I rarely get lost, but when I do, I am not particularly receptive to requests to pull over for directions.  This is one of my many faults.  I am not sure if this allergy to being told I am lost is genetic or environmental.  Either would work in my case – I grew up at the feet of the master – Mr. “I am not lost, woman.”

I am equally allergic to the “did you remember to pack . . .?” question.  My wonderful wife has adapted well to my maladies and rarely pushes my buttons, having concluded long ago that the “natural consequences” approach to child-rearing also occasionally works well with recalcitrant husbands.  Accordingly, she did not suggest that I consider taking a t-shirt and a pair of underwear in my backpack.

She simply remarked, “I always do this just in case the checked luggage doesn’t arrive.”

“Good for you.”

While I appreciated her subtlety, there is nothing subtle about my inflated perception of my own manhood, which such comments directly undermine.

Consequently, as I write this part of the post, I am approaching fifty hours in the same underwear.  The now-familiar sinking feeling enveloped me as the airport baggage crew gave me the “what-are-you-looking-at-Mzungu?” stare when I went stuck my head in the back room after the empty luggage carousel mocked me.  They simply shook their head and motioned to the emptiness surrounding them after fielding my inquiry.

Soon thereafter, I was informed that my bags spent some extra time in Amsterdam and that they should be arriving in Uganda a mere twelve hours late.  Good thing I didn’t have any meetings set for today, unlike last time this happened.

My ensemble last time my luggage didn't arrive

When I told Joline my bags didn’t arrive, she didn’t say “I told you, so,” but she gave me one of those really good “I told you so” looks that even the fuzzy Skype connection failed to mask.  An ever-so-quick flash of a grin, coupled with an ever-so-faint eye-brow raise said everything it needed to say.  It also gave her plausible deniability.  My kids, however, lack the tact of their mother.  “You’re an idiot” about captures their sentiment, though they were a bit less gentle than that.

Speaking of my manhood being questioned, I had a hard time sleeping last night without my sound machine and three pillows, all of which were comfortably tucked into my checked baggage.  I was, however, smart enough to save an ambien for when I arrived.  I had dozed off and on during my LAX to Amsterdam and Amsterdam to Nairobi flights, so it was good to get some pharma-zzz’s.  But after about five hours, I awoke to the distinctly African morning noises – call to prayers from the local mosque, thunderstorms, and indigenous bird squawking.  It is good to be back here.

Six Hours Later . . .

After spending the morning working at the courthouse waiting for my luggage to arrive, I received a call from the airport.

“Your suitcase is now on the way to Kampala from the airport.”

“Excellent.  Wait, suitcase?  Don’t you mean suitcases – two of them?”

“Sorry, sorry.  We only have one of them.  The other one will be on one of the other flights.”

“Um, OK.  When are the other flights?”

“Tonight.”

When my suitcase (singular) arrived, I once again had to relive the humiliation that inevitably accompanies me whenever I travel to Uganda.  (We only own two large suitcases, and I need both of them to bring my pillows with me).  One would think I would be numb to the embarrassment, but apparently I am immune to this form of Novocaine.  So when the delivery guy opened the back of the van and asked me which bag was mine, I knew what was coming.

“Um, that one.”  I said as I sheepishly pointed to the suitcase straight out of a Hannah Montana prop closet.

Me and my source of humiliation

“Are you serious?”

“Go ahead, get it out.  I am just here for your entertainment,” I deadpanned.

He just shook his head, and chuckled a bit.  I thought I heard him mumble, “Here you go, Eunuch,” as he handed it to me, but I may have been projecting.

I guess the silver lining of having my luggage lost is that only one person gets to laugh and point.  I usually disseminate that pleasure among an entire wing of the airport.  The standard line is: “You sure that one’s yours, buddy?  It looks just like so many of the other ones.”  Good thing I don’t cuss.  (At least as far as you know, mom).

When I got the suitcase up to the office and opened it, I was once again confronted with the fact that I am a hypergamist.

If one Googles “Marrying Up,” the first hit is for the Wikipedia page for Hypergamy.  And if one clicks on that link, my picture pops up as the quintessential case.  For those of you who know both me and Joline, this is little more than a “duh” statement.  But how is it relevant here?

Well, when I unzipped my Disney Channel souvenir, I remembered that Joline had separated my underwear and t-shirts into two piles and had put one pile into each suitcase.  (Yes, she packs my suitcases.  See id. at Hypergamy).  Her ostensible purpose was to balance the cushion load so that the electronic equipment I was “muling” for a Ugandan judge would not get damaged in transit.

