Home at Last

This whirlwind of a “goodbye” tour as it may is finally drawing to an end. I think I’ve about approached my limit, as I considered murdering the sarcastic old asshole in line in front of me in the security line, who held up 30 people while he and his 20+years younger wife unloaded their life’s possessions and packed a double stroller slow as can be into the x-ray belt.

I’m on the final leg. Salt Lake to Portland. What the hell put me in Salt Lake, you may ask? Was I considering a conversion to professional hobby skiing and Mormonism? Nope, just the really awesome connecting flight I was forced to change to thanks to my terrier of a supervisor in Kampala, who clearly failed to understand why extra connections, hours spent waiting and purchasing more overpriced food and baggage checking (gotta love flying now-a-days) wasn’t worth a $50 discounted ticket.

Alas. I ran my ass off from the gate to get to my connecting flight, and find myself sitting next to another entity with sickeningly sweet breath, wafting in my direction as he sleeps mouth open, faintly reminiscent of cheerios (granted, he’s probably 6 years old) which is only a slight upgrade from the last guy who just needed to learn to floss, and lose a few so his overbearing presence in a middle seat doesn't automatically share with both flanking seats. I really need to start to fly first class.

Grandma’s house in San Diego was good for a visit, I put in valuable face time, and acquired an antique watch fob, no less. Inside are pictures of her grandmother, Esther, and Esthers’ parents (my great, great, great grandparents), and her two sisters and one of her two brothers. The pictures are probably circa 1890 or so… and Grandma passed it on as she thinks I find family history fascinating (she is right), but also mainly because when I was 16, I completed a family tree project in US history that required months of geneology research and scanning microfilm in the creepy dusty canals of the Portland public library. I re-read part of what I had written, surprised at the breadth of detail. I used to be a damn good student! What happened in college? (not like I bombed out, but damn!)

Back in the time of WordPerfect and gluing cutout graphics on printed computer paper, I wrote of Esther’s family history, as this was the most information readily available to me. Her father, Saul, was a first-line immigrant to the US, where his given surname of Krotke was changed to Marks. He was called “Uncle Sam” by Roseburg, Oregon residents, as he was highly regarded and ran probably the main (or only general store) as well as helped develop and found the town. I always knew I was an Oregonian, and have felt a certain pride at this fact among the fake-bespectacled and tight pants-ed transplant hipsters cruising around town on their fixed gear, custom painted bicycles… but it was interesting to be reminded that I’m actually a 5^th generation Oregonian.
(Albeit one that tends to run away from time to time for periods of 6-10 months).

I have already internalized the excitement to spend the rest of the summer in Portland, my home. My preoccupation and curiosity instead lies in how long it will take before I become restless and itinerant again. I have tried to warp my head around a plan to continue work with Volcanoes within some other capacity, in fact, I think I somehow managed to convince my boss that I would be a solid investment and valuably worth considering in a management, alternative position, to be proposed entirely by me. The problem is instead the age-old adage, “Careful, you might get what you wish for.” And I’m not sure if I want to go back to living in Uganda right now. Part of me wants to take a breather and settle into life in Portland, maybe plan a trip for the middle of the winter as a break, and work for myself in Mary Kay, where the outcome is measurable and tangible. I’m looking forward to finding a rhythm that makes sense again, no doubt involving various degrees of soccer, yoga, laughs with friends, outdoor time, peddling Mary Kay, illegally downloading episodes of True Blood and new music…. it’s hard to make a plan right now to disrupt all that again come winter.

I’m not sure if I’ll keep this blog thing up. It’s nice to throw thoughts out there, but maybe it’s time to retire myself to plain old, boring occasional journal writing and bitching with friends. I do hope to keep a hopeful sense of wonder in my surroundings, not fall back into the dangerous pull of depression, staleness, and negativity, and a general disgust at American consumerism, greed and ignorance. It really is a beautiful place to live, if you create that place, water the lawn, pull the weeds and fill your yard with people you love.

Until next time. 

Back n the Saddle

What day is it? I’m currently on a flight out of Portland. Yes, that’s right, and confusing. Wasn’t I just in Uganda like 2 days ago? Yes, that’s right…. And still confusing.
Let me break it down a little more logically. Kampala, to Dubai to NYC to Portland, overnight, run around town all delirious for a day, pack for Mary Kay Seminar in Dallas, back on a plane by 12:50am. So technically it’s Saturday. That answers my question.

I barely made it onto this flight, however. Jen was so kind to drive me to the airport after an IPA at Ron Tom’s. Bad beer, rad friend. (“Hop Envy,” fail.)

I got to my gate on time, only to discover that I am completely retarded. I no longer had my ID and boarding pass, of which I had been holding in my hand out of the security point and somehow had since disappeared.  I searched my bags, getting slowly more and more anxious. It was gone. I figured finally I had set it on the counter while using the restroom before the flight. I ran back to the bathroom, and searched frantically in each stall. It didn’t help that I wasn’t entirely in my right mind thanks to the Ron Tom’s trip beforehand and general complete exhaustion and deliria.

I ran all the way back to the check-in gate, got a new boarding pass printed, then realized that I had my OLCC card on me still (state-issued) and plenty of credit cards, one with my picture on it (thanks, Costco!) Then back through security, pleading with TSA, then literally running, one shoe on-foot, one in-hand, to the gate. One of the agents actually came to check on me at security and got me to the gate. I am sitting on the plane as I write this. My computer clock says 4:36am, but I think that’s East Coast time, and it’s three hours earlier. A baby is crying frantically. I don’t ever want to travel with a little baby, unless it’s an angelic sleeping baby. It would be so stressful!

I feel surprising new bouts of joy throughout the day. I’ve been like this ever since deciding to come home and even more so now that I’m back on planes and trying to take steps to better assemble my life. 

I actually got a (non-standing) ovation getting onto the plane. It wasn’t because the other people on the flight loved me, rather the opposite, they were clapping for my holding them up and being the last to board.  I played it off like it was genuine applause, and through my shoe into the row with my bags for effect.

If I were an attention-whore, it would have been a great entrance. I’m just glad I made the flight. Two minutes after sitting there and getting settled, a flight stewardess walked over and handed me my ID and boarding pass. I told her openly, “I love you.” (She told me I didn’t have to.)

It would have been nice if someone had actually walked it to the gate so I could have boarded the plane like a normal person, however!

En-route

1am Dubai time... and for some reason everywhere I keep sitting is lovely and peaceful and there I am minding my own typing away or something and then in about 20 min I attract some annoying person all up in my business. The first was an Irish guy who tripped on the extended seat footrest and almost ended up in my lap.

Then I walked all over and moved to a new place, only to be joined by an Amazonian blonde German girl who proceeds to have a loud German phone conversation right in my ear. Not to mention that her clothing detergent/perfume smell is seriously making me nauseous. And I'm only 1/3 of the way done with my trip, It's going to be a long next couple days...er week plus.

