Talofa lava,

Another day, another dolor my friends. The Gods of Circumnavigation have manifested me in yet another climate and culture, this time by the sea! Without a wink of sleep and not having changed my clothes for about 72 hours, my arrival at the Taleofo Airport felt emotionally reminiscent of the opening scene of Lost. Fortunately there was no plane wreckage, but the beautiful island views and lack of WiFi surely knocked some John Locke into my step.

First impression of Samoa

My first few nights were spent in Apia, which is the capital city and surely most “urban” area of the island with various office spaces, highrise hotels, and paved roads. With the Baha’i House of Worship being located about 8 km up the only road that crosses the middle of the island, I mirrored my physical distance with some temporal distance and thus took a three-day hiatus to explore the island. The island itself can be crossed corner to corner in about 2.5 hours, yet cross-island taxis can charge up to 150 tala (about 60 USD), so I became a scholar of the bus system.

Apia Bus Stop… most colorful bus stop in the World?

Every day, public buses run all around the island with the central ventricle of the system located about 10 minutes from my hotel in Apia. I randomly boarded a bus to bring me south, where apparently picturesque beaches line the coast. By 8:30 am, the bus was packed with travelers, everyone a local Samoan except myself (for the first time I was the skinniest person in the room, God bless). Many people were sitting on each others’ laps, sharing Fanta and wafers, singing, and creating a very communal and sunny atmosphere within this public mode of transportation; I was shocked!

The bus ride lasted maybe 2 hours and I decided to ride it to the end, so I could take in as many views of the island as possible. As I left the brightly-colored vehicle, the driver requested 8 tala (about 3 USD) for the entire trip. Of course, while cheap for me, this fare could be about 25% of a Samoan’s daily wage and travel into Apia has the most areas of employment by far on the island. I was therefore very appreciative of the mobility, and I left the bus with a cheerful “faafetai” (thank you)!

Views from the bus ride to the south side of the Island

Lalomanu was the name of the village in which the bus had its final stop. It was the southeast corner of the island and, darling, I am telling you, it was the most scenic terrain of my life. Actual palm trees backbending over the clearest, bluest waters… distant islands, adorned with flashy greenery… stretches of white, soft sand, nestled among the black igneous rock. And my favorite part… the fale (pronounced [fa.lε]). These oceanside beach huts are the traditional shelter structure for Samoan culture. They are made of wood and dried leaves from coconut trees. They are slightly elevated from the ground and feature a roof. There are no walls, so ocean and beach views are 360. I was so entranced. Was my childhood island fantasy finally being realized?

Large-scale version of the traditional fale

Taufua Beach Fale resort, ily

Bumping into an employee of the beach fale resort, I inquired about the timing of the next bus back to Apia, and as if truly scripted by the writers of Lost, the beautiful Samoan woman said “The next bus comes in three days, sir!”

Ded.

Oh well, more disastrous things could happen than getting stranded on a paradise beach, so I booked two nights at the resort and settled into my personal fale. Being on the corner of the island gave incredible access to various sights and sides of Samoa’s natural beauty. I spent some time relaxing, meditating, and starting my transcriptions of the recordings from Uganda and India.

To top off the day, I walked through the ankle-high, warm waves, as the sun performed its daily drama over the South Pacific.

The morning star, taking center stage at night!

Come nightfall, I made my way to the common area, where a family dinner takes place every night among the visitors of the beach fale resort. I sat my lone body down next to a tall, pirate-looking man and engaged in a beautiful conversation. I found out that this gentle giant was a high school Spanish teacher from the bay area, who enjoyed traveling on school holidays to get to know the areas from which his students come. He has so far traveled to Fiji, India, Ciaro, Spain, Mexico, and Peru to enrich his cultural knowledge of these places and be able to relate better to his students. We LOVE our educators!

To my right was a woman from New Zealand who was on vacation with a few of her friends before a large expedition for her documentary filming. She will be creating a film on whaling rituals of indigeonous peoples around the world. Ummmmm that’s fine, that’s not the COOLEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD. I requested her card, and I will let you all know when we can go to the midnight premier together and weep.

Finally, across the table was a young, Dutch couple that had taken a half-year leave from their respective jobs to travel the world together. We shared a few travel stories, and turns out one of them comes from Haarlem, that evil (yet beautiful) Dutch town near Amsterdam from which I missed my bus. I decided to lean into some dramatic irony, and I told her that I had a wonderful time when I visited there for a choral concert.

Nonetheless, I guess I sat in the right seat, because the next day, the Dutch couple invited me to join them in their car trip around the island…… like, obvi?! So I kicked it in the backseat of the rental car and we saw everything! First, we went swimming in Sua Ocean Trench, which is like a pond under a cave.

Sua Ocean Trench, note the ladder to climb down and swim!

Next we walked along the lava rocks by the sea. We enjoyed a divine lunch of poke. We trekked up Togitogiga Waterfalls and swam in the pools. I am fully confident in my (nonexistent) skills at boulder scaling, so I climbed behind the waterfall and took in moment on the slippery rocks. Our night ended with another showing of the Samoan sunset, this time over a central island beach. I think I made a great third wheel.

After some beautiful fale sleep and a morning visit to a smaller, less inhabited island, I said goodbye to the beautiful people that I had met at the resort. To end my Baha’i haitus (Baha’itus?) with a bang, I rented a moped and challenged myself to see the whole island in one day.

My body arose at 6 am and I was cruising down the uncrowded roads for hours of the day. I made a few stops along the way. At one place, I was able to rent snorkel gear and swim with these giant clams that were easily twice the size of my body. I also saw plentiful coral and a happy sea turtle. DIVINITY.

DCIM100GOPROGOPR0469.JPG

The roads toward the west of the island became less maintained; I was clearly entering a more rural area. Throngs of school children would sometimes emerge in this area, chasing my scooter and throwing soft stones at my wheels. The dogs too were quite persistent, and would often charge with hungry teeth for my legs. I was also recommended to carry what I have named a “dog stone” to hold up to a charging dog, as they are familiar with this as a sign to back off. Within minutes, I grew the hardest emotional calluses, bit the bullet, and figured out how to swiftly maneuver around these obstacles. No dogs or Samoan children were harmed in this process.

Samoan sand roads, feat. my mug in the rear view mirror of my moped

Water-falling in love

I was also joyous to stop by a few waterfalls and a Piula cave pool, whereat I could swim about 30 m into a pitch black cave. As I emerged, I noticed that there was an elderly couple that had joined me in the otherwise vacant cave pond. The woman started speaking with me as her husband attempted to hop into the pool. I noticed that this older man was having a difficult time swimming and then he started flailing and calling for help. Thankfully, I was able to employ my muscle memory from my LifeGuard training four years ago and bring the man to the shore and calm him down. The couple thanked me greatly and wished me well on my future travels.

