Goats, soccer and lack of cheese.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time here thinking about goats. They’re all over the place, “kids” following their mothers, weaving in and out of buildings and boda-bodas on the side of the road, eating garbage, standing on top of broken machinery or construction, crawling on their front knees to nap under parked cars.  They’re odd looking, and sounding, and somewhat hideous and cute at the same time. Like certain human infants. I asked a local how people can keep track of these goats since they are just wandering around alone and loose all the time--how do people even identify them? How do they know whose goats belong to whom? "They don't." He responded, matter-of-factly. "The goats know where they are from." So apparently, they just walk their little hooves home at dusk and everything is right in the world.

I also have spent time thinking about chickens, and that maybe I should consider not eating them. On the way to work the other day I saw a man riding on the back of a boda-boda with two live guineafowl in each hand, upside down, on either side of the bike, being carried to their fate. I guess that makes them that much fresher?! It just seemed incredibly inhumane. On Sunday I went to the local market (picture tin roof lean-tos and hand-dug ditches surrounding the stalls, keeping the human waste and garbage somewhat separated from the edibles) and there was an area with stacked cages and chickens just shoved inside. Women were selecting which ones they wanted, which were then held up by a wing and inspected to the buyer’s satisfaction. Long-horn cattle are stacked into trucks with their horns tied to cross bars so they can’t move. I’ve seen trucks of standard-sized beds with literally 40 cows somehow finagled onto them.

Things here get stacked, shipped, thrown about, stuffed together, crowded and pushed. All of these activities are done for a purpose, to make a living—or dinner—seemingly out of habit and status quo, but so glaringly callous to my foreign eye.

Saturday turned out to be African-action-packed. Awoken at 5:45 a.m. by the Muslim call-to-prayer booming over loudspeaker from the Gaddafi Mosque a couple km away (see I’m even using metric measurements now)… then it was off to work early to Skype for an hour…mostly crying… do a little worky work… ask my boss to talk privately… cry a bit… explain to her that im really struggling and my roommate is cold and I don’t like my place blah blah blah then apologize for treating her like a counselor and explain its because I have no one to talk to… go buy bread with boss after work (clearly she feels sorry for me and has offered to let me tag along on her chores)… boda home, feeling bravely independent enough to tough out a few hours alone… head back down the neighborhood red dirt road to find a “buffet” lunch for USX 3000 (the equivalent of about $1.40)… get caught in torrential downpour rainstorm monsoon because I become disoriented as it starts and run past lunch locale… sit at a bar soaking wet while it stops… apparently charm a guy who sells pineapples from a wooden handmade wagon because he tells me in broken English he wants to make my friend (get scared while he’s talking for a moment because I’m almost expecting him to say “make my babies” or something)… tell him I want to buy a pineapple, which he completely carves in 1 minute then gives me for free (score!)… find lunch buffet place, eat…head to market for baby and regular bananas… back to the apartment, roommate still nowhere to be found (score!)… put on a bathing suit top and sit on the balcony in the sun, reading a book about Egyptian royalty… wave to a 14-year-old girl staring at me from below, who happens to live in the downstairs apartment and cares for the family baby in exchange for school fees and staring at me below, who then comes up and literally walks right into the apartment and stays for an hour, talking to me in broken English while the 1-year-old stares mute in fear and wonder at me, eventually wanting to sit in my lap…realize I’ve caused the young neighborhood boys down the street to gawk and chuckle at my revealed… house guest asks to use my phone to call her mom and friend who live in a different town (so that must be why she wanted to come up)… I eventually ask her to leave (nicely)…lay on the floor (out of sight of neighbors) reading Egypt book… shower… go to Cayenne, a club/restaurant… meet new expat friends of my coworker from South Africa and Germany…drink Waragi and Sprite—Ugandan-made gin-type substance… play the guessing game of “prostitute or fashion-forward” with the club’s female patrons… realize in reality there are many of both present…. dance dance dance... tequila shot… dance…. boda price negotiation… wind in hair… “Webale,” … home. 