I am going to be in shock by all the stuff when I get home. I am already appalled at people's behavior, general rudeness, flaunting their money and ill manners.... and I'm only in the airport.

I also realize that if I ever have a daughter, she is not going to be leaving my house looking like that! Those shorts are more like a dish towel tied in the back by some string. Oh dear.

Medications for Worms/Meditations on Life

Twas an eventful day.

First, I roll out of bed completely hungover, change into workout pants and experience full vampire-effect, coiling in terror as I attempt to walk out the front door into the morning sunshine. Re-emerging seconds later, dark sunglasses stuck on face, I bike to work.
Yes, work.
It's Saturday.
Ridiculously pointless to have to go all the way to the office to essentially check my email and half the time send one or two holding messages about needing to wait to check gorilla permit availability on Monday with the Uganda Wildlife Authority (which like any sane company, is closed on Saturdays). But hey, those are the rules. Thanks big boss in London. Really appreciate you in my heart every Saturday morning.

Anyway, I get back home around 1pm. To which Moses, our day askari/gardner tells me Indy has worms. :( yyyyyuk.
I hate little alien parasites that live in things and eat them/their food.

So, today was the day little Indy got her first trip to the dog doctor. Monica went with me and held her on her lap in the car. Turns out Indy has more serious worms, and not your regular tapeworms (although she probably has those too) but these nasty coiling clear spaghetti-shaped ones called Askari worms. The vet said it was a good thing she was a Bansenji-type breed, a real African dog, because purebred dogs like German Shepherds would die from the same quantity inside of her. She looks nothing like a Basenji, but I'm glad she's a bonified African street dog, who can handle some serious worms and tough it out like a trooper, little ribs protruding above her ballooned stomach. She didn't even make a peep during the antibiotics shots. Little love, so sweet, so brave.

I just pulled Indy onto my lap and cuddled her while I type this and she's making baby pig grunting noises out of sheer contentment. This is going to be one sharp, intelligent and fantastic dog. I wonder how big she will become in the end.

We went to the vet at the USPCA, an amazing (and unique!) organization that works to save the lives of street dogs and cats, and abused or neglected animals from around the city. Now I'm watching the videos about Hope and Lucky and the staff and getting all emotional. So many things need our help in this world!

Rescued dogs at the shelter... just bein' dogs. 

For example...
What I originally started this post about, is that on the way to and from the vet, Monica and I got to chat in the car about her life... and fuck. I'm sorry, but holy shit fuck goddamn. Like if you can paint a picture of someone who has the heart of a survivor, that is this woman. She doesn't know how old she is, since she was orphaned as a child. But since she thinks she had her first child at age 16, it would make her almost 32 or 33. Having her first child at 16 was also thanks to being raped by an older man who manipulated her to gain her trust, and then forced himself on her one day when her aunt (who "cared" for her after her parents died) wasn't home.

Her aunt basically treated her like Cinderella, so she was a houseslave, and had no way to tell anyone or find justice for how this man had treated her. She wasn't living in exactly a caring, compassionate and empowering environment. Monica told me she stayed with this man, because she didn't want to be the type of girl who has children by different fathers and a mixed up history, but she discovered within a year that he was not suitable father material. They had another child, a daughter, but the man was never around---sleeping with other women and basically being a complete asshole.  She said he would leave her 2,000 UGX for the entire family (the equivalent of like .80 cents) and she was doing all the housework, feeding and clothing the kids, and completely having to support herself.  

Then in 2004, her sister died of HIV. So her niece essentially became her third child. She had now been directly affected by the HIV virus by watching her sister die from it, and she wasn't about to let a philandering loser infect her and ruin her and her children's lives.

Monica left the loser husband, and openly disclosed her situation to her current boss, my neighbors Tracy and Anders (also some of the nicest people I have met here in Kampala), and that's how she came to live here full time. And she and her children love Indy, and she's already sleeping in the downstairs storage room where Dan, Monica's son, sleeps on a simple mattress on the floor.
Gnut and Pepper (Tracy and Anders' dogs) love Indy too, and bite her playfully and let her follow them all around the compound. She is one little happy dog. Minus the whole creepy worms thing.

I bought the de-worming medicine (including a stop to a pharmacy on the way home for people de-worming tablets for everyone who's been letting Indy lick his or her face) and settled home again for a lazy rest of the day. I was already planning on leaving most of my clothing here for Monica or Lucky (our maid that comes three times a week) and now I am planning on also leaving some money for Monica to buy a bicycle for her son. He asked me for mine when I go, and not only do I think it shows a lot of character that he would be brave enough to ask me, he's a really good, hard-working, and seemingly shy kid. But so is Moses, (the 20-something askari) and I want to give him my bicycle. I guess the moral of today's story is that I think it's pretty great that people can try and do things to help the "greater causes" of the world, or feel empowered working for some big-vision NGOs or whatever.... but I find the most powerful things we can often do are already in our own back yard.

(Especially if it's an African back yard. The rest of you may have to take a short walk. )

Driving say what!

 What's new? One of my roommates went back to the UK to be there for his sick mother, and was planning on returning this week, but things have since worsened. His situation once again reminds me that if we have good health, we truly are fortunate. I can't imagine seriously contemplating the approaching death of my mother, or any family member or close friend for that matter.

On that super depressing note, he was kind enough to allow me the use of his car while away. Which has now become a chunk of time. 

Driving in Kampala is kind of like playing bumper cars with an imaginary bubble around you that you try not to pop...while in a video game involving suicidal boda-bodas coming at you from all angles, street sweepers and oblivious pedetrians you must avoid running over, not to mention the errant goat or chicken.

The other fun part is that his car is a manual, and the steering wheel is on the right side of the car, while I now drive on the left side, shift with my left hand and attempt to remember which way to enter on rounda-bouts and turns. Needless to say it's been eventful. I still occasionally turn on the back windshield wipers in an attempt to signal to traffic. (Why is that thing on the other side!?)

Kate, the pic above is dedicated to you... not sure you can see why!

Most of the time driving is spent sitting in stop and go traffic. So frustrating--and wasteful. And this is why I choose to ride a bicycle. I take every opportunity to get away from the city madness and pollution, and had the pleasure of running away to Jinja last weekend for two days. I stayed at my friend Celia's place (whom I met while at the Karibu Travel Fair in Arusha). 

She and her husband Jacque are South African expats who live in the countryside (all of Jinja is basically countryside with the exception of a small central downtown area). They also have three enormous dogs that can knock you over, or drag you down the road should you attempt to run with one of them on a leash (which I learned the hard way when I took Mickey the giant hound out upon my first visit to their place three weeks ago).

The other family members are Jack a Husky/Shepherd mix, and Otis, a Great Dane. I love going to visit these guys. Not only is it a chance to breathe fresh oxygen, go outside, and play in the beautiful scenery, they've made it a point to welcome people into their homes, making the culture shock I've experienced in this country melt away. We had a proper South African braai on both of my visits to their place, which is basically a BBQ but better. The meats are supposed to be cooked over wood I believe, but we make it happen with a coal grill nonetheless. And we also enjoyed giant avocados in salad, and braai brekkie, basically a delicious S. African version of grilled cheese. YUM!

