Saturday, December 12, 2009

May Experience Turbulence

Coming home has me a bit flustered: confused, unsure, overwhelmed, questioning. Being back in New Orleans last week, I was met with a lot of mixed emotions. My time there felt more difficult than I had anticipated. There were days that I felt completely at home, welcomed and embraced and other days I felt disconnected and distant. It’s hard to accept how much had changed in the six months I was away. Friends have moved; relationships have ended and begun; jobs have been lost. I no longer have a permanent address and my dog has settled in nicely to his new routine with his auntie Jennifer. I had such anticipation of returning to New Orleans and it just wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same. Possibly it stems from the initial rationalization that I would only be away for three months…I mean, how much could possibly change in three months? It was temporary. It was a jaunt back to a continent I love. It was a pause in time away from the city I had grown to call home. But three months became six, and my life changed, and the lives of my friends and family changed…and suddenly all that felt temporary had hints of permanence.

There were moments of absolute contentment and familiarity: catching up with old friends, seeing my favorite brass band, stopping by the neighborhood coffee shop, eating po'boys and southern breakfasts, reconnecting with the city as I strolled alone through the Marigny and the French Quarter. But as the days passed, I was flustered with not being able to accomplish and see as many people as I wanted. I felt rushed. I realized that moving back was potentially not a sure thing as I had assumed last summer. I am in the final interviewing stages for a job in Burundi. I am midway through the process for an international fellowship…and jobs in NOLA just aren’t knocking down my door. My departure on Tuesday morning was bittersweet in the sense that I had no idea when I’d be back. Mardi Gras flights have been bought, but the Burundi gig could begin as early as mid-January. So, in a weird way, my departure from New Orleans kind of felt like a premature breakup. I’m simply not ready. There’s been no closure. I haven’t even moved out my stuff. I can’t yet close that chapter of my life, but I know myself well enough that if I get offered this job in Burundi, I’ll take it. I’m leaving behind great friends, an intoxicating city, a piece of me. It’s a lot to wrap my head around.

And then there’s Philly—my family; my nieces; my other home. My sister’s girls are now 3 and a half, 21 months, and 3 months. They are such a joy to be around. It’s been such a blessing having time with them to bond and connect and get to know one another. Ella is at that perfectly sweet age where everything she says is just so honest and genuine. She loves her Aunt Aimee. We do all sorts of fun things together. She says things out of the blue like, “Aimee, I love you so much,” or “I don’t want you to go back to Africa,” or “I have so much fun playing with you.” And I have to wonder if I can allow myself to be one of those aunts who only comes home once a year at the hectic holidays—if I can really detach from them and not be part of their lives on a consistent basis. It’s hard. And my parents are getting older, and my brother got married a year ago and will soon have a family of his own. It seems the questions become more complicated and the choices more complex as I get older. I know my tendency is to over-think, overanalyze, and tolerate the mental gymnastics at times of serious transition and choice. But I also need to remember that any choice can be temporary, and that life is simply a series of choices that lead one to the next choice. All I can do is believe in myself and appreciate the privilege I have and the opportunities I’ve been given in my life. Any choice will further my path, my growth, the woman I’m becoming. So, I’m trying to remain present, positive, and allow myself this time to explore who I am and what I want from my life. We’ll see what decisions stem from it in the next few weeks. Stay tuned…

Thursday, December 3, 2009

The Long Journey Home

It’s 6:35am and I’m in Brussels, sitting next to a snoozing teen with stinky feet, enjoying a gingerbread latte and lemon poppy seed muffin from yes, you guessed it, Starbucks. Evidently I am that American this morning. It’s one of the many fond memories I have from my two day stopover in Brussels on my way here. What I don’t remember is that said morning treat costs 8 Euros. I failed to remember this because my serendipitous travel partner, the millionaire sugar daddy, was paying for everything. Is that even possible…to spend $14 on a muffin and a cup of coffee? Awkwardly, Europeans were chatting with the woman behind the counter, pointing at the Venti cup, shaking their heads, commenting on how enormous all things American are, including Americans themselves. I smile apologetically and say, “Oui, c’est vrai” as I select my deliciously oversized muffin under the glass display case with my grubby little finger.