I may have to buy a motorcycle-type apparatus when I get home… I’m kind of starting to like it, especially at night, when you can fly by and the roads are clear of traffic and its quiet, save for the wind rushing past. Wait, I just remembered home is Portland and it’s raining at least 8 months out of the year. Scratch that, I’ll get a bike when I live somewhere warm for a long while.

I also realized sometime in the middle of yesterday that my neighborhood is kind of awesome. It’s a very Ugandan neighborhood, with all your typical activities taking place around the clock. There are stands where chapati and rolexes or friend meat are being made for hungry passersby. Markets take place daily, and little shops bustle with activity as chickens, goats, children and adults alternately fill-in and shuffle around the streets. Tiny three chair bars host patrons to play pool or just sit around and drink beers.  Women balance random things like pillows or rolled up rugs on their heads, and babies on their backs, people play Parchesi and dice on the cement porches of their 1-room dirt floor homes, and kids roll bike tires along with a stick, sending goats scattering in all directions.  

On Sunday I ran past Muyenga, toward the countryside, and caught the view of Lake Victoria below, finally getting almost completely away from any type of motor vehicle.  I walked to the market and bought carrots and eggs, looked in three different stores for cheese, unsuccessfully (Ugandans hate cheese.)  I watched a friendly neighborhood soccer game and asked a nearby local questions about when they play, where he plays, if I can play and which day said play could take place.

In the afternoon, I walked around with a different local up to Tank Hill Parade, by the Italian Supermarket, high on a hill overlooking the lake and neighborhoods below.  Vervet monkeys flitted about on construction where luxury apartments are being erected to take advantage of the view. We then briefly passed through Kabalagala, a nearby neighborhood about a 20-min walk away, which so happens to be the first place pubs appeared in Kampala. I saw quite a few restaurants and bars that I’m curious to visit—the energy of the place was fun and inviting.  There’s also a pretty awesome[1] Mexican restaurant like five minutes away from me owned by an American… and I definitely ate an Enchilada for dinner tonight.

It’s funny how in two days, nothing really changed—but I can tell I’m riding undulating waves of culture shock—fluctuating between a stubborn resistance to being lonely, uncomfortable and forced to compromise, to accepting the way things are, giving-in, and being ok with that. A few frustrating things happened with people back home this weekend, and I realized again that no one can really help me from there, and I need to help myself. Again, it may seem obvious, but it can be hard to accept internally, and trust that self-reliance will be enough. It’s also frustrating as hell.

I also realized that I really like reading again. Grad school had ruined reading for me.  When you are forced to read ridiculous amounts each night as requirements, it stops being something you think of doing for fun. It’s nice to look forward to something as quiet and solitary as reading, alone, on a balcony. However, I do still miss my dog.

---

[1] Ugandan-grade awesome, remember the lack of suitable cheese here

What's for dinner?

It's like camping.

I'm usually covered in dirt five minutes after leaving my house.

I cook by gas stove and headlamp.

I have to eat perishable foods quickly since the refrigeration system operates for just a few hours at a time before losing power.

Anything in the kitchen has to be secured by ziplock so the ants don't go nuts.

I sleep under a tent. (made of mosquito netting)

I can't sit around in the evening without being eaten alive by mosquitos. (otherwise somewhat shielded from by said netting)

Strange, unfamiliar noises often keep me awake at night.

I’m having to learn to sit for hours at a time alone, and entertain myself somehow.

My living situation is un-ideal—and I have yet to decide if I will tough it out or find a new place.  I am looking around to see if something better presents itself, and if so, I will definitely opt for a change. The main problem is that I don't like my roommate, and it's not a comforting place to head home.  She is pretty cold most of the time, and the apartment itself is lacking. My bed is a 4-inch piece of foam on a tiny wood frame... I don't even think it is fully twin-size.  That, and a bedside table the look and size of a stool are the only things in my room.  The city of Kampala is so hectic—traffic is crazy.  In fact, I narrowly missed getting hit by a van on the way to work yesterday morning, inches separated my body from its front bumper…I entered the office with my hands still shaking.  The city and its inhabitants are in-your-face-at-all-times.  Some would call it vibrant and lively.  I call it mostly terrifying and stressful.  I'm sure speaking Luganda would help, then I wouldn't be so alarmed at the things people shout to each other. It does get old having people yell "Muzungu!" (white-person) or "Muzungu, we go?" (if calling from a boda-boda) at me all the time.  I'm not sure it would be appropriate to shout "African!" back.... It’s cuter when kids shout it, laughing and waving.