This last visit was especially special, since Celia found out she is preggers. I'm so happy for them, they are lovely people and deserve nothing but the best.

Then this is how I spent the rest of my Sunday, which is basically how I would like to spend most Sundays--or in some approximate variation involving sand and margaritas.

Bye Jinja! (For now)

What's that in your laundry basket?

Uh oh.

Last time this happened I ended up with a Benny.

This tiny, half-starved thing was wandering around the streets about 10 min away from my house as I was running after work, and on my way home. I ran past, then stopped, then walked back slowly...


And in the past half hour, I just realized she will still fit in a carry-on cat crate in about 3 weeks...

'-'   We'll see... totally flea-ridden and somehow I am still letting her sleep in my lap right now.


July 10th Update. The house girl who works next door, and lives on the compound already cares for the neighbors' two dogs, G-nut and Pepper. Monica loves dogs, has three children, and her oldest son loves the pup.  I named her Indy... and have already stopped trying to get attached to her. Emirates doesn't fly dogs except in cargo, and she wouldn't survive Uganda to Dubai then Dubai to NYC.  It's just a bit much. I can get another needy animal back home. I'm just glad she will have a happy ending to her street dog beginnings.

She's cute, and naughty, and going to be a rad dog when she grows up one day.

Row row row my boat

I haven’t been blogging much lately I don’t feel I have anything interesting to communicate. That, or I find it difficult to get it from my brain to page. And then there's the laziness.  It's so much more fun to watch a movie or eat chocolate. I also know that my friends who bear with me and actually read this thing are really more interested in the pictures of the random things I’ve somehow still managed to get myself into, like camel rides and dog shows at travel fairs, and terror-stricken expressions of flipping rafts in class 5 rapids in the Nile. And if I’m planning on being all “self-reflective and shit” maybe it’s just a bit too inward for everyone else out there.

But oh well! As I said long ago, it’s my blog. And I do what I want. (Winky emoticon) ;)

I am sitting here translating this complex technical manual about solar lighting from English into Spanish (for a pretty penny, if I do say so myself!) and while taking a minute from typing in this incredibly awkward position on my stomach in bed, I let my head fall face first into the pillow to relax my strained neck for a moment. My hair encircled my face, and the smell of fresh shampoo engulfed me (fresh smelling anything a pretty big commodity here) and a sudden though occurred to me.

I am going home in 23 days. I will be around people who bathe regularly and actually smell nice when you sit near them and hug them. When I left, there was someone I cared about a lot—whose pheromones or whatever worked for me—and that smell took me there for a moment (he was a fan of personal hygiene, unlike many men here).

Anyway, I realized I am going home and there is finally a much greater possibility of assembling some sort of understandable life there. As of right now I am in the process of negotiating a proposal with my job here to try and be predominantly based from the US. Very likely it will be a part-time position, which I can pair with my Mary Kay business and afford the flexibility, income and freedom from the 9-5 life that has never sat well with me. At the same time, I don’t want to be a starving artist. I want to be happy and will choose love and relationships, and fun over a regimented steady income anyday. But I also realize that money affords opportunities, and I am not one to sit on the sidelines with opportunities out there to be had! It’s pretty hard to travel the world with no money… that or I’m just not clever enough to figure it out.

But for now, I am going home.

I will be able to have a regular exercise routine, and run outside without choking on diesel fumes. I can start doing yoga again, playing soccer, going hiking and camping with my dog, eating mixed green salads and going to live music and happy hour with friends. I can drive to a store and get pretty much everything I need in one go. I can deal with broken appliances, customer service, bill payment, bank withdrawals, etc without it turning into an entire day activity, or not even working at all.

But more so, what occurred to me, is that this is exactly where I hoped I would get myself. Into a position of negotiating the ideal job for me. Into a position of being able to fully take care of myself financially, satisfy my wanderlust, and continue working toward getting myself to Brazil…ahhhh just 2 years to go. The power of positive thought and focused action in the direction of one’s desires really can materialize what you dream. It sounds so cheesy, but it’s eerily true.

The tricky part is figuring out what specifically you want, then summoning the grace and patience to allow the journey to get you there. And it will do so in ways that very often don’t make any sense. There will be significant detours, dead ends and the occasional u-turn during this journey.

I see a window. It’s not the catch-all, end-all, and I know that I still don’t have all (or even many) of the answers… but there is hope.

When I first arrived here I hoped to become more self-sufficient I wanted to be able to sit quietly with myself and feel completely secure in that strange loneliness. I think I have learned what it feels like to be so far out of your comfort zone, you stop trying to make yourself comfortable. You succumb to the frustration, the solitude, the confusion—and literally go with the flow. In that moment that you stop fighting against the current, and begin to float along with the tide, something shifts. Even if you don’t know where this strange waterway will deposit you, ceasing to struggle causes you to enjoy the temperature of the tide, the passing scenery along the banks, the occasional fish you bump into with your toe or the bubbles that tickle your skin. You’re no longer choking on water, scared of an alligator eating you or contracting bilharzia. (See? Been here too long already)

I’ve been in Africa for over 5 months… and as of now I know this place, this crazy dirty crowded and isolating city of Kampala, now and in this form, is not for me.

But I’ve seen big game on safari in an ancient volcanic crater, river rafted down the Nile, played soccer with rough 20-year old African boys shouting Luganda at each other, played as the weird muzungu in a college tournament, ridden a bike all over the city to the aghast expressions of locals, and worked my ass off at a job that paid me shit and made me come in almost every Saturday in the past 5 months. And out of it all, I’ve seen myself in a different light. And I know I will see my life that I return to in a different light as well. It will eventually become familiar once again, and I will start to get annoyed at the little American grievances that right now seem like a pleasure in comparison. I will probably get depressed at the shitty Oregon rain, Benny will run away and piss me off, I will stub my toe or roll my ankle in soccer, find a new dent on my car door in the parking lot and get overcharged for some toiletries in Target, then be pissed I have to drive all the way back there just to sort out this damn $5 but I have to because it’s the freakin principle of the thing—why can’t people just do their jobs! But until then, I will try to take a moment to be proud of what I’ve accomplished in my 28 years, and take a rare self-congratulatory moment, and try to appreciate the good.

I want to learn to think more about what I want in life and pull that abundance to me, then find patience when it seems like things are still harder than they should be. I want to continue to learn to trust the process, savor the present and enjoy the ride.