But I was too smart for her – I figured out that she was hedging against the possibility that one of my suitcases wouldn’t make it.

And I resented her for it.

Which is why I am a hypergamist.

And today, quite proud of it.

I was sitting in my dining room re-reading the posts I have written in the past and reflecting on them. Reading them made me wonder, “What happened to that girl?” What happened to the girl who was never afraid to be who she was supposed to be and follow her call from God? What happened to the girl whose faith was so strong it felt tangible? Where is she? Is her soul still in Uganda? Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that being away from Uganda makes me feel sad sometimes, and at other times, just plain empty.
My main goal is to make you readers realize something. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s hard to follow the calling of God when I am separated from my home. Okay, so maybe you guys have all heard me talk about how I don’t want to go back and live in Uganda, but that isn’t always true. I wish, I wish, I wish that there was some way I could just escape from Malibu and my school and the snobby rich kids and just go back to a time when I was with people that were satisfied with having so little. I want to live the life God wants me to. I want to be that Christian that other Christians go to for advice.
I want, I want, I want. I am selfish and I always want more. For a while, I thought that I was able to be satisfied with wanting nothing, and never think about wanting more “stuff”. But it’s harder than it seems to live selflessly and do everything God wants me to do all the time. People think that our family is special, but really, we’re just an ordinary family who decided to embark on an extraordinary journey. Today I was thinking about what my life would be like if I had never been to Uganda. So many things would be different, and my life would not be as amazing and I wouldn’t have such a strong relationship with God.
If you can understand this, I want to be in Uganda every second of every day, but at the same time, I just can’t. I am forced to stay in the USA and act like another American pre-teen. But, I have the choice to live an extraordinary life for God and also be stuck home at the same time. I’m pretty sure most of these jumbled thoughts are contradicting each other, but, quite frankly, that doesn’t matter to me. I just want you all to hear my thoughts and feelings so you can be praying for me, and that I figure out how to live a life for God while in California.
Thanks for listening to all these jumbled emotions!
God bless, Jennifer Gash

Friday morning began with a torrential rain storm mere words are ill-equipped to capture when uttered by anyone other than Noah himself.  Imagine yourself standing under a high capacity shower head.  Then turn on two more.  Then turn on a Vornado fan so the water blows sideways.  Then plug the drain.  Then kneel.

At one point, the water through which Daniel navigated was a hair under four-feet deep.  I wish I was exaggerating.  Vans such as the one in which we are traveling, by necessity, divert their exhaust pipes up the side of the car so the exhaust blows above the roof.  Without this modification, the rain storms would cripple these vehicles, and I would wear floaties under my suit jacket.

Flood Resistant Exhaust Diverter

When it rains this hard, the boda drivers lose their customers (and their will to navigate the streets on motorcycles), which further swells the vehicular traffic.  This, coupled with the newly birthed rivers flowing through the streets, naturally leads to gridlock.  So we were late getting out of town on our way to the Ihungu Remand Home in Masindi.

*          *          *

Life in Uganda is lived in the moment.  The vast majority of the population grows its own food, fetches water daily from community pump wells, and worries not about tomorrow – today is simply enough.  I often wonder if this at least partially explains the deep and abiding faith in God of most Ugandans.  Likewise, emotions reside quite near the surface here.  And for me, these emotions spill over whenever my work summons me back to Ihungu – where my first glance down into the well of desperation of children waiting for justice came.

I will forget my name, my birth date, and most other things I have seen and done in life before I forget what I saw when I first walked into the boys’ custody at Ihungu three years ago.

“Is this OK with you?” I felt myself being asked.  “What are you going to do about it,” nipped the next question at the heels of the first.

“Nothing.  Not me.  Someone else.  Where would I even start,” came my feeble, but emphatic, reply.  But the questions persisted like a cold sore.  My tongue kept flicking at it, hoping it would be gone each time I checked.

One of the many images I couldn’t shake was of Katwesige Scovia, sitting in the dirt on the periphery, giggling and casting her eyes down every time one of us looked at her or tried to talk to her.  She was fourteen years old.  My Jessica was also fourteen.  My heart broke for her innocence lost, and my mind mourned her hopeless future.