Piula Cave pool

I arrived at my final destination, a restaurant called Paddles in Apia. I looked down to see the tops of my arms and legs coated in stinging red burns. My unprepared self had of course forgotten sunscreen. Dimsum, lose some! I will take the karmic punishment, for this amazing and adventurous day around the island. My night ended with a tasty raw tuna salad as the sunset bled through the restaurant window.

Blessed is the one who brings on the darkness.

I returned the scooter and made my way up the hill, the glowing Temple on my horizon.

Deity of the Dark!

Until next time,
Chris

Dayaalu duniya,

To cleanse my plagued body, I planned a quick retreat to the mountains of India. As I tapped away on my computer, to research bus roots and accommodation, a girl from my hostel sat down next to me and began speaking with me. Somewhat annoyed that she had interrupted my typing, I eventually indulged the conversation and would come to learn that she was an Italian university student, visiting India for six weeks through the ISAC program. I immediately perked up and we proceeded to chat for about an hour, which brought up some painful nostalgia from my semester in Rome. By the end of our conversation, Elena asked, “Would you like to come with me to Dharamshalla tomorrow?” And in the spirit of any circumnavigator, I accepted the offer. Surely I had to change a few of my own weekend plans, but within 24-hours I was boarding a 10-hour bus to the Himalayas with an Italian girl I had just met.

Elena came to visit me during one of my intoned prayers at a devotional services at the Lotus Temple

I think there is something so beautiful about the (capital-t) Traveler. The Traveler is always caught in some liminal space between stabilities. Since the Traveler is away from the “home base” (if such a thing actually exists), they adopt a special attitude toward interaction. Especially the Solo Traveler, like Elena and myself, it is almost necessary for them to seek out people, open themselves at speeds they normally would not with people back home, and say yes to every (safe) opportunity. And when the Traveler is lucky, they can experience some wonderful corners of the world with people that become very significant to them. This has always been a curiosity of mine: why is it only okay to open yourself to others and seek significant connection quickly with acquaintances ONLY under special circumstances, such as traveling? In the Carrie Bradshaw tone of my internal monologue, I began to wonder: Why can’t we always approach interaction in the way the Traveler does?

Elena and I became very close, spending the majority of the bus ride to Dharamshalla sharing about our lives. When we arrived we lugged our 15 kilo bags up a grossly unpaved road to our remote hostel at the highest tip of Upper Bacsu (a northern neighborhood of Dharamshala). The hostel was open but not a single person at the reception in sight. So, Elena and I left all our invaluable belongings in the common area and walked back down the unpaved road to explore the town.

Up in the mountains

I was shocked to most every storefront sign in Hebrew. I would learn that such towns are holiday hotspots for Israeli young adults after their years of military service. After some DIVINE falafel and hummus, Elena and I were ready to take on a morning trek. We eagerly climbed up Bacsu waterfalls, which was about a 10 km trek through the greenest mountain I have ever seen. We passed over wading ponds, rapids, through barely trodden stone pathways, over fallen logs, and as we peaked we saw a small structure appear out of the slate stone. It seemed a man had build a house at the top of the two hour trek from the base of the waterfalls. Listening to the bleating of the goats and some rustling noise from the insight of the house, Elena and I were eventually greeted by the owner of the hermit house. His name was Vishek and he was a middle-aged father of two daughters, as he explained over a cup of masala chai that he prepared for us. Through his limited English, he explained how he had constructed the house over 6 years and he comes there to meditate. Is this man my American Idol?

Trekking the Bacsu Falls

We left with many “dhanyavaads” and “namastes,” and found our way to the base of the trek again, only to look down in HORROR at the leeches that were covering our feet. I tell you, Elena and I were spitting tears of terror and laughter at the same time. Some locals brought us some salt to kill those evil parasites, but the physical and emotional wounds remained. And perhaps not even time will heal the bite marks on my post-leech heart.

On our way back to the hostel, we passed various shops and Hindu temples; Elena got a leather journal and a dreadlock, and I got a Hindu candle blessing. Later that evening, we would venture back into town with a nice group of Travelers (note the capital-t) from the hostel for a delicious Indian dinner and Elena would get yet another dreadlock. We all have our exotic fantasies, I suppose.

The next day brought us to another neighborhood of Dharamshala, McLeod Ganj, which has the amazing Tibetan Bhuddist temple of the Dalai Lama. It was beautiful, hundreds of Buddhist monks were roaming the surrounding streets, the spirituality of the place was palpable. The temple itself was situated with beautiful views of the Himalayan mountainside and was rather simplistic on the inside. Elena and I took a turn spinning the mantra wheels, and we lit a few candles in the mediation chamber. I think this will be my favorite aspect of India: the ability to experience so many different walks of faith within the same geography and without exclusion. My time in Dharamshala ended with a final supper with Elena in an AMAZING restaurant called Tibetan Kitchen, where we ate the best momos (Tibetan dumplings) of our lives and Tibetan tea, which has butter and salt in it (I loved, Elena hated… where will you stand?).

Temple of the Dalai Lama

Elena, momos, Tibetan Tea!

And then my bones were prepared as a sacrificial offering to another Indian overnight bus, now to the yoga capital of the world, Rishikesh. As much as I am in LOVE with the affordable access to mobility around India, the bus system is truly evil. They will never show up on time or where they say they will. It is always very vague, which makes it a painful experience for an inexperienced, non-Hindi speaker. Nonetheless, I made it to the supposed pick up point and grabbed some food from the gas station. As I reached for my mango juice, two men asked me if I could grab them some juice as well and then proceeded into a longer conversation. I was somewhat stressed, but again I indulge the conversation. They happened to be locals from Dharamshalla, so they pointed me to exactly where I could find the bus, but this small gas station convo turned into an in-depth collective search of purpose. We engages topics from American politics, to Indian social issues, to religion… I was living for this, but losing track of time. I finally mustered the courage to check my phone and I realized that my bus was likely to leave, so I panically hurried to the pick up point…. GONE. It had left?!?!? I was freaking out! How was I going to get to Rishikesh, the yoga mat was awaiting my arrival. Witnessing my panic, the local Dharamshallans that had contributed to my missing the bus shifted into hero mode and threw me and all my luggage on the back of their motorcycle. Me and two Indian men I barely know were now cruising down the Himalayans mountains in a mad chase after this bus. The kind man in the middle was making vicious phone calls to the bus company as the driver found the perfect balance of speed of “safety.” Only a few close calls over some potholes and some minor swerves, we had arranged a new pick up point and quite immediately as we parked the Rishikesh bus arrived. Without even much of a goodbye, I departed from these two local Dharamshallans who had essentially saved my night. We waved to each other as the bus peeled away. The kindness of strangers, the kindness of strangers.

