supporting a flow of relief personnel and supplies and helping with evacuations

Broyles: specific Haiti relief needs

Mission Aviation Fellowship - providing key logistics, communications equipment, and air support in the Haiti relief effort from their long-standing base of Haiti operations


Christian Reformed World Missions - my friend Jenny works for this org but happened to be in the U.S. when the earthquake hit; they've been in Haiti for a while and have a solid network there

One last blog to mention:
Emily Troutman - I don't know this person but her reporting from Haiti is very good. She was there shortly before the 'quake, had left, and is back again.

poetry

I'm reading my way through E.M. Forster's A Passage to India (and need to speed up my reading since my third renewal is almost up, which means I'll have to give the book back to the library soon). For those who've not read it, the novel is set in India during the time of British rule and chronicles the relationships between various Indian and British characters.

I was recently struck by the following passage:
"[Aziz] held up his hand, palm outward, his eyes began to glow, his heart to fill with tenderness. Issuing still farther from his quilt, he recited a poem by Ghalib. It had no connection with anything that had gone before, but it came from his heart and spoke to theirs...The squalid bedroom grew quiet; the silly intrigues, the gossip, the shallow discontent were stilled, while words accepted as immortal filled the indifferent air...Of the company, only Hamidullah had any comprehension of poetry. The minds of the others were inferior and rough. Yet they listened with pleasure, because literature had not been divorced from their civilization."

I happened to mention this passage this morning during the wide-ranging discussion of a faith & arts book group I'm part of. We've been reading Lewis Hyde's The Gift and somehow this morning we came to discuss the way the easy access of entertainment has affected people's patience with and access to real art. I confessed that I sometimes wish I could gather friends at my house on a Friday night to read poetry aloud together, because poetry should be communal and audible, but the few times I've sacrificed my coolness ;-) enough to suggest such a thing, there have been no serious takers. :-) Which made me think of this passage. I don't know whether this respect for poetry was ever really true in India or whether it is now, but whether in India or elsewhere there must be places where I might not have such a hard time convincing people to partake of a poetry night. Perhaps I'll get to find those places one day.

oh, haiti, we weep with you again

As images of Haiti's newest devastation trickle in, the photograph that has thus far resonated most for me in terms of representing this newest chapter in Haiti's hard story is this picture of the collapsed top levels of Haiti's National Palace. (Photo also available here.)

One day at the end of the month I spent in Haiti in July 2008, my Haitian-American friend Jack took me on a field trip to downtown Port-au-Prince, an area that had been the site of riots over food shortages a few months earlier. Even among some of the missionaries this was an area that didn't have the best of reputations. Jack knew the lay of this part of the city's land, though, so we hopped aboard a tap-tap that would take us from Petionville to next-door Port-au-Prince.

And when we arrived in downtown Port-au-Prince what did my wondering eyes behold? Nothing that was remotely scary. Sure, the riots had really happened: there were lingering broken windows as evidence. But there are not riots every day here. The day I was taking in the sights people lounged in the park like they do on nice days in parks down the block from the office I used to work at in Washington, DC; people went about their business; people sold souvenirs; people went to and fro; people were not menacing.

After nearly four weeks in Haiti, I had been impressed by all the things that don't make it into the bits of news we usually get from the country. I had met Haitians who were working hard for their communities and families. On two occasions new Haitian acquaintances who learned that I was in Haiti as a journalist asked me to tell stories of the good things in Haiti, too, rather than only telling the same stereotypical stories that are always told.

By the time I sat on the tap-tap, frustration was formulating over the reality that the only thing most of America and probably most of the so-called developed world routinely hears about Haiti is that it's the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. This is how the country is identified in nearly every news article that covers anything that happens in the country, which usually means some sort of natural disaster or an account of more political instability. These things are true, but Haiti is much more than these things alone.

And so, on that late July day when I stood in front of the National Palace that I had not previously heard of or seen images of (apparently not as famous as its White House cousin in America) I was surprised by its beauty. I loved its architecture and its gleaming white facade, even its nicely contrasting green iron fence. Regardless of whatever political realities it represented, for me it represented the unexpected beauty I had found in Haiti. It symbolically said that Haiti is not only poor, make-shift shacks stacked upon each other. There is hope for Haiti yet, it said, because there's beauty, pride, ability and hard-working humanity here.