I was overjoyed to learn, however, that John Niemeyer on behalf of Restore International had arranged for her to be enrolled in a Cornerstone program when she was released.  A few months later, however, my sorrow returned when I learned she had dropped out of the program.  Time first scabbed, then later scarred over, this wound.  Every month or two, a memory of Scovia re-surfaced, but she had mostly receded into the teaming masses of memories from my multiplying months in Uganda.

Until yesterday.

“How many girls do you have here now,” I asked Carol.  (Carol, simply known as “mom” to the inmates, is the matron who stays with and cares for them.  Were it not for Sixty Feet, who pays Carol’s salary and provides other necessities for her, the inmates would be motherless (twice over) and unsupervised).

“There are two – one on remand, and one who is leaving on Sunday,” Carol said.

“Where is she going Sunday,” I asked.

“She was released by the court earlier this week, and we are taking her to Kampala so she can go back to school,” she responded.

“Why is she going to Kampala for school,” I inquired.

“She cannot afford to go to school, but she has a sponsor who has admitted her into a program,” she said with a smile.

“Who is sponsoring her,” I queried.

“Sixty Feet,” she said as she pointed to Kirby across the way.

God bless you, Sixty Feet!

I explained to Carol that we needed to talk to each of the children at Ihungu on remand (waiting to go to court) so we can get them lawyers and move their cases along.  She understood and mobilized the troops.  David and a UCLF lawyer set up one station, while Sarah and I set up another.  Kirby set to work assessing the material needs of the Remand Home.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw through the door to the girls’ custody and noticed something familiar.  The open door was relatively new because the old door is actually mounted on my wall at home.

The New Door

There is more about that here and here.  The familiarity that Deja’d my Vu, however, had nothing to do with the door.  It was the girl inside.  She looked to be about 17 and I felt like I had seen her before.  But where?

“We will start with her,” I said to Carol as I motioned to the open doorway.

“Scovia, you come and talk to him,” Carol instructed.

My breath caught as the nickel dropped.  She came and sat directly across from me, her almost imperceptibly smiling eyes meeting mine.  “You are Katwesige Scovia,” I said to her in a whisper, because a whisper spent all I had in reserve.

“And you are Jim Gas,” she declared with a grin.  Close enough.  While I did take a photograph of her, I hesitate to put both faces and names together of children inmates on the web.

“How have you been?  It has been three years, and I never thought I would see you again,” I said.

Over the next ten minutes, we talked about what she had been doing (not much) and why she was again at Ihungu (theft).  I pulled up computer pictures of her and the others who had been with her three years ago and we laughed together.

“Where is John Niemeyer,” she asked.  “Can he visit me on Sunday?”

“He is in America.  He is one of my students now,” I replied.

“When will he visit me again,” she asked, still not quite comprehending.

As I write this, now 24 hours later, I can’t quite decide whether I am glad I got to see her again, or whether well enough was better left alone.  She is still my daughter’s age, and the difference between their lives could not be more profound.  Scovia will likely be released right about the time Jessica starts her freshman year at Pepperdine.  None of this is yet OK with me, but I am learning that what is bigger than me belongs to God.  I am also learning just how small I really am.

After we concluded the fact-finding interviews of the children on remand, the warden arrived from court.  It was good to catch up with my old friend Mr. William.  Before we left, he reminded me that the last time I was there, I had given him enough money to buy meat for the inmates – a luxury they are seldom afforded.  A steady diet of beans and posho (corn meal) is all they get.

“Will you buy them meat again, Mr. Jim,” he pleaded, more than asked.

How could I say no?  For 50,000 shillings, all 26 could get some protein and a little dietary variety.  I gladly forked over the equivalent of $20.  My paltry “generosity” shames me even as I write this.  I could have given them meat for a week and not even noticed a dent.

Trust, but verify.  For accountability, I made sure Carol the matron knew about the upcoming feast.  Soon, the inmates knew and cheered.  Such a little matters so much here – a lesson I too often forget.

From Masindi, we made our way north to Gulu.  I have made this drive enough that I no longer need to change my underwear multiple times during the trip.  The Volkswagen-sized potholes, the daredevil pedestrians, the suicidal bicyclists, the buses and trucks forcing other vehicles off the road at regular intervals, the brush-clearing wildfires, the urinating-by-the-side-of-the-road-while-looking-at-you locals, the road-meat hawkers, and the begging baboons will never grow old.

