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.