So when I see photos of a demolished National Palace and think of the long rebuilding ahead for that one symbolic building, I weep for Haiti. Once again for me it symbolizes big things: why must Haiti's hard-won beauties be stripped away? How I hope that her people will survive this new blow and build a stronger country in place of the one that collapsed around them today. How I pray for God's mercy on these poor, beautiful people, people created in His image just like the rest of us.

*All photos are from my late July '08 visit.

receiving well and a Christmas message

Some friends of mine recently moved to Rwanda and, thankfully, are recording their Rwandan journey online. Check out their most recent post, To Know Him is to Know Peace, describing a beautiful expression of thankfulness expressed by some Rwandan women who understand intimately that nothing but Jesus can give them peace.

things I haven't had to worry about yet

When this kind family offered tea to my fellow trekkers and I last May while we were visiting some of the small villages tucked among India's Himalayan Mountains, I never thought of not accepting their offer.

Last week while collecting interviews for a fun-to-cover article about cultural engagement for BestSemester magazine, I heard from Kara, a Peace Corps volunteer in Mongolia, who described a sticky cultural situation I've yet to encounter:

"It's very difficult to know when to conform to another culture and when not to. This battle occurs every day for me! It's not just about major topics and issues, but about the everyday things. For example, here in Mongolia, if you are offered food or beverage it is considered very rude not to accept it and then consume it. But when it's something you know is going to make you sick, must you eat it? What if it's vodka, which is very popular here? I don't really want to encourage excessive drinking, and I definitely don't want it to appear like I condone alcoholism, which is rampant, but if I refuse to take a shot of vodka, I may be offending my hosts. What do I do?"

Tonight I ran across a related tidbit on the blog of a traveler/photographer I don't know (greetings, Mitchell, in case you ever discover this link to your nice site) who is recounting some Romanian adventures:

"I was reminded a little of India, when the locals almost forced their hospitality upon us, only in India the hospitality takes on the form of tea and food, while in Maramures you have to drink their toxic home-made “Tsuika”, a 50 + degree alcoholic beverage, strong enough to burn a whole in your stomach. After drinking five or six shots of it in the first day I decided that in reply to future offers it would be better for me to drink a tiny bit of it, make a face and say that it is too strong for people from my country, which is not far from the truth."

I'm thinking Mitchell's suggestion of a way out of this particular cultural engagement predicament sounds pretty good, so I've decided it's something worth adding to my bag of traveler's tricks in case I'm offered something stronger than tea the next time I'm on the trail somewhere in the world.

So far I haven't encountered any real food fiascoes in my travels. Thankfully. Of course, there were those small fish I ate in the village of Kisaba on Bukasa Island in Africa's Lake Victoria (I blogged about that here), but fish are not bugs. Or vodka. In that same town, though, I had the only experience I can recall of deciding not to eat something, even if not eating it could be considered impolite. It had more to do with exhaustion and dim candles, though, than with what was on my plate:

Sometime around 11 pm or midnight the night we stayed in Kisaba, we were finally led to our hosts' home/shop for supper. We wound through the dark fishing village on the edge of the lake and eventually passed through a covered storage room/kitchen area and entered a dark room of their home. I think it was the same room they used as a little shop during the day. It was lit only by a small light that, as I recall, was some sort of small oil lamp kind of thing. Whatever it was it emitted the amount of light of a small candle. Hence, when they brought our food, it was nearly impossible to see what was on our plates.

I was really tired at that point in the day and not so hungry anymore. And it was the chicken, of all things, that forced me to the brink of impoliteness. I decided I couldn't eat it because I just couldn't see it well enough to pick around the bones and such, and it was probably a pretty skinny chicken, so one had to do a lot of picking. So, I ate some of the other things on the plate and hoped it would be too dark for my hosts to tell what I hadn't eaten. I never noticed any dirty looks and everyone was still nice to me, so I guess no offense was taken.

And that is pretty much my most exciting food story thus far. (You were on the edge of your seat, weren't you?) Well, other than the secretly stealthy, invisible spices in the food at our Indian hotel, the food they kindly tried so hard to Americanize for our group. But that's another story for another day, maybe. And now that I think about it, there was that other dimly-lit meal that I ate in Maissade, Haiti, but other than the dimly-lit part and not being able to participate in the dinner table conversation because my Creole language skills are non-existent, that meal was really tasty.

So, anyway, the real moral of this blog story is that sneaky, hot spices and chicken-in-the-dark are a far cry from tsuika. And I'm glad some other travelers have gone before me and called back warnings about the more tipsy variety of hospitality I might someday encounter.
*Top photo: India, photo courtesy of Leigh Greer.
*Bottom photo: view out the door of a church in Kisaba, Uganda.

roots

For a few days I'm back where I began. It's a good place to be. Especially while still-cheery autumn sun glints down on Upper East Tennessee's hills and hollers. Today for barely more than a moment I did something I've done all too rarely here, during either my growing-up days among the narrow, windy roads or on my regular return visits to see my family.