Gulu Baboons

We arrived in Gulu just before dark.  David, Kirby, and I stayed at the “upscale” Churchill Courts Hotel, while the others set off in search of a more affordable option on which to spend the customary per diem Sixty Feet had graciously allotted them for the trip.  The less they spent on lodging the more they were able to keep.  This disparity of accommodations produced more than a slight pang of guilt, but clean linens, hot water, and electricity (amenities we enjoyed, and they didn’t) brought our accommodations to within shouting distance of a Motel Six.

We enjoyed a comfortable outdoor dinner in what is usually stifling Gulu heat in the hotel’s courtyard before turning in for the evening.

Saturday will be my first visit to the Gulu Remand Home.

Court holidays in Uganda come early and often throughout the year.  Sometimes they come unexpectedly.  Last Wednesday, the government declared this Wednesday to be a national holiday — NRM day.  NRM stands for the National Resistance Movement, which is the ruling political party of Uganda.  Imagine if President Obama declared next Wednesday to be National Democratic Party Day.

The timing of this holiday was strategic, as talk of a military coup has been dominating the headlines for the last week.  President Museveni, the head of the NRM party, is increasingly embattled this year – his 27^th in power.  As President, he is also head of the military and came to power himself in 1986 as a result of a military coup.  A few of the top generals have made some public comments, implying that another coup has been under discussion, though they have recently tried to walk back these comments, claiming they were hypothetical and only intended to increase pressure on Museveni’s government to crack down on a recent spate of corruption.  By calling a public holiday, Museveni curries favor with the working class (because they don’t have to work), and generates lots of media stories about the progress NRM has made for the country during the past 27 years in power.

The timing of the court holiday, however, put some extra pressure on my meeting schedule while I am here in town this week.

On Tuesday morning, I hired a driver to take me out to Henry’s school so I could pay his school fees for this first term, which started on Monday.  (A quick shout out to my parents, who are graciously footing the bill for Henry’s top-flight education).  I had a chance to spend a little time with one of Henry’s teachers while I was out there, and arranged to hire a few tutors for Henry so he can have the best chance possible of excelling in his last year of secondary education before starting university.

The next stop was a meeting with the registrar of the court of appeals.  I am trying to manage my expectations (because I have been disappointed before), but it now looks like the appeal I will be arguing will take place in mid-March in the capital city of Kampala.  I should know more next week.

Since I released my driver when he dropped me at the court of appeals, I took a boda from there over to the Commercial Court to meet up with David.  This time, I selected a driver without a helmet.  This equalized our survival incentives.  Unsurprisingly, this ride was much less harrowing than Monday’s.

David’s driver Daniel drove us to our scheduled lunch with a US Embassy official.  I had met this official when I lived in Kampala last June and wanted to both re-connect with him and to introduce him to David.  When I last met with this official, I had told him about J-FASTER and about the plans we had for it.  He was quite interested and wanted to be briefed on the successes since we last talked.  We also talked about the potential of partnering on future adult justice projects.  It was an excellent meeting, but nothing firm emerged.

From there, I went to the High Court and met with Chief Justice Odoki – the father of Uganda’s legal system.  He will be sorely missed when he reaches the mandatory retirement age of 70 in the next few months.  We then met with the judge who is handling the J-FASTER session scheduled to open next week.  This judge is the one I worked for most directly during my sabbatical stay in Kampala in 2012.  He was pleased to hear about the successful plea bargaining session on Monday.  We also discussed my idea for taking the next step in the expansion of plea bargaining to the adult realm.  No announcement yet, but it looks quite promising for a June launch.  (Joline, Jessica (my oldest), and I will be returning to Uganda for four weeks this summer).

David and I closed the evening with a great dinner with Justice K and his wife, and Justice Mike Chibita and his wife.  I had only briefly met Justice Chibita during my first trip to Uganda in January of 2010.  At the time, he was not on the bench, but was running Uganda’s version of the IRS and was also serving as President of the Uganda Christian Lawyers’ Fraternity.  He is now the Resident Judge for Fort Portal, which is located in southwestern Uganda, near where the Gorillas chill in the mist.  Justice Chibita has been a great friend and mentor to two of our prior Nootbaar Fellows – John Napier and Brett LoVellette.  It appears that our June project will allow me to work rather closely with Justice Chibita, and perhaps to get to know a few of the Silver Back gorillas in the region as well.

My date with Nyquil ended the evening on a rather pleasant note.

*          *          *

The national holiday on Wednesday slowed down the pace of things considerably, except on the roads.  The nightmarish Ugandan traffic all but disappears on Sundays . . . and on holidays.  Everyone stays home or goes to church.  This allowed me free reign in the city.