And the rest of what happened in Tanzania

Other than the Dutch already mentioned, the additional people on my safari were Angélique from Montreal, Matt from Melbourne and Ahmed from Zanzibar. (The last two joining us only on the second day for the descent into Ngorongoro Crater.) They were all quite pleasant company (and Rudger quite pleasant to look at as well) J

At first I didn't feel significantly different than the other travelers, other than the fact that I had a leopard-printed hand luggage carry-on as my suitcase, and nothing resembling backpacker attire (i.e. large hiking backpack, safari-tan hats, khakis, grungy cargo shorts, t-shirts celebrating brands of Thai and Indian beer.) I soon found out that they were all 24-years-old or less, four of them 22 or less, and it struck me as funny that this was the budget safari I had chosen to afford. (Considering that I sell several thousand dollar luxury safaris almost daily.) Reflects back on my current situation a bit, as well as the fact that I really should be using complimentary and significantly reduced semi-luxurious travel options--touting my travel operator status as reason to deserve familiarization trips. This would of course involve planning, not to mention a bit more notice than a rushed workweek in which i am told I will be traveling to Tanzania for a trade show.

The campsite in which I stayed two nights was pretty sparse. We were fed simple foods, such as orange slices and spaghetti with meatsauce, then rice with meat and watermelon and mango on the second night. The shared bathrooms were more than a bit disgusting--as are most public restrooms in Africa-- the first night especially inducing dry-heaving upon entry. It looked as if someone had died—from one end in particular—in one of the stalls. The other stalls were drop pots, where you literally have to squat over a hole and aim in order to keep your feet clear of errant sprays. Men have it so easy sometimes. 

Here, as in Kampala, men will just pull their car or bike over and go stand on the side of the road and pee onto something. It happens in the middle of the city. I could be walking along a path to the grocery store and have to step several feet out of the way to avoid seeing more than I bargained for and/or getting sprayed.

Still, it all turned out well-enough in the end. The girl I invited on the bus to the campsite near Lake Manyara, Angélique, got the same trip and itinerary for $110 less than me (thanks to my negotiations on her behalf) and because I assumed that adding a person to our vehicle would lower my own cost. The tricky part was negotiating with the Tanzanian tour operators to agree to pay me back. I ended up with a $50 refund and an apology, but at least I learned my lesson and made it clear to the operator that something of a monetary gesture in refund/apology was better than nothing.

Lake Manyara turned out to be pretty disappointing after the appeal of seeing giraffes and zebras in the wild wore off.... you tend to get a bit desensitized quite quickly after driving back the same animals for hours at a time. That was pretty much all we saw, with a few forest elephants near the entrance. Although, it is fair to say giraffes are extremely unusual creatures, and quite comical in appearance when closely analyzed: alien antennaes sticking out above fuzzy hears and a quizzical expression on top of an overly stretched neck, slanted back and different-length gangly legs. When they run it’s even funnier, as they canter horse-like, yet in awkward, uneven and jarring steps. 

The landscape by the lake was impressionable. It’s unusual to see giraffes lounging lakeside, their long necks sticking out in the foreground of the expanse beyond.

The following day at Ngorongoro Crater was a different story--a different world. As soon as the safari vehicle descended below the fog resting on top of the crater, a great African savannah revealed itself below. Wildebeasts charged each other, running in circles, stirring up dust, communicating constantly in a series of humerous grunts.

We had a close encounter with a huge male elephant-- who looked like he was considering standing off with the safari car near us....

It ended with a stare-down, a quick dust bath and dismissive flap of the ears and trunk.

The lions in the crater are so accustomed to safari cars and humans, the literally walk in front in between the cars,  stop in the middle of the road, and, in one case in particular, spoon with tires. 

 

In one case, a female lion walked slowly between the vehicles, about 6 inches below my window, which I stupidly leaned out of to get a great picture--realizing I could have literally pet the thing without even extending my arm... Fortunately for me, the lions there are so habituated, they don't even bat a lion eyelash or raise a lion nostril to your nearby human stench.

I felt pretty lucky to finally get the chance to see a huge variety of game in the wild, and spend some time off work to explore on my own. We drove back to Arusha that evening and I spent the night at the Backpacker's Hostel in town. 

(Where I contemplated my softness, but enjoyed sleeping in a top-bunk like a 12-year old.)

I met up with my friend the next day and we spent the afternoon in town before driving to Moshi for an overnight at her house. It was great to catch up with an old friend in a completely random, foreign setting. Who could have guessed we would have a reunion in East Africa? Complaining about African drivers, men peeing all over the place, the utter inefficiency of most things, and the dangers of walking alone at night...

"But no, I really do love it here."

"Really? It doesn't sound like it...."

(I guess it's just nice to have a familiar face to lament to, sometimes.)

The end (s).

Blogging about blogging

Ever notice how prolongued hunger has the effect of actually causing you to lose you appetite? Your stomach shrinks a bit, and suddenly you realize that you don’t feel those gnawing hunger pangs anymore—or you do finally eat then realize you’re satiated by much less?

So goes my social life, as I have become more and more accustomed to being alone, spending each day in a similar routine of get-myself-through-hectic-polluted-Kampala-traffic-noise-and-home with the occasional bout of solitary exercise before or after, such as running through said smog-choked streets. And often throw in 40 minutes of reading at a quiet table during lunch, and there you have it—Holly in Africa.

I haven’t given up, completely, I just stopped caring so much. Yes, I am single, and—gasp--twenty-eight. I would love to find a meaningful romantic relationship, loyal, inspiring friendships, and a career that challenges and energizes me. Yet, no, I haven’t discovered that repeated excursions of binge drinking and banal conversation really stimulate my interest in Kampala’s social offerings.

On par with my new hermity self, I settled onto my bed, excited to zone out to two or three episodes of HBO’s Rome before going to bed. True, it might be fun to catch some of the European cup at a nearby bar for a 9:45pm kickoff as I almost managed to do… but that would involve leaving my bed.

I watched an episode and a half and got sucked into Facebook. That’s when I saw that a friend’s mother recently died of cancer. I had missed the announcements in the past week offering condolences and an invite to her memorial service. I’ve known this friend for over a decade, but we were never as close as back when we were little girls, chasing animals around in the barn or getting pulled through poopy mud puddles by her brother on a tractor.

It’s strange this world we live in, where you can get such an intimate glimpse into people’s lives without having to make yourself known. You can read someone’s diary online (ahem, cough, blogging) or just be a creepy stalker of your new boy or girlfriend’s old photos involving the opposite sex. We are so undeniably involved in the business of others, yet entirely removed and sterilized, so that we can easily go about our own selfish ways without ever truly giving of ourselves.

It was through the same power of Stalkbook months ago that I discovered another friend from high school had lost her new baby only weeks after its birth. I am no longer close enough to this friend to really have any business in comforting her, but shit, this virtual news makes me sad. It makes me think.  I am so fortunate for what I have been given in life and what I (hopefully) have left to experience.

But this life business aint easy.

People get their hearts broken. People suffer serious tragedy. No one escapes pain.

Some seem to ease their way through life, but maybe they are better at privatizing their problems rather than Tweeting their grief and “PinInterest”ing their strife. We throw up pictures on Facebook and other media forums demonstrating this plastered and imagined ideal of happiness—ahhhh life is all drinks and parties and trampolines and instagram colors of precious moments and confetti and cake and beautiful vacations and significant others and laughing.