The concept of prepaid phone minutes and Internet is driving me crazy. The time difference between here and Portland makes it hard to connect with people, so I have to either plan my morning or nights getting to the office or an internet cafe at weird times to even make it work… and I discovered that during the rainy season you have plan even more, because you might get trapped. 

I was trapped for four hours at an Internet café about 15 minutes up the road from my apartment, as the monsoon tropical rains have started to come in intervals, and boda-bodas don’t run in that kind of weather. There was also no way I could carry my laptop or make it back without a jacket, umbrella, or boat.

An Internet café with decent food sounds like the perfect place to be trapped in this sort of scenario; however, I realized in 10 minutes that their open WiFi connection wouldn’t support Skype, the whole original purpose of my visit.  I used the remaining 400MB of my prepaid stick (which I had fortunately carried there with me) in about an hour, thanks to Skype’s overzealous bandwidth usage.  The rain began as I was finishing my breakfast (and honestly, rain seems to docile of a word to describe what this weather looks like—and I am from Oregon.)  Will upload a shoddy video shortly, hopefully it will give an idea of what it looks like.  I soon realized their WiFi would no longer work at all, not even slowly, to support checking email or anything else. I was lucky enough to have a book with me, but it was pretty ironic to be stuck without Internet with a laptop in the middle of an Internet café.

…

Last night I hurried to an open café within the middle of a city mall to try and catch a couple people on Skype, and purchase more credit for my Internet stick.  The bank was already closed, so I couldn’t pick up my debit card, so I couldn’t withdraw more $, so I couldn’t buy the credit.

Everything here still feels like a lot of work, and even extended efforts at planning don’t always make it work. I was feeling frustrated, and tired from trying to get everything in order and not have it pan out.  I looked through the menu to pick something out for dinner, feeling somewhat sorry for myself.

And that's why I ordered steak. 

Just another typical afternoon.

I saw the following on the commute home from work by boda-boda:

• a police truck with about 15 men in the back, full blue camouflage, rifles in hand.
• boda-boda drivers hopping the curb to use the sidewalk because traffic in the street was too backed up for their liking.
• a full-size couch being moved to another location on the back of a rusty bicycle by a single man.
• women with overripe bananas in large bowls on their heads and babies slung onto their backs. 
• bald-headed children in matching uniforms headed home from school, many looking no older than five, walking alone.
• a flock of approximately 14 goats without a herder running wild and lost along the side of the road.
• a man cutting huge pieces of ironwork halfway in the street sending flaming sparks about 6 feet into the air in all directions.
• nothing else out of the ordinary.

Boda-Boda Valentine

“Does anyone have a rubber handy?” My boss asked the room.  I froze.  Then Boniface, another employee, handed her an erasure.  “Pretty fitting start for a Valentine’s Day in Africa,” I thought to myself.  In Uganda, the HIV rate rose to 6% again after recent legislature began pushing abstinence-only education, I was horrified to read before traveling here, and is now down to 5%.  There are bulletin boards and street signs urging people to get checked—one boasting, “I am proud my husband is circumcised, because we have a lower chance of getting HIV.”  That one sends a few mixed messages, if you ask me.

Views from my balcony.

...

