unlike Kampala, where the power sometimes goes out, in Gulu, the power sometimes come on. We've had huge chunks of days with naught but a flickering of the lights every now and then, and when the electricity does come on, the water tends to go off. It's like camping. I've gotten used to making guacamole on the floor in the candlelight with Leslie and Ben. We've all become accustomed to picking up the sound of a generator from a mile away, knowing all too well that it means our hotel will have no power. There are very few places in town that have generators--the Indian grocery store, and that delightful little pentecostal church on the other side of my wall. I don't know which is worse, the clanking roar of the generator or the shrieking congregants cursing their souls to be rid of evil spirits. Oh wait, I do know.

religion has always perplexed me without necessarily terrifying me, but the screaming coming from that church every afternoon makes me want to dig my fingernails into my skin until there is blood. The songs are okay, even nice sometimes, but when it gets to the Jesus-wailing I just want to book it back to Brighton. Little children cry, men scream, and women shriek verses and prayers that could be heard on Zanzibar. And then there's an electronic keyboard that tries to accompany the whole thing. Ugh, that might actually be the worst part...

in other news, my malaria is gone, though it took a while for me to be able to move my shoulder again. It healed just in time for a drunk man to grab me by the arm yesterday as I was trying to enter a building and hold it in grip worthy of Arnold Schwarzeneggar. The whole management staff had to run out and pry him off me.

there's not a lot of food in Gulu, as evidenced by the one skimpy market in the middle of town. If there are no sweet potatoes at the market, there are no sweet potatoes in Gulu, and therefore any restaurant, when you order them, will simply say, 'they are not there.' Menus are useless; when entering any dining establishment it is custom to preface by asking, 'is there food?' Which may frequently be met with, 'it is not there.' Currently, pineapples are not there, much to my chagrin. Whenever pineapples are in season, mangoes are not, and vice versa. I never thought I could become sick of mangoes, but there you have it. Most nights I just end up making guacamole for dinner, as the market's three most dependable produce items happen to be the ingredients for a certain Mexican dish beloved by all muzungus. I'm taking a leaf out of my mother's book (well, except I'm not trying to substitute plain yogurt for avocados).

I've connected up with NAADS, the National Agriculture Advisory Services, and have spent the past couple of days with a farmer training worker named Charles who takes me to see his farmer groups in IDP camps. The irony that I've made it my life goal to study agriculture while barely setting foot on my farm at home never dawned on me quite so bluntly as when I first stepped onto the field where the farmers were planting maize. I wanted to collapse from thirst and from the sun, and I wasn't even holding a hoe. But it was really nice to be able to go out and see the farmers plant. They asked me if I knew any donors, and I sheepishly told them I was just a student, but they talked to me a lot about my research and told me about what it was like to try to farm during the war. Right now there is very high demand in Sudan for northern Uganda's crops, and the farmers seemed encouraged. I feel as though I am studying the right thing.