I landed in Rishikesh completely crusty eyed and heavy breathed, perhaps the best state to enter a three day yoga retreated. I was welcomed to my stunning yoga hostel by the resident yogi and a cup of green tea. Next, I was off to some exploration of this sacred town that is positioned right on the Ganga (Ganges River), which is a holy river in Vedic religious practice. After completing my own Indian baptism of sorts by swimming in the Ganga, I headed over to my ashram for a yoga class and meditation session. I got to catch a few words with the sage yogi after the class. He articulated that “yoga” means “union,” which can be interpreted as the union of the mind and body, union of the soul and God, etc. etc. It should be noted that this is not much different from the word “religious” which comes from the Latin word meaning “to bind.” In both etymologies, there is the image of two independent objects are being joined together. I meditated on this knowledge for a while as the sun gracefully found its rest from my perch at Buddha Cafe, accompanied by some glorious vegetarian food.

Sunset dinner over the Ganga

Other than the yoga classes, meditation sessions, delicious meals by the setting sun and temple exploration, I was also fortunate enough to take a few lessons in Classical Indian Voice by a Rishikesh Guru. We spent hours learning the Indian musical syllables (equivalents of Do Re Mi), which are Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa. There is an entire established world of vocal pedagogy that I was totally unaware of, and I would be so joyous to spend more time with Indian Classical Voice lessons. As I would later learn from some Baha’i singers, as a voice student in India, you must wake up at 3 am every morning to sing for four hours. This helps the singing soul align with the souls of ancestors that are most active during the dawn hours. Beautiful, but can you imagine? 3 am? I can barely make the 11 am call for Baha’i Temple choir (sorry Van…)!

Walking to my voice lesson

A friend that I had made in Delhi happened to be in Rishikesh the same weekend and he was kind enough to take me on his motorbike to my bus back to Delhi. Thank you, Bunty!

As my relatively long sojourn in Delhi started coming to a close, I figured I would plan the obligatory trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, which (little to my own knowledge) is about 4 hours drive away from Delhi. After what felt like eight scams from taxi drivers and ticket sellers, I was in front of one of the seven wonders of the world, and let me tell you… it was wondrous. Here is proof that I was there:

My last days in India were spent within the warm petals of the Lotus Temple. I served as a Baha’i volunteer and was so shocked by the intensity of the job: ushering tens of thousands of volunteers into the faith space. It was glorious and spending more time with the chanters of this Temple gave me some of the best learning experiences from my trip so far. (more to be discussed in my thesis!) India, through its people, through its Travelers, through its nature, through its buildings was becoming my love. I think the Delhi belly had finally settled, but now something was churning in my heart. And I don’t think it was just the leech scars.

Until next time,
Chris

Kind World,

Trust me when I tell you that India is not easy on the senses. From the infinite splashes of color, car horn conversations that fill every street, 110 °F humidity, clouds of curry smells (and bodily odors (often from myself…)), a simple walk around town can feel almost violating for an unsuspecting Westerner, like myself.

Western and AFRAID

The most exciting of the Indian sensual experience, though, must be taste. Indian cuisine seems to have the goal of knocking your every taste bud with the greatest impact. I swear, I was not even aware of some earthly flavors until a friend I met at my first hostel brought me to Greater Kailash market for some street food. For a total of about 3 USD, we ate spicy tandoori, salty and creamy Afghani chicken, crunchy and sour pani puri, and the sweet, deep fried jalebis.

We finished our multi-course market meal with a popular dish, aloo tikka, which is a spicy potato patty served with curd, green and red chutney, and pomegranate seeds. My tongue replied: “Whom is she?” With little sleep, no shower, and now full with India, I settled behind the thick curtain of my hostel bed and tried to sleep among the snores of my nine roommates.

The next day, I blossomed out of my hostel bed and bounded down the forty minute walk toward the Lotus Temple. I passed various food markets, Hindu temples, impoverished families sleeping on the road, a cluster of high rises encircled by high-end cars. I felt I had seen everything by the time I reached the temple grounds. And finally, there it was.

Blessed is the Spot!

This stunning, egg-shell, Sydney Opera House-inspired structure, peaking out above the trees of the surrounding park. I couldn’t keep my eyes on the path, I was so distracted. Maybe it was the jet-lag, but I felt in a daze.

I floated passed the security check, and down what felt to be a three-mile (in actuality it is about 1000 yards) path from the Baha’i Information Center to the Temple doors. Immediately, I spotted an incredibly short man with a familiar face: it was Jafar, who was my main contact for the Lotus Temple during my research proposal process. He was supposedly the choirmaster of the Lotus Temple devotional music, even though I would come to discover that the Lotus Temple does not have a choir…So who was this mysterious short man?

Jafar the one in the blue!

The second he saw my face, he lit up, grabbed my hand and whisked me into the bowels of the temple to the tea room. Before any words, he poured me a steaming cup of chai, and–handing the scalding cup to me–he exclaimed, “You made it!”

He proceeded to explain that he is the choirmaster, which at the Lotus Temple, roughly means the manager of the devotional services. This Baha’i House of Worship functions much differently than the others that I have seen, as with about 10,000-30,000 visitors a day, the Lotus Temple offers a schedule of four daily prayer services, during which six selections of Holy Scripture (Baha’i prayers, Torah, Bible, Quran, Bhagvad Gita, Buddhist writings, etc.) are presented, either by reading or intoned in a chant.

Various Visitors coming in and out of the Lotus Temple

The choirmaster ensures that there is a diversity both in the textual source of the prayer and the language of the prayer. The most common languages used within these services are Hindi, English, and Sanskrit. During the Holy Days or other special occasions, such as the upcoming 200th Anniversary of the birth of the Baha’i prophet, the Bab, the choirmaster will organize an ensemble of chanters that will intone in unison, or add a few lines of harmony to a preexisting chant melody. For this reason, my research on the Lotus Temple’s devotional music will primarily focus on the solo intonations, and I suppose I will have to change the orientation of my research from “choral devotional music within Baha’i Temples” to simply “devotional music within Baha’i Temples.”

Solo intonement in the Lotus Temple (Photo approved)

The intonation practices within the Lotus Temple are nonetheless full of intrigue and add a great diversity to the global aggregate of Baha’i devotional music.