In places other than this one, I explore (old-school style, sans GPS). I take the long way home. I take roads I've never driven on before, roads whose destinations I don't know, roads that start out heading in directions I want to go without offering any guarantees they'll continue that way. I walk along sidewalks that may or may not deposit me somewhere I recognize. I meander by foot or by wheel. And I make delightful discoveries. Exploring offers you things you wouldn't receive otherwise.

Post-nice-conversation this afternoon with a fellow traveler who doesn't hail from these parts but has made a home-base here I was reminded how little I've explored the nooks and crannies of this place I still refer to as home, in the way of "home-home" that references roots rather than where my books are shelved. I haven't done things here that I have done in lots of other places I've lived in and visited. Mostly, I haven't meandered with eyes willing to see the wonder of this place. Instead, I went to high school and sewed 4-H aprons and babysat and went on youth group retreats here. Good things all but not really the same as exploring. Living, yes. Exploring, no.

In Cape Coast, Ghana, two years ago now, I stole away for some solitary moments spent overlooking the picturesque coastline, watching colorful fishing boats bobbing on the sea as two men carried fishing paraphernalia down a path and then along the beach. I wondered then if they recognized the beauty they walked in the midst of every day or if they only pondered whether the day's catch was enough for their family's supper.

When I tell people where I'm from, those with any knowledge of this place comment on its Appalachian mountain beauty. I agree. Yes, it is beautiful here. But deep down I feel a bit insincere as I nod my head. Because I'm not sure I ever stopped long enough to take in the beauty while I lived in its midst. I don't think I paused on many mountain paths in the middle of my daily tasks and looked around myself, absorbing just a bit of the prettiness I'd been plopped into courtesy of birth. I certainly didn't explore beyond the usual routes from place to place.

When I've returned to Nashville after various travels abroad, I've come back with eyes eager to see my home (in the home-du-jour, single "home" version of the concept) through a traveler's eyes. What would my new friends think of this place? What would they notice? What would seem odd and incongruous? What would seem intriguing? What would seem beautiful? What would seem similar to their homes? What would be strange and different? What would surprise them and crack their stereotypes?

Today, for perhaps the first time, I momentarily turned those questions toward my home-home in the northeastern tip of Tennessee. I explored just a little. I exited the interstate one exit early and headed toward a nearby road that appeared likely to take me to the farm-fenced, sun-brightened hills that were beckoning. I wound along the narrow asphalt for just a little while, crossing a railroad track, passing old Boone Station, and meandering deeper into the hills. That bit of time was long enough to decide there must be more of it. There is wonder here too.

It's sometimes easy to sell home-home short. To miss its charms for its daily grind. To miss its cow-dotted pastures and friendly-looking houses--scattered in delightfully un-cookie-cutter fashion along shoulderless roads--for grocery store runs and "i"s to dot or for family to visit.

But that's the beauty of travel. Done right, it brings you back home, back to where you began, just better equipped to recognize the wonder of the world you walk in every day as you catch your daily fish and finish your geometry lessons and visit your new niece. Here's hoping for more time spent exploring my beautiful home-home.

rockin' it country style in sudan

I've been moving photos from one computer to another tonight and came upon this bit of video. It made me chuckle, for the pleasant memory it holds, so I decided it's time to share it with you. There are so many stories yet untold from my Africa travels, and I'm still hoping to give those stories life here over time. This is a start.

I met Kennedy during a quick overnight trip to southern Sudan from my base-for-the-month in Uganda. I've been curious about and captivated by Sudan for a long time, so I was really glad things came together for me to get at least this brief bit of time there. Kennedy is the Ugandan aid worker who hosted us in this very remote town. As we flew in, it was clear this was one of the more remote places I'd yet been during my Africa sojourn. The terrain was parched and filled only by scrubby growth. No other spots of concentrated life were visible from the air, outside of the town we were visiting.

Kennedy was great and had such a fun sense of humor. We spent a good bit of time being driven by him between aid sites in the SUV that's so necessary for driving in such places. There'd been some rain recently, leaving behind some very muddy, deep water spots on the dirt road. Kennedy had to do some fancy driving to get us through them. After he'd successfully gotten unstuck in some spot or other, I called up to him from my perch in the back of the vehicle: "You're having fun, aren't you?" He grinned in response.