But then, it’s not.

People’s new babies die for no apparent reason. People’s mothers depart this life well before their time.  People’s brothers and cousins go into rehab, they fight with their girlfriends, they get dumped by their cheating boyfriends, their parents divorce, their grandfathers die, and their dogs get run over by cars.

Yet we must persist, because, really, what choice is there? This pain that is so alarming when first confronted is also unifying, because in its essence, it’s what makes us human.
The lows in life allow us to truly appreciate and recognize the highs.

Experiencing one anothers' pain is a humbling and grounding force for acknowledging our own blessings in life—and appreciating them before it’s too late.

That said, I am missing my mom right now, and hope she knows how much I love her, even though we fight like newly introduced hens half of the time.

And I hope my friend who lost her mom is feeling loved by everyone else in her life, and knows her mom is forever watching over her as well. 

Jambo!

Am I becoming soft? The last couple days have suddenly caused me to question this very notion as I travel among the backpacker early twenty-something crowd. Not feeling so much older as just... er... well-seasoned? At least people are still surprised when I tell them I'm 28. Fake it 'til I make it.

My time here in Tanzania has been partially frustrating, partially awe-inspiring, partially just a treat away from the working world. The trip began with three days at the Karibu Trade and Tourism Fair--a pretty low-end (in terms of snooty tour operators' standards) travel fair where different companies related to travel in the area come to network/sell/learn about products and related services. Much of the fair was a bit boring, sitting at a table within the Rwandan booth (our company has an office in Kigali as well,) but it was broken up by entertaining bouts of traditional dancing from four Rwandese students. One boy in particular had the most mesmerizing smile I have seen-- it undulated pure joy. Every time I looked at him, I became happy.  It was the most incredible thing--his bliss was contagious.

People wandering around the fair, agents, operators and tourists alike, were drawn to the graceful and vibrant dancing from these kids... and we tabled our wares in the interim.

   


My lack of Swahili was repeatedly (and sometimes antagonistically challenged) as certain arrogant men sternly repeated themselves louder and louder, as if somehow I could snap out of English and magically speak fluent Swahili back if they just forced it out of me. I am still mixed up days later, but now respond in like form to the greetings of Jambo/Mambo/Karibu Sana from everyone I meet.

Nice!

I am typing this post poolside from the hotel I stayed at for a few days during the fair. My childhood friend arrives soon from Moshi, and we'll spend the rest of my trip together. Life is good!! Even when it's momentarily bad. I'm running out of time here, but have lots to share about the last couple days, where I ventured into the wild with my ridiculous, cheetah-spotted carry-on luggage for camping, a bit of "roughing it," butchering Swahili greetings and replies, meeting some interesting people and getting so close to a lion I could have easily pet its back. I visited Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Crater with a group of four others, then seven, as two joined us for day two in the crater. Our driver, nicknamed China, apparently because he knows some tae kwon do, even though it's a Japanese sport was an interesting sort. On each side of his neck sat an elongated growth that looked something like a triangular, pointy fingernail growing from a small spot of skin. I tried to focus on his face when talking to him, but my eyes frequently wandered southward, thinking "what the hell are those?!?" I never did find out.

Britt's here! Will tell you more when I am in front of a computer again.

Things are looking up, and so am I!

Funny how changing location makes me so ridiculously happy by default. Going to a new place and noticing positive, tangible change reminds me of how fortunate I am. I experience moments of being proud of how far I've come in my life--the things I have overcome and experienced thus far and will continue to experience... I don't just settle. And it's uncomfortable sometimes. Much of the time. Excrutiatingly so. But then I have these moments of really experiencing the calm awareness that anything I truly want to make happen, from deeply within myself, I will.
Really, anyone can materialize these things for themselves, if they choose to make it so.
My dream life and idea of progress entirely differs from many others, but I have discovered what doesn't make me happy... feeling stuck, stagnant, bored and uninspired. And when I am that frustrated and uncomfortable, and it's sticking, I know it's time for a change.

So, here I am, sitting in the airport, en route to Tanzania for a week. My favorite guide drove my coworker, Agnes, and me to Entebbe from the office. His name is Moses, surname Bahati, but here the order is typically reversed in introductions and really any written document, (not to mention the fact that there are four ‘Moses’es that work for Volcanoes,) so he generally goes by Bahati. I call him Bahottie. As you can imagine, he’s your “typical” beautiful African man—tall, silky smooth-looking dark skin, thin but muscular…man, oh man. The funny thing is he just started talking to me over the past couple weeks. Before that, I would sit, tormented in the office as he walked by, internally screaming, “Say hi to me! Smile in my direction!” And then, after about a month of this ridiculous internal strife, I finally gave up on the idea of flirting with the sexy guide. Now he talks to me every time he’s around the office. In fact, last week he did a double take walking past the sales team desk toward reception and almost ran into the wall.

It was amazing. Amazingly hilarious. I looked around, nervous for his sake, to see if anyone had captured the incident…unfortunately, (or fortunately) I was the only one who noticed.  

The eternal curse of irony.

Our drive to Entebbe involved navigating the typical cityscape through Kampala and its outskirts. I sat in front of the safari vehicle, sweating, since the passenger seat is directly above the gearbox or some other hot car mechanical-type-thing. We passed men on the street selling electronic bug swatters, multipacks of toilet paper, prepaid cell phone minute cards, waving giant instructional geography maps of Africa for children, or basic anatomy diagrams of labeled body parts. I looked around affectionately at the madness... I wish there was a way my eyes could better translate to my fingers to translate to you what one sees looking out a window in these countries. I'll feebly attempt a bit. 

Men in tattered, sun-faded t-shirts (the worn-out shades hipsters would die for in Portland) push clunky steel bicycles piled high with wood, or grass along the side of the road. One young guy stops rolling a tractor tire almost as large as him at a stoplight alongside a backlog of boda drivers.  Matatu taxis veer erratically on and off the road and into traffic, their enforced metal grills in front acting like battering rams should anyone try to get in their way. At one crossing, a fully grown cow stood on the cement divider between two lanes of traffic. How it got there is anyone's guess. The fact that no one cared is another. 

As you enter the slightly more rural outskirts of Kampala, the various duka shops, salons and garages have men sitting around in front, looking bored. Women carry water in jerry cans from some nearby source. Some people have wares laid out in front of them on the roadside on blankets: miscellaneous shoes, pots and pans, tomatoes and mangoes piled high into pyramids in colorful plastic bowls. There undoubtedly is someone selling chapatis, or samosas, friend triangular folds filled with meat or diced oily vegetables. Or maandazi in handmade wooden boxes fashioned onto the backs of bodas or 

Everyone seems to be moving, scurrying across the street, biking, boda-driving... it's hard to figure out where everyone is going, or coming from, and why. It's also tiring just watching some of these people, out in the hot sun on their cumbersome bicycles, dragging supplies to another area. Nothing is easy here... unless you can afford to make it so by having other people do all the hard stuff for you. But somehow, there are moments, where everything is beautiful and bright and hopeful--and you feel lucky to be alive and experiencing all that is around you.

