Out there. Somewhere.

Every once in a while I stumble back to this blog and reminisce about my brief life in Kenya. I knew the entries ended abruptly, but it never occurred to me to post anything once I returned to the states. Compared to others these days, I generally stay off the digital radar, but it occurred to me this blog is like some cosmic broadcast -- this mysterious glimpse into a young mans first journey to Africa and if I never wrote anything again, it would just continue to broadcast out in cyberspace, silently drifting along with no discernable conclusion. We get these long entries describing some community development work and pleasant assurances the narrator is adjusting to life quite comfortably. Then, following a failed trip to Uganda, he is never to be heard from again. What happened to this wanderlust beardo? Did he ever return home? Did he die at the slice of a machete during the political melee following President Kibaki’s contested defeat? Did he grow so bitter and self-absorbed over life in Africa he couldn’t lie to his casual readers any longer and became a poor Marlow seeking out the most putrid depths of his soul?

No. But maybe my little corner of the world wide web ended how it was meant to end. Maybe the abrupt silence is more appropriate than trying to find some way to conclude this African novella. After all, that part of my life ended just as abruptly as it is written. There are of course many things not recorded before I crossed the African continent and the Atlantic ocean, back to Boston to attend classes in my last semester of college. I would like to post them here, but I don’t have the motivation nor the memory for such a chore. Also, my bag, containing journals, presents and pictures, was promptly stolen when I got back to the states. Never had one thing taken from me while I was in Kenya, and within 24 hours of returning to Boston, my duffle containing irreplaceable items gets jacked. If you are that person and are reading this blog, please return my shit. I wont be mad or bitter, but you stole at least 10,000 words of memories and I want them back. Email me and I’ll give you my address. Thanks.

That address is Omaha, Nebraska these days. I am writing this entry on a sunny winter afternoon in the study of my new apartment. It’s really a great place, I hope you get to see it sometime. I’m working as a journalist for an alt-weekly publication called The Reader. Its damn fine work and keeps alive the delusion that someone, someday, might pay me to go back to Africa to write.

I left Kenya around 16 months ago. I think about my time there frequently and think about how I need to stay in closer contact with my friends there more frequently. The last I heard, WEPOGA (the organization I worked for) was severely disrupted by the violence surrounding Kenya’s most recent presidential election. Amanda Flannagan (a Canadian girl I worked with briefly at WEPOGA) returned to run the organization. She is doing some incredible work.

Well that concludes this broadcast of our tired wanderer. Will he ever return to the African continent? Did he grow tired of the stale sensebilities of middle America or did he find his niche in the underbelly of Nebraska politics? Will he ever be heard from again? Tune in next time and please don’t forget to light your candles with matches . . .

Peace