it rained at the house of lokuju

Things went slowly slowly in Karamoja. Bits and pieces of Nyang'i hide in tired huts at the foot of nameless, overgrown hills (they harvest marble here, too--and even incense). Ketebo (or Mening, or any of plenty of other names) has a whole quarter (a quarter would get you at least 600 shillings these days, although the guy who tried to give me a quarter surely wanted more than that for it). Nobody's ever free, though, and devoting time to that which isn't my main research agenda probably wasn't the most advisable thing. Although it was probably better to work on something else than to work on nothing at all.

Or to try to work on something else, at least. Yoda wouldn't like Karamoja very much. In Karamoja, I assure you, there certainly is 'try'.

Augustine Lokuju: a man who has perfected the art of being precisely what he is--i've never met a man who was Augustine Lokujuer.

We were going to work for a while in his orchard, but he invited us into his hut. It was raining. Karenga huts are much nicer than Kakingol huts.

Children came to the door. Sometimes the children picked on me. Sometimes I picked on the children.











We played soccer in the evenings, clear through sunset. The sun set over the Nyangea Mountains. They were dark and backlit, regal and mysterious. i let them be mysterious. Attempts at demystification would have required too much energy.

i believe that to have begun to explore them would have added to rather than subtracted from their mystique.





Euro 2012 in a shed with a generator. The field is green; the light is green; the photo is green.



You photo me! They carried things back home. The sun set. i did as i was told.







Camaná (idealized)
Desert fog—
a mockery,
a contrivance of the conflict of a cold current
(like the Humboldt)
and tropical heat.
We, who thirst on land (where rain can’t fall),
awake each morning in hope—
thick air—
sweltering promises of water-at-last suspended
(unavoidable),
and each new day i trust their suspended promises
(i dared to hope to drink my fill).
i know that this water will fall
(but not to quench this parched land).
It will only fall when it becomes cold again
(you see, cold air cannot hold so much humidity),
and it will not cool until it has left this tropical heat
(and i will watch it drench the mountains).
Better men than i have
(in succession)
waited 500 years for this fog to become rain.
In a sense, it always has
(but never here).
So i should know that it’s senseless
to trust this fog to treat me any differently
(to rain anything but coldness).