Fully jet-lagged and crusty eye, I was ushered by Jafar upstairs to the Temple interior where I was asked to present a prayer… How should I enter this world? I concluded to lead the way I had at every other Baha’i House of Worship: by singing my improvised, Van Gilmer-inspired version of “Remover of Difficulties.” After I delivered what I thought to be a well-executed, soulful sound, Jafar arose and sang a Sanskrit prayer from the Buddhist scripture (“Namo Dassa”).

I was stunned; his voice did not have a quiver of vibrato, his range seemed an easy half octave above mine, the melody was so simple, but so effective in the space. Prayers like this seem perfect for the booming acoustic in the Lotus Temple, as the listener can focus on the vibrations of the tone, which becomes meditative in itself. The more lyrical melodies of my Baha’i prayer repertoire are likely less effective in that space, as the characteristic melodic runs get lost in the reverberations. To say the least, I was enchanted by these new sounds and eager to begin learning more about this devotional music.

On my way out, I was introduced to Shobit, Reena, and Kavya who are the other chanters at the Lotus Temple, all of whom are volunteering as temple guides for a few months. Little did I know, I wouldn’t see their shining faces for the next week… (Cue evil, something-bad-is-gonna-happen music)

Flash forward a few hours, another friend from the hostel took me into the center of Delhi, a place called Connaught Place, as in “I simply Connaught with you anymore!” Here, there are various shops, restaurants, and my favorite, an underground market. And no, I don’t mean that it was on the black market or under-the-table type situation. This market (the Palika Bazaar) was genuinely underground, as in you had to descend to find the venders. Guided by my Delhite friend, I bargained for a nice mandarin collared shirt, and wore it as we walked for some more street food.

I don’t know what was going through my mind. Delhi street food… again? After our paneer tikka, my friend acknowledged, “I’m shocked you’re able to stomach this, most foreigners immediately get Delhi belly after eating food like this or drinking non-bottled water.” Delhi Belly, the words I had been warned about for months, now flooded back into my awareness, and seemingly realized themselves within my little, little body.

The next morning, I would wake up, a corpse. My body had completely gone limp. My temperature was reaching heats greater than the Delhi air, and my poor stomach was churning like a Betty Crocker stand mixer. How was I supposed to continue on? And can you imagine my OCD mind in complete conflict with my immobile body? It was–as Hannah Montana would not say–the worst of both worlds.

After three days in the Delhi Belly Underworld, all legends must rise again, and thus after my days of rest behind the heavy curtain of my hostel, I got out of bed with a stabilized temperature and less violent stomach. Some of the kind people I met in my hostel that had taken care of me over the days decided it would be a good time for us to venture to actually see some of Delhi.

By the grace of Rakesh and Bunty, I was shuffled around Old Delhi to see various Sikh Temples, an impressively large mosque, and Red Fort. I had always been aware of the Sikh faith, as there is a substantial population of Sikhs in my hometown, but I had never really investigated the faith. In the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, many American Sikhs mistakenly faced Islamophobia, due to the turbans that are worn by men. My time at Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, the largest Sikh temple in Delhi, completely opened my eyes to how amazingly hospitable the Sikh community is, which in full honesty shifted many of my own false ideas on these turban-wearing peoples. Similar to the Lotus Temple, the Sikh temple will collect your shoes at a desk, free of charge. As you walk barefoot around the temple grounds, they will shine your shoes, again free of charge. There were plenty of stations of free drinking water, water to wash your hands and face, and (my favorite amenity) a foot pond for feet rinsing before passing the temple threshold. Everything was kept in pristine condition, and the white marble shined beautifully against the multicolored head scarves worn by the temple visitors. Inside the temples, there was a section of musicians playing the tablas and singing in the call-and-response style. I could have stayed and listened for hours, it was enrapturing. The walls were coated in gold and vibrant colors. Passing the main “alter” area, I received a flower that had been blessed by a sage, and I was urged to hold onto this flower by Rakesh, who is Sikh himself. Leaving the temple interior, we descended to a massive pool area, where people will come to be spiritually cleansed. Watching hundreds of Sikhs perform this rite as the sun was setting was an unforgettable image. To top off this unexpected experience, I was brought to the feeding area, where the Sikh kitchen will feed anyone that walks in, again free of charge. I ate some delicious chapatti, rice, lentils, and tasty sauces. I was given a full cup of chai that brilliantly washed down the well prepared food. Rakesh informed me that the Gurudwara kitchen is one of the largest kitchens in the world, and Sikhs of all socioeconomic backgrounds will volunteer there to feed the temple visitors.

Gurudwara with its night lights

This experience rocked my world and gave me a beautiful, new perspective on the Sikh community. I anticipate my return home to central Massachusetts to visit a recently-erected Sikh House of Worship, just a 15 minute drive from my house. Nothing better than the destruction of cultural walls and misconceptions!

We also spent some time walking through Red Fort, which is an impressively large grounds surrounded by a tall-standing red wall. Passing the Red Fort markets, mosques, canals, and Arab-inspired architecture, Rakesh and Bunty were eager to capture a picture with me at every Red Fort corner, which gave me some well-needed time to exercise my camera skills.

Guardian of Red Fort?

The day finished up moving southward and making a quick stop in central Delhi. Here we passed by India Gate and the Parliment and the President’s House.

India Gate, a memorial for fallen soldiers

During my survey of Delhi, I became to truly understand the lasting impacts of India’s history with English colonization. Where Delhi is now, most all things seems like some functional, messed up meshing of the western and eastern worlds. The British political system of Prime Ministers and such are housed within stunning Indian architecture. The fully-air conditioned, pristine metro, so characteristic of Western metropolises, has a majority of stops with Hindi names. The McDonald’s do not serve beef! This is proof of the clashing of the worlds. And it works seamlessly. Well perhaps not as the food of Indian entered my American body, but all such conflicts will settle eventually, or so I am told.

Chris

Call me Mucunguzi. Now that I have found myself back in stable WiFi, I now wish to share with you my latter week in Africa, which I spent wandering around Uganda in a true mzungu style. My first stop brought me about four hours north to a natural reserve known as Murchison Falls.

Picasso: “Safari in sorrow” circa 2019, oil on canvas

This is one of ten major parks in Uganda where people will trek to find unfathomable landscapes and beautiful wildlife. I had the pleasure of taking a three day safari with Watalii Safaris, a small and newer company based out of Kampala. With no other tourists looking for a Murchison safari on those days, so I was the only one in the truck, along with Mark (a manager of Watalii Safaris) and Sula (the driver).

The guhls!