I flew into Arusha on a small plane, seeing Kilimanjaro for the first time looming in the distance as we neared the runway. You could find me grinning maniacally at various intervals throughout this entire airport/flying/landing/airport/waiting/walking/sitting/driving day.  Just happy. Happy to be on the move. Seeing something new.  We took a private car to the Impala Hotel, which turns out to be this charming, vintage-luxury-type place. I thought we would be sharing rooms, in the same style as the fam trip finale. (still need to post the rest of those stories) but no, I get to lounge around in peace in my princess bed (thanks to the dramatic appeal of mosquito netting) and pirate free wireless and feel grateful and forunate to be in this place, in my body, with my life. Even though I'm not sure how it will all work out, when I will meet the man of my dreams, when this whole career thing will settle a bit and make sense... I have faith that it will. And sometimes that's enough.

KokoMo Betta

Arusha, Jamaica ooooh I wanna take ya // Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama! Wait a minute, she said Arusha, not Aruba. That's right beach boys. I am going to Arusha, Tanzania.

Trade show coming up June 8th, and guess who wiggled herself onto a flight in that direction? Me, that's who.  Stone-cold proof that it doesn't hurt to speak up. When I heard another coworker get invited to go to Tanzania for this show weeks ago, I cringed... why did my boss invite her!? She barely smiles. It took me 2.5 months to get her to warm up to me, and I only succeeded by the sparkling magic of lip gloss. Sure, she's worked for Volcanoes for six years, in comparison to my amazing performance of four months, but I can at least pretend to be charming! I have nice teeth! Good posture! I am great at faking elaborate knowledge of things which at best I possess a rudimentary understanding of! Like, forming passive sentences ending with exclamation points!! (Great sales points, right?)

Well against all odds, I made a point of requesting a special meeting with my boss and explaining that I really enjoyed many things about my job with Volcanoes, but I wanted to work more on marketing, more journalism: writing stories, interviewing participants in our non-profit sector, creating deliverables to share with the public, experiencing the product, LEAVETHEOFFICEBEFOREIPULLOUTALLOFMYHAIR-type stuff. That, and it's really hard to work a sales job as an underpaid peon, making no commission, having no sales incentives, while literally funneling hundreds of thousands of dollars into the company.

I thought she didn't hear me. She kind of faded away after that meeting, supposedly met with the big London boss about the many things the sales team had shared with her... but didn't bat an eyelash for over a week after he left, and I never got any feedback to the many things I had suggested and shared.

Then the logistics manager who was supposed to accompany the sales consultant couldn't go anymore. He is instead somewhere between Rwanda and Nairobi, I think. So V (boss lady) asked me if I would like to accompany the other girl. To which I waited .04 seconds to emphatically accept.

Granted, I will be in some sort of business center no doubt, shmoozing and yawning for most of the 4 day show. I will also hilariously be dressed in traditional Rwandan attire.  Hands will be shook. Smiles will be plastered into place. Pictures will be had. But it will be in Tanzania. And you gotta love an excuse to get one more stamp into that passport.

And for Kate—who hopefully still reads this from time-to-time—I envision saying, "Mooore pictures!" (In a cookie monster growl)

I present, Kilimanjaro:

Then, thanks to the wonders of the interwebs, I happened upon this bizarre story/site...which started so sweetly I though it was an African fable for children... then it literally headed south. 

I just lost 15 minutes that I will never get back... but it was kind of fun. 

Gnuts n Pepper

Who are we really? Not only who are we, inside, but who are we to other people? Because I’m starting to think what we mean to others matters more than what we mean to ourselves. I could be a garbage collector, (no offense, if you or someone you love labors within this noble profession) but if my good friends and family see me as a source of strength, as someone they can count on and care about, someone of integrity and “moral fiber,” what does it matter what I do? Or my own, pissy, self image?

This argument may sound a bit pedestrian, but I just randomly selected “A Serious Man” to watch tonight, alone in my African room, which ended unceremoniously after (spoiler alert) the main guy receives a phone call from his doctor to come in to talk about his x-ray results in person (bad news) and his son is waiting for his Hebrew school teacher to unlock the school’s basement door so all the kids can take shelter from the ominous dark cloud of a tornado approaching (dramatic, yet unavoidable, potential bad news.)

It was confusing. Disappointing, perhaps, as one expects some sort of end to a story after committing 100-something minutes trying to absorb its message. But then I picked up my Zadie Smith novel and tried to finish it—realizing that everything tonight is Jewish themed—and as I’m glossing over the words of this novel, trying to decipher its meaning, I realize my brain is going independently—which is incredibly frustrating considering that I’m 10 pages away from being done with this 400 page novel—and the thought I am thinking is something akin to where I fit with my three girlfriends back home. Who am I to them? They say they miss me via the occasional Facebook post, email or Skype session…. like my absence there has created some sort of loss. I matter. And I feel juvenile because for some reason I picture the four of us as characters from Sex and the City, and I am asking myself privately, “which character would I be?” Realizing that I don’t think we are really characters, or even similar in character, to these fictional women, but realizing that my hackneyed thought process is trying to tell me that I may not see myself clearly, or even understand how that may be possible.  Meanwhile I’m having my Fear and Loathing in Kampala, only much more quietly because I don’t have access to any hard drugs, and I feel a little too much social responsibility to dive completely off the deep end. That, and I have to start another week of work in the morning.

I wonder if I ask myself about the meaning of life more than the average person. It seems others make decisions, accept them, then move on with their lives. This is a behavior I observe in my ex-boyfriends.  This lack of self-deprecation and doubt. This ability to "forgive and forget" or just plain forget.

(My mom being an exception in her grave contemplation and second-guessings at life decisions; myself, genetically and/or observantly, following suit.)

What do I want in life? The same boring things really. A partner-in-crime. Maybe some kids at some point. A satisfying career, enough money to live off of, play amply with, and go on vacation frequently by. True, reliable friends. Good relationships with my parents. An idea that I am in someway contributing to making the world, or my little corner of it, a better place. Being continuously challenged and pleasantly surprised by the world and its bits.

I don’t know if I should post this stuff to the blog. I kind of feel like the blog is over, I’m over it all here. But I can’t just sit here and watch movies and rot for two months, waiting for my return flight to arrive....

Its just so strange to feel so strongly what you want and at the same time have no idea—No idea how to actually achieve really much of anything, instead seemingly blindly flailing about. Most people probably don’t end up typing about this alone on a bed in the middle of East Africa. Maybe they take a Xanex and go to bed. Or eat some cake and watch TV.

I have cotton mouth. 

I feel puffy. 

Dogs are barking outside, and the only other noise is the hum of the fluorescent lightbulb in my room.