Next weekend, Pepperdine Law’s Nootbaar Institute for Law, Religion, and Ethics is hosting an international conference on Inter-Country Adoption.  I had the idea for this conference after getting involved in a handful of these cases while I was here in Uganda in early 2012.  This conference will wrestle with the theological, ethical, political, and legal aspects of what some call “orphan care” and others call “child trafficking.”  Here is a link to this conference.  Speakers from all over the world will spend two full days discussing best practices and potential solutions to the world-wide orphan crisis.  Two such speakers (Mark Riley and Isaac Obiro) will be traveling from Uganda to participate in a case-study panel focusing on what is happening on the ground in Uganda.  The third panelist will be Sara Ribbens who, along with her husband Andy, adopted two Ugandan children in 2012.  I have become quite close with, and fond of, both Mark and Isaac, both of whom occupy different ends of the IA spectrum.  Mark is a Brit who works with the Ugandan government and UNICEF to develop and implement systems to resettle abandoned children with either their families or with other Ugandan foster parents.  For his part, Isaac is a lawyer who handles both domestic and Inter-country adoptions.

We met for an hour or so discussing next week’s panel, on which I will be serving as moderator.  I also had a chance to meet an American woman named Darby Priest.  Darby is a fellow ACU grad and a friend of my dear friends (the Istres).  She has been in Uganda for a few months working with Mark and Keren Riley is assisting them with the in-country resettlement of orphans.

David and I later had lunch with Edith Ssempala, former Ugandan Ambassador to the United States.  During my time here last year, I introduced Ambassador Ssempala to my friends at Sixty Feet, and she has since begun working with them in an advisory role.  It was good to connect her with David.  This woman’s faith permeates everything she says and does, and I always feel refreshed after spending time with her.

In the afternoon, David and I met with a lawyer who is working on a country-wide (and well-funded) project with UNICEF dealing with all aspects of caring for children.  She said she had been hearing about the J-FASTER program from lots of quarters and wanted to explore ways to partner with us.  The meeting was quite successful and will lead to several meetings with various groups who could assist in expanding the reach of our work.

I turned in early because Thursday promised to be a long day of driving and meetings on the eastern coast of Uganda.

One year ago – to the day – I made the same journey from California to Kampala that I just completed this weekend.  So many things have changed during that intervening year.  I have changed in ways I am still trying to fully appreciate.  Our kids have changed in ways we can see, and ways we daily pray about.

Too many things, however, remain the same.  The three-flight, 24-hour energy-draining marathon journey still bites.  Hard.  Try as I might, I can’t seem to get the scheduled sleeping thing sorted out.  Not that I didn’t try.  I went to the doctor to get a prescription of Ambien so I could catch some pharmaceutical “zzzs” on the plane.  She was a new doctor, so I didn’t tell her I had a few pills left over from an earlier trip.  Hey – she didn’t ask.

Dr. Feelgood told me that she could prescribe the 5mg or 10mg pills.  Last time, Dr. DoLittle had given me the 5mg type, which had proven rather ineffectual.  I think I responded a little too eagerly to the 10mg suggestion, so Dr. Feelgood hesitated and told me “the FDA is concerned about over-prescription of Ambien, and that their studies show that 5mg is sufficient to blah, blah, blah, blah.”

“I don’t want the nickels – I need the dimes.  Can I have some please, please, please?”

She paused for a moment, so I pointed to the pictures of twin girls on her wall – “Are those your daughters?  They’re soooo cute.”

She beamed, told me their names, then wrote me the script for the dimes.  Flattery works every time.

Well, fast forward to the first leg of the flight on Saturday.  When the time was ripe for me to pull a Rip Van See Ya for the last four or five hours of the LA to Amsterdam flight, which is when my Ugandan counterparts were sleeping, I pulled out the magic bottle of dreams and shook it into my palm.  Out came several dimes . . . and a nickel I had added to the bottle when I was packing.  I was pretty tired, and since Dr. Feelgood had said that the FDA studies showed no difference, I popped the nickel.  Dumb.  Really, really, really, dumb.

To say the nickel didn’t do Jack Squat to put me to sleep would be charitable to Jack.  Jack didn’t crouch, or even hunch, let alone squat.  His knees stayed locked the entire time.  This, of course, meant that I slept most of the second flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi, Kenya.  On that flight, Jack not only squatted, he folded like he was dealt a 2-7 offsuit up against a pair of Aces.  Consequently, I managed to get myself exactly backward on the sleep cycle.