A personal safari… not too bad! But I was quite terrified, as I had negotiated a student discount with the company, so they explained all accommodation and food would be “budget” (I had been imagining the entire week leading up: “what is budget food?”) But this experience proved to anything less than budget! These guys hooked me. We stopped maybe four times on the car drive north at different markets and food stands, where Mark bought me chapattis, jackfruit, roasted corn, and other street food delights.

Sula and me, feat. pineapple (eaten like corn on a cob!)

We also stopped along various restaurants on our northern trek, where we consumed some fresh avocado, amazing lamb muchomo (BBQ lamb) and chapatti (of course).

I love matoke, beef stew, and avocado

I was charmed. Later afternoon, we arrived at our “budget accommodation” which was called Red Chili. Sula, our driver, claimed this place to be his “second home:” he knew everyone that worked there and they all seemed to treat me with special services because of it. I assessed my fate as we passed all these low hanging tents and huts, but eventually the grounds manager brought Mark and me to a cabin with the title “Segal” How opulent, #se-guhls!

Best chapatti wrap of my life? at Red Chili Safari grounds

Things were not as budget, as I had predicted after all. Red Chili was nestled over a great valley outlook, and the grounds were filled with friendly travelers from all corners of the globe. One traveler, named Helen, shared a drink with me and told me of her life growing up in Kampala, facing the loss of her parents in her teenage years, and eventual exile to England when she was 21 years old. I find it’s places of great turn-over that people tend to open up surprising amounts, and I was happy to listen to all the lives that were willing to share.

Chillin’ with Helen

Before the sun found its rest, Sula brought Mark and me to Murchison Falls, which is the most powerful waterfall in all of Uganda. I tell you, I looked at it for about thirty minutes straight… it was mesmerizing.

~Fall~ing in love with Africa

Essentially, the wide and fast Nile is pushed into a 7 meter pass which causes intense water pressure and results in this unstoppable natural fall. According to Sula, local people use to bring goats to the falls as divine sacrifice. I find this element of “nature religions” to be so interesting, in order to express gratitude or ask for something, valuable commodities, like a healthy goat, would be given to the fall, almost as if to feed the earth deity. Excluding the ethical issues with destroying the life of goat, I think the implication of respecting and giving back to the power of nature is something from which many text-based religious cultures, such as Christianity, Judaism, etc. could learn. When there are less systems or rituals to condition someone into witnessing the power of the natural world, the more one can justify the destruction of the earth. As the world’s powerful countries continue to wake up to the abundance of resources in Africa, places like Murchison Falls have been threatened with dams and other manufacturing to harness its natural power and as a result destroy its natural beauty. Fortunately, local Ugandans have greatly resisted these political pushes, and we can hope that Murchison will continue to spit its falls for many more visitors to experience.

I analyzed my time on the safari as a witnessing of natural power. There is so much superhuman force in the world: the falling river, the charging elephant, even the elegant giraffe as she longingly lifts her head. I was in my zone for this three day stretch–communing with the giraffes, families of elephants, and occasional lions. I will never forget these feelings.

Seeing as I was the only member on my private safari and Mark, the Watalii manager, lived within my cabin (#se-guhls4lyfe), I got to know his special soul on a deep level. He explained to me his background as an orphan from a very young age. With HIV/AIDS hitting Africa in epidemic proportions in the 1980, many Ugandans in my generation and a few decades older became orphans or grew up in a single-parent household. For this reason, there are various NGO (non-governmental organizations) and programs that exist to provide accommodation, education, and hope for such children. Mark, after hearing my life-long interest for religious music, opened up to me about Watoto Church, which is a Protestant church in East Africa that is famous for the Watoto Children’s Choir. This choral program takes in orphans and, along with providing them living, learning and worship spaces, teaches them songs and dances. These children’s choirs go on tours around the world, presenting their music to raise awareness and funds for the cause. The tours also serve as a platform for children to grow as leaders and witness different parts of the world, as Mark explained that many such children do not have the scope to see beyond their desolation. As a young adult, Mark worked with Watoto for six year, leading the groups of children to various corners of the world and providing musical support for the choir on stage. Mark and I even swapped a few religious songs, and we sang them together throughout the long stretches of savanna.

Watoto Church stage, before the Sunday service. Rock on!

The Sunday following the safari, Mark was kind enough to bring me to Watoto Church Downtown in Kampala and show me the upbeat worship from his faith background. I had never been to a church like this (and secretly I was so into it). It was essentially a rock concert with an uplifting message and a sermon at the end, and I was whippin’ my hair back and forth for the Lord. Nonetheless, it was interesting to see the intensity of the Kampalan faith expressed through the very stimulating atmosphere of Watoto.

After getting changed out of our Sunday Best, Mark took to meet Michael, the other owner of Watalii Safaris. Michael and his wife we kind enough to prepare a full dinner featuring some of my Ugandan faves: matoke, sausage, katogo. The night ended with mandazi (fried, sweet dough balls) and dawa tea. “Dawa” comes from Swahili, meaning medicine, and darlings it tasted like it: ginder, lemon, green tea, honey. It took me many minutes and many beads of sweat to finish it, but apparently my drinking it was my tribal initiation, as Michael gave me my African name: Mucunguzi (Champion).

Later that week, I joined my host brother, Syrus, to visit his friend Sydney’s village, Masaka. This village in the Buganda region has some sections of relatively high development, but we went straight into the banana plantation to the small cluster of about forty homes where Sydney grew up. We walked the entire town and got to see some of Sydney’s old neighbors, the vast majority of them farming, drying coffee beans, or gathering water from the bore hole.

Matoke Time!

We even got to pass a man who was preparing bark cloth, which is a fabric made from dried and pressed bark that is often worn by royalty. This man, who spoke no English, explained to Syrus and Sydney how he uses a sharp reed to remove a layer of bark off of the tree, then this section of bark is flattened and dried, which makes it triple in surface area.

Masaka local in the first steps of making barkcloth

Finding rest in Sydney’s humble house, I was greeted by his mother and auntie. Both of them went to their knees and bowed to me, which I was quite shocked to experience. Apparently in more rural sections of Uganda, such gender dynamics exist. As the boys and I sat in the living area, the women were all preparing matoke and tea, which they later served to us on their knees. I was greatly humbled by the generosity of these people: they fed and treated me like royalty, though they have very little themselves. I was taught the phrase “Gyebaleko Nyabo!” (meaning “good work, ma’am!”), as a polite response to well prepared food. I left the village feeling full of mashed banana and appreciation for this experience. And as a cherry on the top, we stopped at the equator line to take a few pics.