I skipped over my whereabouts during and since the fam trip to the lodges. I am now relocated to a somewhat normal house, with a mostly normal bed, shared living area and kitchen. 

Shopping is all weird again, mainly because I’ve had to readjust from my once nearby Namuwongo market routine selections of cabbage, onion, tomato and garlic, served at least 4x/week over pasta… occasionally with some edam cheese if I’ve planned in advance. Now I’m in Kololo, a much fancier (said with accent and mimed quotations) part of town, nearby embassies and government offices, where people speed past me in their SUVs over the infrequent (in comparison) potholes to get to their offices where they can make a disgusting comparative wage for living in Uganda. I’m paying almost 3x the rent I was paying in VietNamuwongo, and it’s entirely worth it because my roommates are nice to me. Really, it’s the simple things that are most important.

That, and there’s a garden. 

 

And dogs. 

The dogs’ names are Gnut (a local abbreviation for grounduts, similar to peanuts and usually roasted in oil) and Pepper, and I like to sit at their level on the front step  and mess with their gnarled teeth, tugging on their loose skin, until I get them all riled up, and they can’t help but go nuts on each other for 15 minutes straight, as young, puppyish dogs will do. It makes me miss having Benny, but happy I have someone to pet.

When I do Ashtanga on the porch, Gnut stretches next to me and can hardly control herself, occasionally whining in excited exasperation, as I am clearly bending in all sorts of ways in some prolonged strange performance/homage to dogdom. She shoes me her downward dog in return, then flops down, bored. They both walk over my mat and when my feet are extended straight in front of me, I get licks on my toes, or paws on my legs in the manner of an old Jewish grandmother patting you after a good joke, “Oy! my dear, stop, you’re killing me!”  Pepper barks nonstop in total terror of anyone new within the compound, myself included for four days upon my arrival, and then once she loves you, won’t leave you alone, wiggling up next to you and rolling over in submission half-on top of you or in your lap if she can manage. This afternoon, I got battering-rammed in the sternum with her nose by a flying acrobatic leap—that’s how glad she was to see me again.

I ate dinner tonight on the porch alone, a very creative meal: diced potatoes, tofu, marinated in soy sauce and garlic, chopped tomato, gnuts and rehydrated, once-dried mushrooms, all pan-fried together into this sort of crazy stir-fry… (I've always been really good at using all my leftovers, often in strange new ways, and I realize I would do quite well on one of those cooking shows or where they make you come up with a meal based on five random ingredients.... baking is a bit trickier...)

I watch the light begin to fade behind the hills, admired the palm trees and tropical flowers in the yard, and for a moment, felt peaceful and proud that even though I don’t know what I’m doing, at least I do something.  And then comes the day when I will just have to do something else.

Some Sort of Sunday

A panic attack, 7am phone call to the US, two-hour yoga session, 8 person ladies' brunch complete with facials, makeovers and mimosas, and an hour-long massage. It's been quite a day already, and it's only 6pm.

Such is life in Kampala; it mirrors the weather. One moment it's sunny and bright, you're standing in front of some strange tropical plant bearing giant fruit, a butterfly lands on your nose.... ok maybe I'm getting carried away, but you get the point.... Then the wind picks up, you realize there are dark clouds funneling your way, thunder rumbles and you happen to be in the middle of a muddy overcrowded street with boda-bodas and matatus trying to run you over, the rain coming sideways and upside down,  you have no umbrella to speak of, and your feet are orange-brown in clay mud and god-knows-what-else until you can figure out a way to get home.

Home.

I am ready to come home.

I admit it.

Unless something magical happens in the next couple months, I'm just tired of being here.

It's homesickness in a way, but it's more than that. I don't feel like it's unbearable to live here--just not ideal, or even mostly ideal. It seems the experience should by now offer more rewards than drawbacks. I'm just thinking it's not a very good fit. I'm having a very disparate experience to what I had while living in Ecuador.

I miss my friends. I miss IPA. I miss my dog. I miss normal grocery stores with options of food inside. I miss things operating somewhat efficiently. I miss concerts.  I miss driving--oh god, I miss driving my car like _________(insert fitting clever simale here). I miss a bicycle with gears that shift, and a chain that stays on at least most of the time.

But more than the missing, I feel like I am missing the mark. Maybe there are more opportunities to be had here, but it doesn't seem to be falling into place. The job is blah. My exercise routine is difficult to maintain, sporadic at best. My diet is ridiculously overloaded with starchy carbs. My dating life is non-existant. My social life only slightly better, and only sometimes, because I happen to enjoy dancing, and eating... two things you can usually find other people to wrangle into participation.

The funny thing is that I don't really know what I'm going home to. My mom is moving to Arizona... it will be the first time living in Oregon with both parents in different states. I have friends, but not a set idea of who will be around to spend time with me, or what we will find. I'm not sure if I will do Mary Kay and some other part-time job, or if I need to get a full-time job, or even relocate. All of these unknowns are a bit overwhelming (hence the 7am panic attack) and part of me is still excited. I'm excited to see Portland with new eyes. I'm excited to plan the next step and have something to look forward to, knowing I came here and tried.  Even if it didn't fit, I learned a bit more about myself. Maybe I travelled a few steps toward knowing what it is that makes me happy, and complete. I have a strong urge to fly home, settle back into a new routine that involves travelling into the beautiful wild places throughout the country, I haven't seen enough of Eastern Oregon, I'd like to get tickets for some outdoor music festivals, plan epic hikes... I'm excited to go home and re-explore what I grew to take for granted. My complacency, the devilish inner critic disguised as intelligent, objective, self-loathing seems to pull a dark cloud over much of what I've accomplished thus far in my life. That, paired with the actual dark clouds that hang over Portland for months on end can be draining.

I'm looking forward to going home for the most beautiful part of the year, to recharge, reconnect with friends, recount my toes, and pick a new dot on the globe to think about calling home. 

Rainy days

“Your jacket is exceeding your arms.”

Cutest way I’ve been ever told my top is too big.

But, yes. The rainy season is upon us in Kampala, and long sleeves are part of the new occasion.

This week I biked to work and passed two other Ugandan men on bicycles, one of which had an alarmingly huge crate strapped to the back of his bicycle, the other was holding a live chicken by the upper crease of its wings.  Apparently it was some sort of blow to their African masculinity to be passed by a woman on a bicycle, because both made an demonstrated effort to peddle frantically in order to pass me back, which alone was amusing enough... only more so when Mr. Chicken used his right hand to gesture where he was turning to oncoming traffic (his right hand containing the chicken.)

“Only in Africa,” I thought to myself.