In more selfish news… I never truly realized what an insecure, nervous person I was... until now.  The level of anxiety I experience on a daily basis here can feel almost unbearable.  Saturday night consisted of me sitting in the middle of a mall, at a cafe with free Internet, hoping anyone I love would be on Skype at 10 a.m. Portland time.  It seems an Internet connection is my false security blanket right now.  I say false, because I recognize that no one can really help me from back home.  Just knowing that if someone messages me, and I have the ability to receive that message, helps.  Even though I want to get settled and unpacked, have my own food and kitchen space and everything, I didn't feel ready to leave my 100% reliable Internet connection at the office.  The big boss is coming to town next week, and I didn't really have a suitable excuse not to move into the apartment I will share with a girl from Washington DC, who has been living here for eight months.  Telling my boss that I was scared shitless to be stuck in a foreign neighborhood where I am essentially lost, out of power for random hours at a time, and disconnected completely from the entire world I know... it seemed weak.  So I said Saturday would be a great time to arrange moving my belongings. That very night I had to resort to public mall comfort, and it was quite uncomfortable.  When I went back to the apartment, the power was still out, and I puttered around in my headlamp, trying to make my room livable, and hang the mosquito-net over my bed.

Self-portrait, in the bathroom.  

My tiny bed--3" foam mattress and mosquito netting. 

Goats, just chillin'.

The "yard" and "dryer"

Even simple things here like going to the supermarket feel like a huge task. You have to figure out where you are going to catch a boda-boda, how hard you are going to haggle your price for where he will take you, pray to avoid running into or being run over by a taxi-bus, truck full of cows, or another boda, or hitting a random pedestrian, chicken or child while getting there. You hang on for dear life, white-knuckled, thighs squeezing the seat as your boda jumps the occasional potholes, sometimes up over the curb onto the sidewalk—weaving through traffic coming in all directions to get you to the damn store.

A trip to the grocery store. 

Then you enter said store (if it happens to still be open that day) only to find that it is fully stocked of every type of white flour cookie/cracker imaginable and not a tortilla, edible apple or recognizeable protein in sight. Needless to say my eating habits have suffered thus far. I’ve been living inordinately off of bread, peanut butter and g-nuts (ground nuts similar to peanuts,) and therefore could be contracting scurvy any day now.

My lunches at the office consist of traditional Ugandan fare.  Starch heavy, we usually have matoke (boiled plantain mashed into a potato-like consistency,) "Irish" (your standard potato, either boiled or fried,) rice, beans similar to pintos, a small piece of chicken or beef, and maybe some sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, or cabbage slaw in white vinegar.  Other days we get Chapati, a cassava meal flour that’s made into fry bread, then served with beans, again.  One special day we had pasta.

Lunch at the office.

My coworker cutting Chapati before adding beans!

I’ve now made two meals at the apartment in the evenings, last night by headlamp since the power was out for the third night in a row.  It consisted of bread, eggs and onion cooked up with a bit of Parmesan cheese that I bought “special” (and now have to eat quickly since it was un-refrigerated for two days.)  Tonight was pasta with cabbage, onion and tomato, spices and white vinegar.  It was weird, but somehow delicious.  I told my friend Kate that I will either be losing 10 pounds while living here or gaining 15—but there’s no way I’m staying the same.

...

On the way back to the apartment, which I fiercely negotiated to a 3,000 Ugandan shilling price, I practiced my new Lugandan phrase, “oly otya?” which essentially means, “how are you?” (and is what people say here to each other as a greeting instead of hello.)  It worked like a charm.  Between that and “weebale, ssebo” (thank you, Sir,) I will finagle my way into a veritable daily boda-boda discount.  My boda then asked me where was my Valentine, to which I explained that I had somehow lost him, and he was not not be found, to which he asked if I would like another, and I politely declined.

Now, seeing that I managed to find a way back to the apartment, and feed myself a couple vegetables, it seems I have survived another day.

Faking It

Since my arrival, the days have both crawled, and been a blur.  At work, I feel pretty helpless. My training regimin involves a lot of sitting around, waiting for someone to be willing to help me or show me how to do something, anything.  A staff member went on vacation, so her workload has been redistributed among the sales team, and I think this is part of what is stressing everyone out.  Unfortunately the backlash is that I feel like no one really wants to train me, and I’m pretty useless.  At least I can work on updating my blog during the middle of the workday.