Friends in both hemispheres!

On my last days of Kampalan existence, I spent some time roaming the arts and music departments of Makerere University with a Baha’i artist, Ezra. By chance, we ran into his old arts professors, who turned out to be one of the designers of the Shilling Bank note!

Later that evening, I was delighted with a songfest at Jjajja’s compound. Many Baha’is and Baha’i friends came to the compound, prepared with a song to sing. I got to hear many of the various Baha’i community songs (accompanied with djembe), Ugandan folk songs, original solo works. I was asked to sing some of my repertoire, and I found myself cracking up at how much the mood in the room shifted, as I started singing “Flow my tears,” or a heart-break ballad from an Italian operetta. I find great value in the uplifting spirit of African music, especially when juxtaposed to the often somber undertones of Western Art Music. Nonetheless, this was a wonderful community event of many, diverse sounds, and we ended the night with Uncle Wes singing the Lord’s Prayer. Sublime.

The last day, I found myself on the back of a 30-minute bodaboda drive to a suburb called Matugga. This was the town where a Baha’i choir singer and composer, Teddy, lives and works. She showed me around the private primary school at which she instructs music, dance, and drama. Eventually, she brought me to her class space, where about 40 of her student performed “You raise me up” and “Hallelujah” both fully choreographed. I was secretly crying as I filmed it. It was so powerful to see these children expressing themselves to these inspired songs. It was wonderful to get to experience more of Teddy’s spirit, as I will be in closer contact with her as I write my thesis on her music.

Starting positions for “You raise me up!”

Never stop singing, kiddos!

Teddy helping me board a bodaboda going home

And then I was gone. One last time, stuffed into the back seat of Syrus’ car, as four members of my host family came to see me off to the airport. Somewhat stressed and sweaty, I lugged my bags past a troupe of African dancers that welcomed recent arrivals into the dusty Ugandan atmosphere. And it will be these sounds and sights that will remain with me forever in my memory of Uganda: everyone smiling, shaking their body, and the drum never stopping.

Goodbye Uganda!

Chris

Kind World,

Many will argue that Rome is the City of Seven Hills, but I beg to differ. After just under two weeks buzzing around Kampala, I have come to learn that this city in the heart of Africa has its own set of seven hills, making it a Holy City in its own way. Faith fills the air here just as much as road dust off of a busy street, and I have had the pleasure of breathing it all in.

Dusty and faithful roads of Kampala

With about one half of the Kampala population practicing Catholicism, one fourth Protestantism, one fifth Islam, and the remaining popoulation practicing other religions (Hindu, Baha’i, etc.) there is great religious diversity within the city bounds. Due to the general culture of openness here, Kampala displays its vibrant religiousness: taxis often feature Bible quotes and Psalm verses, vendors will dedicate their store names to God, and every other street sign advertises places of worship or prayer groups.

“God is Good!” according to this Ugandan taxi

The locals, too, tend to be very comfortable outwardly expressing their inward beliefs: I have had many Muslim taxi drivers that wear a Shalwar Kameez (tradition Islamic dress) and I have found myself in lengthy conversations with boda boda drivers and waitresses about Kampalan Protestantism. From what I can observe, people here have found a great balance between public displays of faith and acceptance of different faith systems. This of course is not to say that Kampala is a utopia of religious coexistence; at least, relatively to the Christian-centric (and sometimes islamophobia) undertone of the Western World, Kampala seems to hold itself together by its faith diversity.

Zooming out of the religious framework, Uganda itself holds incredible multiculturalism. Similar to Frankfurt, it is rare that I encounter a local that doesn’t speak at least three languages. After its British colonization in the early 20th Century, Uganda took English as an official language. Most every local Kampalan also speaks Luganda, Swahili, and one or more of the 50+ tribal languages found within the Ugandan borders. I have found most people here are eager to share about the Ugandan region from which they originate, their unique tribal culture, their mother tongue, and their life journey that brought them to the city of Kampala (most often for work). For example, Ezra lit up to explain to me the five languages he speaks, his origins in the Ankole Kingdom, and his eventual journey to Kampala to pursue a degree in arts at Makerere University (one of the most prestigious universities in Africa).

Sharing Matoke and Posho with my dear friend, Ezra

About two weeks ago, my host brother Syrus and his friend Sydney brought me to Ndere Culture Center, where I was DELIGHTED to witness a three-hour dance and musical performance that accurately displayed the cultural traditions from the various Ugandan tribes. Some of the highlights included Buganda drummers, the tribal love rituals from the in which men will court women by chasing them and proving their strength in a wrestling match, the circumcision rituals from Teso in which teenage boys must circumcise themselves in front of the village to prove their manhood. This monumental night of culture concluded with a full-audience invitation to the stage, where everyone danced together to traditional Uganda beats. It was electric and I totally experienced the participatory approach to art that is characteristic of African culture.

Impressive pot stacking by Ndere women

With its religious and cultural diversity and its geographic centrality, it is no wonder why Uganda was selected as the home for the African Continental Baha’i House of Worship. Unlike the North American Baha’i Temple, which is situated on the quaint, suburban streets of Wilmette, or the European Baha’i Temple, which is softly tucked into the wheat fields of Langenhain, the African Baha’i Temple was placed on top of a hill. It has been such a pleasant surprise to see the top of the temple peaking out on the horizon of my every drive back to the compound, and the experience of climbing up to the House of Worship feels like a magnificent spiritual ascent as well.

Baha’i Temple peaking out!

Unlike the past two Houses of Worship to which I have been, the African Continental House of Worship is (quite refreshingly) not white! Rather, it boasts light shades of orange-red and green, which happen to dominate the color palate of the Kampalan landscape between the dirt roads and the vibrant greenery. Architecturally, it was designed to appear like the huts that African farmers have been erecting and taking shelter in for millennia. Again, we can see an instance where the House of Worship becomes expressive of the culture of the continent on which it is placed, while still abiding by the unifying Baha’i architectural tropes for a House of Worship: nine-sides, surrounded by gardens, circular, chairs facing Haifa, etc. Analyzing the temple’s devotional choral music as the “voice” of the House of Worship, we will later discuss this same principle, where the musical component of temple devotion is both rooted in the local musical style, while also globally framed in it’s connection to Baha’i teachings.