On the way to work, I look around and try to absorb the novelty of my surroundings, rather than travel the same daily route in a jaded, been-here-long-enough-so-stop-staring-at-me “over-it” mentality (as much as I do feel “over-it” when it comes to Africans shouting "Muzungu, how are you!?" at me) Ugandans, women predominantly, have the task of sweeping the roadways clear with handmade grass strand brooms, typically about 2.5 feet in length and bound with straw twine.  The women bend over sweeping in their long, colorful African-print skirts, and the ones paid whatever measly shillings the Ugandan government affords them for the road duty often wear safety vests. This same practice of sweeping trash, and dirt, takes place within housing compounds, on porches, walkways, sidewalks etc. It’s a bit perplexing that though everyone seems to want these areas cleared of debri, everyone then proceeds to discard of all their garbage willy nilly wherever they’re walking, not to mention the wind and dust and traffic that just pulls it all around back to the areas that were just cleared the day before. (And these small, hand-made brooms a half hour activity out of an area that a push broom could do damage to within a few minutes.) Along the same vein, you find men with small machetes chopping the reeds of grass from the areas along the roads in long, sweeping motions. The original lawn mowers.

Women walk along the streets with large clay bowls full of bananas or mangoes balanced on their heads. At least half of the time, small brown feet peep out of either side of their torso, connected to an immobilized baby strapped tightly to their backs by kitenges, or colorful African cloths tied tightly to keep mom hands-free to work in the field, balance things on her head, and cook--maybe all at once.

While on safari, I hung out of the Land Cruiser's window waving my camera around, occasionally managing to hold it steady enough to snap some photos. The landscape in the countryside is incredibly beautiful. I already am missing it back in the city...

Safari-on, dudes.

Cuatro de Mayo, 2012

I knew the day would probably not turn out as planned upon heading to the toilet at 4am to discover my eye almost completely swollen shut. I hoped for the best, half-heartedly, and headed back to bed. (My usual method for dealing with medical ailments and injury: ignore it and hope it just goes away on its own.) When I opened my eye[s] around 8am, I knew I would need to do something, something medical, come daytime. The wasp sting had swollen the entire area to mid-cheek, including the inner corner and lid of my eye to the point that half of my face looked unrecognizable.

My lodge stay at this magnificent place thus thwarted, I didn’t much feel like exploring the grounds and local community projects looking like a freakish mutant from the bog. I spent the morning, after being coaxed out of my room by a staff member for breakfast, waiting for our “guide” to arrive and give us a ride into town to visit a pharmacy. I couldn’t even really take many pictures, as I quickly realized it’s hard to do so with your predominant right eye being half-shaded by folds of skin, and behind glasses that I was forced to wear, with not wanting to risk putting a contact in that thing.

Richard spent the day tracking gorillas and having a great experience, even stumbling upon chameleons and endangered golden monkeys on the way back down the mountain, while I finagled antibiotic drops into my eye and tried to remain somewhat chipper about getting the shit-end of the stick. I hope I will get the chance to revisit Rwanda, and some of these lodges, and maybe even track gorillas again (or arguably, for the first time) as the couple of most memorable experiences I was supposed to have on this safari got ruined by poor planning, powerful persuasion in the wrong direction, and a malicious wasp.

At dinner tonight a married German couple, and three American businessmen staying in the lodge joined our ramshackle party. The dinner conversation centered around their business ventures, random mutual professional contact between Mr. CEO of giant microfinance firm, and Mr. Germany rich guy, and then moving to the financial state of European countries.

Mr. CEO created one of the largest microfinance NGO organizations in the world (forgot the name—see how industrious I am?) and the other two worked with him/went to Harvard Law School with him or something. His organization funds education only, primarily small to medium-sized schools that receive loans to establish themselves/pay staff/build/purchase supplies, etc. and in return become self-sufficient in order to pay back the loans, thereby giving capitol back to fund other projects related to education. At least, that’s what I understood of the dinner conversation. I love the concept of entrepreneurial/business minds working to actually improve social situations in developing countries…. it seems so much more effective than hand-outs and Western-imposed ideology that doesn’t satisfy or understand local community needs. That and aimless short-term aide that just ends, creates dependency, or stops being useful once the group moves on to the next crisis situation.

Interestingly enough, talk turned toward the West/East Germany conflict, and Mr. CEO asked frank questions to the German couple about the current state of Germany. The German man revealed that at their age (mid-sixties, I’m guessing) it was difficult, and powerful, to be the children of parents who were directly affected and/or part of World War II. He explained that it was still very difficult and painful for Germans of this era to have been associated with these atrocities, and directly remember stories told my their parents of what happened in that time.  Being in Rwanda, visiting the genocide memorial and seeing miscellaneous shrines and graves around Kigali recreated many of these painful memories, learning as children what happened, and trying, without avail, to understand how humans could be capable of doing such horrible things to each other. And yet, experiences like this are not unique, and have been repeated worldwide across history.

Tomorrow we finish our safari in Kigali, and I will visit the genocide memorial. I am a bit nervous to see it all in front of me, and be in the Mille Collines, because it makes me incredibly sad to remember that these stories are real, those three people I saw around town with one leg actually likely had them violently removed as children 18 years ago.  It’s a long enough time for many of the physical scars to have healed for survivors, but the legacy of the tragedy lives on in the stories and spirits of the people in Rwanda and the rest of the world.

It’s amazing how clean and sanitized the city of Kigali appeared on the outside. It’s as if the horrible history of the genocide (and the 50 years leading up to the culmination of the violence we all know about so well from its oversimplified portrayal in movies like Hotel Rwanda and Western media) has had a fresh blanket thrown over it—underneath still stinking of rotten flesh.  I feel for the people of Rwanda, they seem to have been innocent pawns in political chess, manipulated and knocked down, murdered and mistreated, in order for an evil few to hold power over the masses, accumulate ridiculous amounts of money, and maintain their elite status.  It’s not an unfamiliar story to any of us, even those in the Western World, maybe our murders and violence are just a bit more discrete than here in Africa.

...

Cinco de drinko! And instead of celebrating the gringo American holiday, I headed to the genocide museum in Rwanda.


The museum, although powerful, seemed oversimplified. I left feeling as though I had received a sanitized lesson on what happened in 1994 Rwanda--even though there were sad anecdotes and historical information--it didn't seem complete.  I read every tiny piece of text.  The stories were like a car accident: the images and information so horrible you don't really want to know, but at the same time you have to see more, you can't look away. There was a section on other genocides throughout history and brief summaries of how and where they occurred. I felt ill reading over and over about the horrific things humans can be pushed, persuaded and driven to inflict upon each other. 

I got into the last part--the children's tribute section.  It had photos of children that were killed and listed raw facts about them: their name, age, favorite sport, favorite toy/game, favorite food (it seemed sweet to me that these Rwandese children's favorites were simple foods: "beans" "rice" or "milk", general personality/nature, and what they wanted to be when they grew up. Tragically, they never got the chance.

The boys finished about 30 minutes before me and were exasperatedly waiting for me to emerge from the museum. I felt heavy and sad, and didn't much want to talk about trivial nonsense as we headed to a restaurant for lunch. We were scheduled to spend the remainder of the day in Kigali, see the Volcanoes office (located within the Mille Collines Hotel) and then depart early in the morning for the long drive back to Kampala.