The 13-hour time difference with folks back home has made it a bit difficult to connect.  Really the only time I can Skype is my evenings (or occasionally before work) which is like 9-11 a.m. for people back home. And most people have jobs during that time.  I am trying to pass the time alone, and not let all the solitude bother me too much. My coworker gifted me a bunch of movies on my harddrive, and I have a few books that need reading.  We eat a prepared meal here during midday. It's kind of the worst.   All the African staff chat and laugh and tell stories in Luganda and occasional Swahili, or other dialects, and I can't even follow what's going on.  I feel like that weird kid in the cafeteria who isn't invited to sit next to everyone else.

Two nights after work this week, I ran over to the airstrip, which is this flat "grassy" area (more hard, red dirt) at the top of a hill, and there are constant “football” games going on in the afternoons. I jumped in with some African boys, seeming to be in their 20s, and played with them for a bit. The soccer here is somewhat spastic—they fly all over the bumpy, dry ground—a blur of skinny brown legs and worn-out shoes.  Generally the men here play a lot of 1-touch (quick, short passing,) almost seeming to avoid taking shots on goal, even when directly in front of the goal-- which is represented by two cinder bricks placed upright about 2 feet apart.  It felt good to play again, but also made me nostalgic for my pickup group back home, soft turf fields, and friendly banter. I don’t speak Luganda, the most popular tribal dialect spoken here, and it's hard to run around mute and isolated in the middle of a team sport.  Even while I was playing soccer in Ecuador, I could participate in speaking Spanish commands and jokes. Here I just run around, silently, trying to anticipate the ball or will it to myself with my mind.

In the evenings, the bats begin hunting—their ultrasonic chirping actually audible--probably due to the huge mass of them flying above... The bats here don’t mess around, that was actually the primary reason I was convinced to get rabies shots—they can bite people, but without mostpeople even realizing they have been bitten. What astonishes me is their size, their shadows give clues to wingspans of up to 4 feet!

Last night I attended my first Ugandan concert.  It was a mixture of female artists and styles, many sounding like African jazz fusion and fair amounts of hip-hop. The headlining lady, Nneka, is a Nigerian-based artist who has been dubbed as the "under-recognized Lauryn Hill of Africa."  I am only realizing right now that I've heard the song "Heartbeats" before.  Lauryn Hill or no, the $5,000 Ugandan Shilling entry price (about USD$2) for a concert was fine by me.  I was just happy to have a reason to leave my room for a while.  I was thereby introduced to several of the ex-pats in the area, as well as their extensive drinking skills, to which I will not even attempt to match myself.

I am becoming a "real" person here--just got a cellphone number and working plan.  Although I don't understand how it works yet.  I now have four contacts--three coworkers--one of which is in London.  My fourth contact is my new roommate-to-be, Jen, who lives in a tiny two-bedroom apartment by the Namuwongo Market. I am moving in there this weekend, and will finally fully unpack.

Things still don't feel a whole lot easier, but I suppose I am getting better at faking it.
Pictures to come! I am lazy and going to sleep...

Fam Trip!

It has been a whirlwind trying to gain my bearings out here in the African world, and to be quite honest, I’ve been a bit depressed and sad, and that’s not exactly the liveliest way to write a blog entry. Why would you want to come hear about how sorry I am feeling for myself because I miss people and my dog back home, eating delicious salads, and doing yoga everyday? Those are more fitting posts for whitepeopleproblems.us....  or perhaps, natural feelings for someone whose life just flipped on its head, but hey. As I may have mentioned previously, my inner critic is a mean bitch. 

I am not super in love with Uganda yet. I feel like maybe I should be, because people kept telling me how jealous they were when I was getting ready to leave, and all the expats here seem to keep coming back for some reason--but I just don't get it, yet. Then again, those jealous people aren't the ones trying to avoid getting run over by boda bodas or choke to death on smog while crossing the street. I do realize there is a need for a bit more patience on my part, since I've now been living here for all of three and a half days.  I promise to eventually explain more about what I am doing for a job, what the office and staff are like, where I am sleeping at night... but I will save that for another day when I am not in possession of----

wait for it....

....

....

....

EXTREMELY ADORABLE PHOTOS OF BABY MONKEYS!