And things only got better from there.

The layover in Kenya was 90 minutes – plenty of time for the hard-working, quick-thinking luggage jockeys to ride the suitcases from Gate A to Gate B in the relatively small airport.  I was sure things were on the right track when I was upgraded to First Class for the one-hour trip into Uganda.

But TIA – the oft-repeated phrase acknowledging things don’t always go according to plan in a developing world.  After all, “This is Africa.”

Having had my luggage delayed on two of my nine prior flights to Uganda, I was the first in the crowd to sense a problem.  I raced to the baggage desk and got there just ahead of the other 29 passengers whose luggage was also playing hide and seek.  Anarchy would be an understated description of the scene that followed.  Fortunately, I got my paperwork in and got out of the airport before the two South African mothers of screaming infants could completely dismember the hapless (and helpless) paper pusher at Kenyan Airways.  The one bright spot in this episode is that I learned a few new cuss words in Africaans.

David Nary (Pepperdine Nootbaar Fellow in Uganda for a year) and his trusty driver Daniel were waiting for me in the passenger arrival lobby.  The next flight in from Nairobi was not due to arrive until 9:00 a.m. the next morning, so there was no reason to stick around.

“Let me just stop at the Barclays ATM and get some cash,” I said.  Insert card.  Enter password.  Select amount.  400,000 shillings ($150).  Thank You.  Printing receipt.  Take cash.  Take Cash.  TAKE CASH.

No cash.  Just a metaphorical middle finger staring at me through the blinking slot where my cash was supposed to be.  The good thing, however, was that I had a receipt that said I actually received the air cash.  Perfect.

I looked around and noticed a security camera pointed at the ATM.  I figured it couldn’t hurt to make a record of the unfolding events, so I played a little game of charades.  I did my best your-satanic-machine-ate-my-money-and-I-am-about-to-throat-punch-the-keypad skit.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it made some sort of year-end YouTube awards show.  It was that convincing.

*          *          *

The kind folks from Sixty Feet (Kelsey, Kirby, and crew) have graciously allowed me to stay with them (again) while I am in Uganda, so I arrived at their place around 1:00 a.m.  This time, however, I wasn’t messing around with The Sandman.  I popped a dime like it was a Skittle – 10mg of Ambien.  Ten minutes later, I couldn’t see straight.  Eleven minutes later, I couldn’t stand up.  Twelve minutes later, I was drooling.

Four hours later, it was time to get ready for fun-filled day of plea bargaining.  And hey, I was already dressed in the best clothes I had available to me.

*          *          *

Since I will be spending most of the week with David Nary, and since he has own court-provided driver, I decided not to rent a car during this trip.  This left me responsible, however, for getting myself to and from the Kampala suburb where I am staying each day.  Kampala’s automobile traffic makes LA gridlock feel like Utah highway driving during the annual BYU v. Utah football game.  There is simply no way to get anywhere quickly in the city . . . except on a boda boda.  So against my better judgment (oxymoron?), I sauntered up to a motorcycle stand and pointed toward town.

My next mistake was picking a driver wearing a helmet.  My facially Einsteinian logic reasoned that people who wear helmets are safety conscious; people who are safety conscious about themselves will be safety conscious about others; I am an other.  Makes sense, right?

Well, had my head not been wedged firmly in my own tailpipe, I would have would reasoned that people who wear helmets are less likely to get injured in a crash; people less likely to be injured in a crash worry less about being in a crash; people who worry less about being in a crash do less to avoid a crash; I am on the back of boda being driven by someone not worried about being in a crash.

On the bright side, it had started raining.  Still more encouraging was the fact that it hadn’t rained in a while so there was a thin layer of dust and oil on the road.  Better still, the driver’s tires were balder than my kids keep telling me I will be someday soon.  At least I didn’t have to change underwear once we arrived (remarkably safely) at our destination – I didn’t have any underwear to change into because . . . they were still in Kenya with the rest of my belongings.

Speaking of my kids’ tendency to shovel compliments my direction, the one about me getting fat also resurfaced Monday morning.  David was kind enough to loan me a shirt, tie, and suit jacket, when I arrived at court.  I fell just a hair shy (only a sixth of a yard) of being able to squeeze myself into his 32-inch waist suit pants.  The result threatened to land me on the front page of the Onion’s parody of GQ.  Don’t believe me?  Take a look.

Enough Said.

Can we agree that I had a bad day?