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. 

Shifting Gears

I've been a little MIA on the entry front--sorry about that-- for those of you who actually check this from time to time... (Mom) haha

Things are rolling along—in more ways than one. For starters, I bought a bicycle last Saturday. It is a “Katakura Silk” brand steel frame, probably from the early 80s, with hybrid tires and straight handlebars (I was pushing to find dropped, but my options were highly limited.) I bought the bike for the equivalent of about $100, and rode it home through the overcrowded, polluted, chaotic streets, grinning giddily like a 10-year-old on Christmas morning—equally terrified as I envisioned flying through the air, helmetless after an unfortunate meeting with a matatu (taxi bus) or boda-boda. I managed to make it to the main dirt road to my place, where locals gawked, visibly (and audibly) reacting to seeing a muzungu—a female muzungu no less—riding a bicycle, in a skirt, through their neighborhood.

Though it’s still annoying to be constantly stared at, I somewhat enjoy upsetting the local balance in terms of what a female should or shouldn’t be doing—even if they think they are laughing at me, instead of with me, I can pretend, right? There's a good story coming along those lines from yesterday... involving me changing into soccer gear in a sport club's urinal at the national stadium... stay tuned.

I’ve been venturing out of my comfort zone more and more. Meeting up with locals to go out dancing, playing soccer at the airstrip with all boys, haggling down to the last 500 shillings at local markets. I’m using my fragmented Luganda to impress the occasional boda guy or merchant.  The children of neighbors in my building keep walking in the apartment when I forget to lock my door, squealing and running around, then I have a hard time getting them to leave. The kids here go crazy when a muzungu pays attention and plays with them. I went for a run through a rural village last weekend and started a game peek-a-boo-style by running behind some shacks then stopping to hide as the throng of kids thought they were gaining on me. I surprised them as they came around the corner, and a couple stopped in their tracks, frozen instantly in shock and fear, then realized I was playing with them, started  hysterically laughing and screaming, which resulted in about 30 children chasing behind me through the village as I continued on my run, and the adults watched, bemused. 

I went to my supervisor’s house last Sunday to organize a facial party. It was nice to be presenting my Mary Kay products and doing something I used to do regularly at home. I ended up selling almost all of the skincare products I brought with me to Uganda. It makes me wish I had brought more. I’m still trying to figure out how to build the perfect life, which for me could entail being in Portland during the late Spring, Summer, early Fall, then running away to somewhere sunny and beautiful for the rest of the year. Sales allow certain flexibility as it can be done remotely, or moved to new markets then maintained. I'm now trying to figure out how to get more product here. 

I just got completely distracted while trying to finish this post reading back-n-forth commentary on the new Kony 2012 campaign being publicized by Invisible Children via Youtube and Facebook.  The video and a critique embedded here...  And another critique...  And another response to the critiquing. 

This is something along the same theme of what I’ve been noticing and thinking about while living here. There are a lot of nonprofits and NGOs in place that seem to mainly breed dependency, and perpetuate the need for aide. If these deeply imbedded problems ceased to exist—such as lack of access to education, water, food security and basic human rights—these organizations would also cease to exist.  Their employees would cease to be able to pat themselves on the back for changing the world, and make inflated Western salaries while living abroad... and I wouldn’t have such a huge potential market of muzungu women, with money to burn, to sell skincare and make-up to at Western prices.

That being said, I don’t think sitting around and complaining is a solution; nor is choosing to be overwhelmed by the problem, or refusing to support nonprofits based on "principle" or lack of clarity about their entire financial distribution scheme.  Is it better for these organizations to spread awareness and intent to mitigate horrific situations than do nothing?  No question.  Can we demand transparency and clarity of their finances so donations and expenses are better managed? Of course.  But at least modern media allows the ability for a full circle conversation about these issues.  As long as those of my generation choose action over apathy--which is something I wrestle with as well.

We as humans have a responsibility to help others and contribute to bettering our world.  For some that means protecting their family, making a good living at their day job, providing food and shelter and love to their children.  Others use their careers as a means to propel change, petitioning governments to protect the environment, drafting legislation to improve healthcare, or teaching children to read and write in poor neighborhoods….

I certainly feel I should be doing something to help others, and feel completely uninformed and ignorant about the multifarious political and social problems in Uganda, as well as in the rest of the world.  I think fear is a big part of what prevents me, and others, from making more of a difference. It's overwhelming, and difficult to know where to start. 

So it's easy to criticise the inefficiencies of others, but I wonder if we should take a look at the individuals' behind the pointed fingers.... myself included.  

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.

What is true

I am delirious. I'll start by throwing that little waiver out there. I am trying to figure out how to start a blog, what should be interesting enough to go into a blog, and how I can lure my unsuspecting acquaintances, friends, family,  and pets into reading said blog.  The hardest part was trying to figure out a title to get this party started. "What is true" seems fitting, because, really, that's all I'm ever trying to elucidate. I can't guarantee that "what is true"will necessarily be true to you, but that's why it's my blog! If I'm ever wondering what to share, I can ask myself, "What is true?" and go from there.

I warn you, this may start out kind of rough. My prose is suffering from years of neglect. I tend to write like I talk, and me not always talk pretty.

So-- why am I delirious? I'll get to that eventually. But I am realizing more and more that it's a bit tricky to say goodbye, or 'farewell-for-a-while' to a lot of people I love. I am starting to see that a lot of people love me back. It makes me happy, and sad, and happy. And sad. I am looking forward to the next 6 months and/or year of adventures in Uganda, but wistfully glancing around at the life I am leaving behind. I think most of the loose ends have been tied, or at least knotted, and nothing's going to spontaneously combust in my absence.... but I still have to let go of all those threads.

For those of you who are still wondering what all this fuss is about, I am moving to Kampala for a sales consultant job with Volcanoes Safaris, a company specializing in great apes tours and safaris by way of luxury eco-lodges located within natural expanses along western Uganda and Rwanda, such as Bwindi Impenetrable National Park. Even that park name sounds cool, like some fairy-tale forest that is impossible to enter.

I am going to try and post weekly... if not more.... I kind of need to see what life is like there, and if my electrical converter will allow me to literally get plugged in. Soon there will be concrete divulgences of my new Ugandan life. At some point thereafter there will probably be painful admittance of complete naiveté. Eventually there will be pictures. And there will most definitely be emoticons... sorry.
Stay tuned :.)