Why do I have such a wonderful thing, you may ask?  Well, my friends, today was our office "fam trip" to the Ngamba Island Chimpanzee Sanctuary.  My timing in terms of starting work with Volcanoes was somewhat immaculate, as a Saturday spent eating all day and looking at monkeys, rather than coming into the office to work, is a pretty big treat.  We also spent the day visiting several hotels to check on their conditions, as many of our clients have made complaints about different elements of their stay in Entebbe, and it's our job to understand what they are talking about. 

The adventure began this morning at 6:30 am.  Fortunately for me, I am sleeping in a room in the office,  (got that info to you even faster than promised!) so I had nowhere to go, other than my closet, in order to get ready to meet everyone.  Lower-ranking females chimpanzees often have to wait to eat, or stay in the back of the pack while the elders and more powerful chimps get their food first, and I think a similar process landed me in the car of the bosses/managers... essentially 30-something females in a tinny Rav4, instead of the more badass Mitsubishi Pajero with the 20-something office folk. Now, nothing wrong with 30-somethings (I am getting close!) but I do object to the musical affinities of said women, as I was confined for an hour (literally imprisoned, thanks to child-locks in the backseat!) to a blaring Phil Collins alongside expressions, like "Phil is a genius," "Brilliant!" and, "I would so love to see him in concert, along with Bruce Springsteen, who has such a beautiful bottom." Did I mention these women may or may not be British?  There was also considerable car-dancing throughout the ordeal, of which generally I am a huge fan and participant; however, this was to wonders such as "Easy Lover," and I objected out of pure principle. 

We finally arrived to Entebbe, and pulled out our prepared picnic breakfast--egg salad sandwiches, brownies, peanut butter cookies, banana bread, tea and coffee, and little weenie roll things.  The second we sat down, Vervet Monkeys emerged in droves from the trees around us and encircled our camp. Me, being the general idiot that I am in terms of coming way too close to wildlife, got excited and ready to feed and try and pet them, while everyone else became edgy and nervous, and started swinging legs and bags in all directions to discourage the tiny sneaks from closing in on our cookies.  And so, as promised, commence adorable pictures:

Ok, that one is actually a little scary... here are some milder ones:

 

In fact, I could fill up a 3-blog-feet of pictures of these Vervets, so better to re-direct you to my Picasa album and spare the bandwidth, or blogwidth, or whatever you call it.  The next stop on our Fam Trip was Ngamba Island to see the chimps.  They live on a 100-acre section of the island, separated from their human keepers and visitors by a 30-foot electric fence, which some occasionally somersault and withstand electric shock to escape over.  We were warned that in the rare occasion this should occur, we should run like hell to the water, where the chimps won’t enter to apparently rip our arms off and eat us barred-fang-bite-by-bite.  And I always though Chimpanzees were simply nice, little mammals who also happen to be our closest DNA relative.  In all fairness, many of these chimps were abused and mistreated, orphaned or shipped back and forth overseas into zoos and circuses, so I might be a little pissed-off at humans at the end of it all as well. 

 

Chimps getting their 11 a.m feeding in. Carrots, papaya and other fruits were thrown over the fence by the keepers and volunteers.

                                                                      

This old gal was cracking me up, she would shove the last bit of food in her mouth then raise her hand to ask for more while still chewing.  Other chimps clapped to draw attention to themselves, or could occasionally catch the food mid-air.

...

After the chimp visit, we headed back to Entebbe to tour a few more hotels, eat whole grilled Tilapia, "chips" (damn Brits again) and pizza with our toes in the sparkly white sand surrounding Lake Victoria, then back to the boat for a "Sunset Cruise," which included beer, soda and more snacks, and I admit, sounds entirely romantic.

However, the final phase consisted of withholding vomit throughout choppy open water, while we all willed the sun to set faster than nature allowed, thereafter donning ridiculous rain-gear in order to speed back into town before everyone's stomachs' truly gave way.  For some reason, this final activity resulted in most of my co-workers screaming in delighted terror over the waves and spraying water, and in truth, we sounded worse than the chimpanzees. 