House of Worship atop the hill

So far, I have found the music sung by the African Temple Choir to be fascinating in its rhythmic expression of local drum music, use of various languages common to the area (English, Luganda, Kiswahili, French, Lugisu), and method of presentation. Some songs will feature syncopated and disjoint bass lines which add a great local flair to the universalist text being sung. Similar to the European Temple choir, the variation of languages is a helpful tool in creating globalism within the sonic environment of the devotional service. Unlike the other Temple choirs, the African Temple Choir sings from the center seats of the House of Worship, just underneath the center of the dome. It is quite contrary to the audience-performer spatial orientation of the European Temple Choir and–in my opinion–is very reflective of the participatory approach to music-making that is characteristic of the local style. Given the immersed placement of the choir, a devotional attendee may feel more physically part of the production of devotional music than an attendee that watches a choir that stands in front of them.

The entire hill that leads up to the House of Worship is clothed in gardens of Ugandan flora, making the fenced-in hill area a peaceful space, especially when coming from the chaotic Kampalan roads. The choir meets for a pre-devotional rehearsal on a lawn just next to the House of Worship, so the practice of devotional music-making always has this sacred space in its backdrop.

Outdoor choral rehearsal

Continuing, the hill itself provides the setting for the Baha’i National Center, dormitories for volunteers, the housing for the Temple Director and his family, and places for childrens’ groups and devotional gathers. I was fortunate enough to catch the Kampalan Baha’i community during a Holy Day (Martyrdom of the Bab) and a Baha’i Wedding, during which I sang with the choir.

Alan and Angela’s Wedding!

For me, the Baha’i Temple hill has proven to have some significant mystical powers. Here, I ran into and sang with a woman named Dawn, who I would come to learn had attended Northwestern University some sixty years ago. Considering the number of universities in the world and the relatively small Kampalan Baha’i population (roughly 700) and the fact that I managed to overlap with Dawn’s two months of visiting Uganda, I found this somewhat of a mindblowing meeting.

Dawn and me after a choral devotional service. Go Cats!

The universe also delighted me with what I will deem a Baha’i miracle on this hill. After singing with the choir during the Sunday devotional service on July 14th, I was reflecting in my seat in the House of Worship. Out of nowhere, I felt a tap on my shoulder and I looked up to see my Northwestern friend, Leana. I was surely hallucinating. Why was Leana in Africa? Was I still in Africa? I looked up to see an entire group of Northwestern students walking about the House of Worship grounds. They were participating in non-profit work in a town called Jinja (about a three-hours drive from Kampala) and had been visiting Kampala for the day and happened to be touring the House of Worship at the exact time that I was on the hill. Miraculous!

Leana and I visiting the Kampala Central Mosque

Wildcats on the Baha’i hill

I was enchanted. And this enchantment only continued as their guides allowed me to come on their (heavily religious) tour of Kampala. We visited the central Mosque, various street markets, and ended our day at Namugongo, which has a beautiful church dedicated to that location’s history of martyrdom that three popes and (our darling) Mother Teresa have visited.

Kampala has great intrigue for a young, strapping scholar of religious studies of my likeness. With its atmosphere of different faiths and cultures, its geographic centrality in Africa, and overall open approach to humanity, Kampala seems to be an excellent home for the African Baha’i Continental House of Worship. I am looking forward to telling you more of the surprises that I have found walking the seven hills of this Holy City.

Until then,
Chris

Ensi ndungi,

Traveling makes me EMO sometimes, okay?!

The plush seats of Emirate Airlines have gently deposited me in the heart of Africa, and as a sage once said, “This isn’t Kansas anymore, Toto.” I was welcomed by a three-hour wait in the immigration line, equatorial heat (which is somehow much milder than Frankfurt’s weather, ily climate change), and the kind faces of the temple choir director, Gloria, and her husband, Nelson.

Welcome Wagon from Gloria and Nelson

Carolyn, known as “Jjajja” (Luganda for “Grandma”) to the Kampala Baha’i community, swung around in her car to drive us away from the Entebbe Airport to her compound in Kampala. Perhaps seeing the equal levels of awe and distress in my face, Carolyn brought us to Cafe Javas on the drive home, explaining, “This is your last taste of the Western World,” as she ordered two Chicken Supreme Pizzas for the table. I could see all familiarity disappearing with each bite.

On the drive to Kampala, we passed stretches of banana farms, tea plantations, loose cattle and goats, and anarchic traffic. The tarmac road eventually turned to dirt and suddenly we arrived on at Carolyn’s compound. Being the secretary of the Local Spiritual Assembly for the Kampala Baha’i community, Carolyn has generously converted her large Kampala estate into a community center and boarding house. Along with organizing various community events within her home, she hosts three members of the Baha’i community: 1) Shoghi, a diligent high school student and dedicated football fan, 2) Cyrus, a college graduate, now studying for the CPA, and 3) Wes, the kindest elderly man in the world, who loves to sing. I quickly learned that this compound would become my safe haven through my stay in this beautifully chaotic city and thus would become my Home.

Backyard garden of the compound

Mamma and baby monkey atop the compound roof

I can distinctly remember Jjajja’s first Kampalan complaint: “This city never sleeps, it’s as if the air is always buzzing with sound.”She was not wrong; we live adjacent to a Gayaza Road, which features piercing honks from the perpetual taxi during the day and booming music from the local bars throughout the night. Just when the DJs begin to quiet their stereos, the Salat al-fajr (Muslim call to prayer before sunrise) takes over the soundscape. It is always buzzing, and I am enamored by this (though my sleep schedule occasionally suffers). There is something so raw and alive and persistent about this city that I could have never expected coming from the ever silent streets of Kriftel, Germany.

Kampala Mosque, featuring the tower from which the call to prayer is projected

My host-brothers informed me that the cheapest and fastest mode of transportation in Uganda is a motorcycle taxi service, known as “boda boda” (supposedly coming from their ability to bring a rider from “border” to “border” without required vehicle registry). 3,000-5,000 Ugandan Shillings (about 1 USD) can get you nearly anywhere in the city, but these bikes are not designed for the faint of heart. Without seatbelts or a helmet, a rider will be whipped around, as the driver finds the most efficient way to weave through traffic. Hundreds of bodas will swarm the streets making a trip to the House of Worship or downtown Kampala an exhilarating, yet very dangerous event. A singer in the Baha’i Temple choir that I spoke with commented that Kampala is ruled by “functional anarchy,” which I quickly noted on my first boda experience.

The main taxi park in downtown Kampala… functional anarchy for sure

It is nonetheless a great way to witness the local way of life. With my frequent use, I have gotten to know many of the boda drivers in my neighborhood by name and my first steps out of Carolyn’s compounds are often accompanied by a warm “Ki kati Christopher, where can I take you?” from the Katalemwa stage (boda stand).