So in all this driving around, I barely noticed the music lilting from the vehicle's speakers. Someone else commented on it first. I didn't notice it because it just seemed so normal to hear Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and more singing to me. I'd just assumed it was the radio playing all this time. I didn't stop to realize that it was unlikely that there was a country music station broadcasting in remote southern Sudan.

Turns out that Kennedy is a huge country music fan. He was pumping his tapes of country music through the speakers. Kennedy offered me an unexpected bit of home in the middle of this hardscrabble locale. It was fun to tell him about my Nashville home and the country music stars who used to come through my Starbucks line. I was supposed to come back to Nashville and tell them all about the big fan they have in Sudan. :-)

a little more NOLA

One more New Orleans post is live! There's even a recipe included this time. It's clearly a must-see post. Hop on over while the hopping's good. ;-)

voting for pork chops

More from my July travels to New Orleans here!

Haiti story

One of the pieces I wrote based on my experience in Haiti last summer is now live: Seeing into the Future. Enjoy! And then pray for the folks in Haiti.

trying to get it right

Tonight I chatted with a writer friend who just returned from a couple weeks in Southeast Asia. We talked about many things, of course, and among the richness was conversation about how to tell stories of people we meet in such places, that are so different from our homeplaces, without descending into unfair cliche and stereotype. How do you tell stories of far-away people and places to people back home who've never visited them? How will they understand?

Relatedly, we talked about photographs, as she considers which photos to share from her trip. She realized that in Southeast Asia she wanted lots of photos of people, but when she and her husband stopped off in Paris for a couple days, she specifically didn't want people in her photos. Was she exploiting the people in Southeast Asia?

Oh, how I understand what she's wrestling with. So many people who visit points in Africa or Haiti or other developing countries return home armed with photos of themselves posing with cute kids. I'm sorry to say that I have a harder and harder time with these photos, as well-meant as they are and as much as they populate my own photo album. And it's because of that exploitation question. That sense of white Westerner showing off the good things they're doing for the poor little kids of Africa is something I find increasingly troubling. And it's sometimes all too embodied in these photos.

The fact is that kids are easy to come by in many developing countries. To explain: particularly in warm weather cultures, much life happens outdoors. That's where children play. So they easily notice the strangers walking through their village or down their street. Warm weather cultures, where many developing countries lie, are also often very communal, so communities watch over children and children watch over each other and everyone is friendly to strangers. It's just not so easy to take pictures of children in places like France because culturally the children aren't so likely to be running around without adults hovering over them. It's just all so different. On a related side note, I think that people in India and many parts of Africa, for example, are some of the most beautiful people in the world. So photos of many of them make for stunning portraits. And that's partly why so many people are able to take compelling photos of them. But...

After working alongside a photographer while in Uganda, I've started paying a lot more attention to the kinds of photos that make their way into the literature of development and mission organizations and into newspapers and other media. My photographer friend is a very good photographer, but the reality is that I see his photos repeated again and again by other good photographers. The faces are different but the photos tell the same story. But it's not necessarily a true story.

You see, there's no way photographs can tell a whole story. In the same way movies are almost never as good as the books they're adapted from, photographs need words to give them context. Photos on their own aren't fully contextual. They can be artistic and amazing, but as sole tellers of true stories, they can be, well, misleading. Everything going on outside a picture's frame is lost, unable to be considered by the photo's viewers. All the viewer can see is the way things looked for a split second of time within the space parameters of the photo. Photographs rarely provide back story. They rarely explain what prompted the smile or frown captured by a snapping shutter. All of this missing information can tell a story that isn't true at all.

As I seek opportunities for further work abroad, I'm coming to a frustrating suspicion: I need to be a photographer in order to be certain to be sent to points outside the U.S. Photographers must necessarily shoot on location. There's no way around it. Writers, on the other hand, well, if you're looking to save on travel costs, it's much easier to ask the writers to stay home and gather quotes via email. At a loss, I think, to true story-telling. There's nothing that can substitute for being on the ground in a place, gathering the back story and the outside-the-frame action that the camera can't possibly capture.

Sure, writing has limits too. There's never space to tell everything. And some photographers do an amazing job telling stories through their lenses. But though a picture may be worth a 1000 words, as the saying goes, there are 1000 other words the picture misses. And I think it's those words, composed thoughtfully, that protect a photo subject's humanity and ward off exploitation of the poor people the world loves to photograph.