PDX->NYC->DXB->ADD->EBB

Portland to NYC-- Jan 30th, 2012

People in airports are fascinating to watch. Where else can so many different cultures amalgamate to this central place with separate but mirrored missions of traveling to a different place?  True, people often commute stressed, exhausted and angry, but it’s also fun to passively observe the similarities among the human condition.  Cultural dress and markings give clues as to where people hail from— henna on hands, men in robes, women in hijab, Australian-looking leather boots and outerwear, Euro-metrosexual sparkle jeans. I am a little embarrassed to be pulling the classic, lame American tennis-shoes-with-jeans thing, especially when I enter the fancy European and Elite airline section of JFK, trying to figure out how to get my hotel voucher and such for my next stop in Dubai. At least I'm not wearing a Disneyland sweatshirt and fanny pack…. (sorry Jenn, I know you wanted me to rock the fanny…) and the main reason I dressed like this was an attempt wear some of my heavier clothing to help out with the Draconian baggage weight rules.

Getting off the plane in NYC, I experienced a brief panic attack after realizing I was going to be spending the next two days basically completely alone getting my fanny (not pack) to Kampala.  These feelings of anxiety and self-doubt are the worst. Fortunately, I was still in the States with a cell phone, and I could make a panicky call to a good friend.... who reassured me that I was experiencing completely normal feelings, and reaffirmed the realization that I CAN DO THIS.  I then ate up the next six of seven layover hours quite quickly.... calling people I wanted to hear one last time before shutting the cell off, Skyping with a certain boy I am quite fond of, etc. Other than the reoccurring tug of terror at the idea of leaving all that I know behind, I know that there is a grand adventure ahead, full of those unknowns and uncomfortable situations that are so very good for showing us who and what we really are made of.

NYC to Dubai-- January 31, 2012

A few weeks ago I ran into an old classmate from PSU in a coffee shop and briefly discussed my upcoming travel plans.  He started talking about the idea of self-reliance, and suggested I check out a video by Robert Green on Youtube, who discusses his book "The 50th Law" co-written with 50 Cent. Yes, I meant to type that. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLBjBqjjHc4

Just like most people, I experience a lot of self-doubt, feel lonely, and want to surround myself with people and distractions in order to keep out of that quiet headspace where it can get scary. To rephrase something Thea Elvin, a NSD with Mary Kay, mentions on one of her cds, “Your mind is a dangerous neighborhood—don’t go in there alone!”  What we think about is incredibly powerful, and still, most of the time the subconscious mind operates without our direct attention to what station it’s streaming. Some people are blessed with a natural proclivity to positive, happy thoughts. Others, such as myself, have to work a little harder since our inner critic is a bit too loud.

Learning to comfort oneself in times of stress, become self-reliant, and feel fully capable and secure without needing others—now that is powerful.

Dubai to Adi Abbaba to Entebbe, Uganda-- February 1, 2012

I passed through Dubai in a dream-like state. I didn’t get a chance to explore the city, because I needed some downtime in the hotel before heading back to the airport in the morning. It’s too bad, because pictures and maps of Dubai look amazing, it’s like adult Disneyland for rich people. I snapped some quick pictures from the plane, but never got to see the Burj Khalifa everyone talks about, or the man-made Dubai Palm Islands.  I hope I can visit the beaches one day—maybe I’ll have more time to explore during my return flight to the States… I am now finishing up this post on the last leg of my heinous journey. The plane stopped first in Adi Abbaba, Ethiopia, and now will finally get to Entebbe, Uganda. I passed out hard after leaving Dubai, then woke up, rolled up my window shade to get ready for landing—and saw my first view of Africa!

The photo above and to the right were taken from the plane above Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Entebbe, Uganda shots from the plane are below...

It’s quite an emotion to see the landscape for the first time, unlike any I’ve seen before.  I am getting more and more excited about this move, the possibilities, the things I am going to learn… Here’s some more cheesy photos to keep the folks at home happy!

Rocking my Timbers jersey on the plane, gotta represent!

American airlines could take a lesson or two from Emirates. This was also the savory snack, not even the largest meal provided!

 

Beautiful Lake Victoria in Entebbe!!