An image of me emotionally preparing for a boda ride into town

Along with my risky rides on boda bodas, I have often opted to walk around the close neighborhoods, such as Mpererwe and Komamboga. Being a few kilometers from the Kampala Kamwokya (city center), these areas are less “developed” than some more urbanized neighborhoods, making my walks full of surprises.

A field I pass on my walk to the House of Worship

I am often the only white person within a vast radius which has been–honestly–a challenging experience. I am often the recipient of stares and calls, children swarm me, screaming “Mzungu” (meaning “wanderer” or “stranger”), and at first I didn’t know how to interpret this attention. Finding myself in the center of the bustling Kalerwe Street Market, I gravitated close to my host-brothers as vender begged me to purchase their artfully stacked produce.

Kalerwe Market

Being white in the Western world, it is easy to forget that you have a “race,” but my short time here has taught me much about this aspect of my existence. I am lucky to be experiencing the racial minority from a place where most people don’t look down on me for my skin tone, as so many people of color experience in America. I am also lucky to be within Kampala’s racial lingua franca of hospitality toward a friendly, white man; an overwhelming majority of locals have greeted me with extreme kindness when I smile or say hello. I have formed fast friendships with Ugandas from the Baha’i community, especially through the commonality of music. The venders in my neighborhood seem to have memorized my order of a rolex (chapati flatbread with an egg) and roasted maize when I pass them for a mid-morning snack.

Roasted Maize, yummy yummy

The past week alone has been packed with challenges and rewards for which I could never have planned, and I think American culture could learn a lot from the way native Ugandans approach people of different colors as family.

New friends: Nino, Mash and Ibrahim

My experience thus far in Kampala has been “family.” Every morning, I share tea and breakfast with the house-helpers, Auntie Jane and Teddy, every afternoon, I am packed in the car with my host-brothers to get groceries at the market, and every night I find myself at some Baha’i devotional gathering with my Jjajja and the warm members of the Kampala Baha’i community. This Kampalan buzz is constantly in the air, like a hug… everything here is overwhelmingly alive and somehow living together. I truly am in the heart of Africa.

Chris

Freundliche Welt,

No one said it was easy, tossing my bag of bones around the world. But I had no clue that the secret mode of transportation on this small globe was the Emotional Rollercoaster! Wow this is a sticky situation, my friends: two weeks per destination is such a wonderful/troubling amount of time. It seems the instant I grow accustomed to the area, truly fall in love with the city and find my way into the Baha’i community, it is time to go.
My last days in Frankfurt were distinctly special. Last thursday, I was invited to the 55th Anniversary of the Haus der Andacht’s Inauguration (1964). This was a splendid gathering of Baha’is and friends of the faith from the Hofheim area at the temple grounds. There was a grill for endless bratwurst, plenty of apfelschorle (non-alcoholic obvi), and even a beautiful “55”-shaped birthday cake.

Happy 55th, Haus der Andacht

Let them eat cake!

The seventy attendees ate and chatted, while a family was over in the grass played a few songs on guitar, all as the sun gently fell over the wheat field. It was so magical. We all then proceeded into the Haus der Andacht, where devotions were recited or intoned.

Setting sun in the field across form the temple

The night ended by moving back out to the lawn for a “storytelling” of the temple’s history, the significance of its architecture. Just like all other Houses of Worship, the Haus der Andacht in Langenhain has nine doors to symbolize the unity of all peoples and welcoming of all religions. It was so beautiful to watch the temple community reflect on their roots and take in this moment that they had been building towards for the past half century.

Storytelling on the temple grounds

Friday, I took the fastest train of my life to Darmstadt, which is a university town about 35 kilometers south of Frankfurt. That weekend, Heinerfest had taken over the town and the streets were flooded with food stands, carnival rides, stuffed animals, and neon colors. Everyone was so joyous, flicking a few euros to lose another round of ring tossing.

Heinerfest in Darmstadt

I only took it in with the eyes, and my friend quickly whisked me away to another treasure of Darmstadt: the Woog (pronounced like “vogue” in a dark, German accent). This is a small, fenced-in pond, perfect for a swim on another record-breaking day of global warming (39°C=103°F=toast w/o butter). With the student discount, the entrance was basically free. There was a dazzling slide, a raft to swim to, and some fun, well-manicured walkways surrounding the pond. I sat, eating almonds, trying to figure out how I would leave this place.

Vogue in the Woog

Saturday, I stopped by the Haus der Andacht again and spent some time in the library. I found a few books on the Institution of Houses of Worship and Baha’i Arts in the formation of a global community (The Fashioner), both of which I think will be very helpful in my research–I’ll keep you updated on my findings. I mosied up the short incline to the House of Worship, where I spent some time reading, reflecting and singing “Allah’u’Abha,” which seems to be one of the songs most all Baha’is know around the world. The temple’s acoustic is very unique. Something about the dome shape and the 540 window pannels does wonders for the vertical reverberation, so both in sound and physical sensation my voice felt multitudinous, as if some higher being was singing with me. It’s truly a special corner of the world.

IMG-5726.TRIM

As I walked out of my sacred session in the Haus der Andacht, I ran into the temple’s gardener, Manfred. Over the past two weeks, he has been a contact for me, as he is part of the various choirs that sing in the Haus der Andacht. As a side note, I am also quite drawn to his life and his committed time to creating beauty on the temple grounds. The image of the garden is very attached to Baha’i teachings. Baha’u’llah emphasized the importance of agriculture and often compared humanity to a garden, full of peacefully coexisting shapes, colors, sizes, smells, etc. but all receiving the same sun and the same rain. Manfred pointed me to an L-shaped patch in the middle of the lawn, naming all the different flower kinds.

“Ye are… the flowers of one garden.” – Baha’u’llah

He then, with the greatest excited, asked if I would do him a favor. Of course, I said… Anything for Manfred. He brought me toward the Haus der Andacht, through the bee-buzzing bushes, and down into the gardener’s cellar. “Take these,” he handed me four bags full of sweet-smelling seeds, “I was hoping to send these to the Ugandan gardener, but maybe it will be easier since your going directly there. I had to consider for a moment if i could legally transport seeds internationally, but regardless of law I could not turn down this opportunity. Can you imagine? Me, a floral missionary of the world, spreading flowers into new gardens. I was so inspired. So I took the pouches and said goodbye to the dear gardener.

Until next time, Manfred!

And now I am off. What an experience? To pour so much of myself into creating familiarity over the past two weeks, walking kilometers on end to meet more people and absorb more music, all just to be left, the process about to begin again in Uganda. My German diction has proven to be quite mediocre, so I will spare the Frankfurters from my attempt at “Auf Wiedersehen.” I suppose “ciao” will do for now.

Chris