The first leg of the trip was significant in the sense that it was uneventful. I am curious as to how it never fails that the people that seem most irritating, rude, or unable to maintain their composure in public (of which I decide on in the terminal waiting to board) always seem to be sitting next to me on the oversized aircraft. Last night, it was two small toddlers. I haven’t concluded what was more off-putting –the children themselves or their mothers. Typically, I find African children to be calm, obedient, and rather self-entertaining. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Child one had two favorite words, “Mine and Hi!”…neither of which I found remotely adorable at 2am. The other child parroted this with “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” or in between fits of whining, crying, and jumping on his seat. The mothers did not appear disturbed by this in the least, which I found puzzling. Even more perplexing was every time one of them cried, the response was “Sorry, sorry, sorry” followed by a lot of coddling. I understand being tired and exhausted and being up way past your bedtime, flying through the air on a strange piece of metal in the sky. What I don’t understand is the inability to acknowledge that there are a few hundred other passengers on your flight. I was not pleased. Quite possibly another sure sign that I’m not ready to reproduce. Luckily, my flight narcolepsy kicked in promptly at the commencement of Ice Age 3, and I was awoken to breakfast within 45 minutes outside of Brussels. Excellent.

Chicago was another story. No need to remind anyone that the Sunday of Thanksgiving is kinda a big travel day. My connection was only an hour and fifteen minutes to begin with and we got in 20 minutes late. Sooo, by the time I went through customs, rechecked my luggage, rode on the tram, and got to my domestic security check point, I was tearing off my clothes, throwing my clogs in the bin, frantically running through the metal detector. This is the point when I wish I was wearing a head cam. Keep in mind that I have a sizeable carry-on bag and a large handmade tote overloaded and surprisingly heavy with Rwandan crafts that I had been cursing since Kigali. So here I am, weaving through the crowded terminal, stopping every ten feet because I can’t run for longer than this. I am gasping and panting for breath; I am beet red; I am sweating profusely despite the fact that it’s wintertime and I’m only wearing a fleece. I get to my gate at 2:17. My flight to NOLA left at 2:15. The woman looks up at me from her computer and calmly says, “You must be Aimee.” Ah, yes. She hands me my next boarding pass to St. Louis. This flight begins boarding at 2:20 and is in the next terminal over. At this point, I am not only cursing my carry-on luggage, but the size of O’Hare airport and begin sprinting back the way I came from. I make it to the St. Louis gate as they are boarding. I sit down between two women and they both ask me with great concern if I am ok, as my heart is thumping out of my chest at this point and I’m basically incapable of breathing. I pass out for the 40 minute flight, rest for the hour or so in St. Louis, and miraculously make it back by early evening…to the home I had craved, ached for, and missed for the six months I was away, with a good friend waiting for me (and my luggage waiting, too =)

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

The Darkest Star

It’s hard to summarize my last week in Kigali. It was wrought with the typical ups and downs of any departure, transition, change—the space between “getting back to my life” and realizing I’ve actually been living my life. I had some really wonderful moments with my colleagues and new friends; I detached from a lovely man and parted ways without drama or trauma; I soaked up my remaining moto rides, walks through the city, encounters with kindly strangers and children. Thanksgiving was spent poolside with a friend (albeit a rainy poolside at that), drinking one too many overpriced draft beers at Kigali’s swankiest hotel and talking about Africa and life and careers and love. It was harder than I expected to say my goodbyes at the Tulane office, making me realize how close I had become to my colleagues and what a supportive and fun working environment it was. So again, in many senses, it was hard to leave, but much of me is ready to return to my home, to my New Orleans, to visit my family on the East coast and revel in the time with my nieces, my parents, and my sister and her husband. I haven’t had that much time at home in years. It will be a welcomed treat and rest.

I’m not sure what else I can truly say about Kigali, beautiful Rwanda, and the continent that is Africa. I’ve been trying to finish Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux on the plane ride home. It seems many of the excerpts best explain why the continent is so intoxicating, complicated, endearing in its dysfunctional way, so I figured I’d share some of my favorite passages in an effort to pass along some of the imagery and life that is this dark continent. The book raised questions, enhanced history lessons, and challenged preconceived notions. It also perfectly depicted why the continent of Africa continues to fill space in my soul. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did…

“Travelling makes one modest –you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.”

“The criterion is how you treat the weak. The measure of civilized behavior is compassion.”

“I was the classic traveler, arriving bewildered and alone in a remote place, trying to be hopeful, but thinking, What now?”

“After that, having unburdened himself with this story, having heard nothing from me of my life, he said that he felt he knew me well, and it was as though we had known each other for a long time. I could see that the meant it and was moved by this feeling. I told him what I felt about time exposing the truth-that time did not heal wounds, but that the passing years gave us a vantage point from which to see the reality of things.”

“Some trips mean so much to us that we rehearse them over and over in our heads, not to prepare ourselves but in anticipation, for the delicious foretaste. I had been imagining this return trip down the narrow track to Soche Hill for many years. In Africa for the first time, I got a glimpse of the pattern my life would take—that it would be dominated by writing and solitariness and risk, and already in my early twenties I tasted those ambiguous pleasures. I had learned what many others had discovered before me—that Africa, for all its perils, represented wilderness and possibility. Not only did I have the freedom to write in Africa, I had something new to write about.”

“Not much, because all aid is political. When this country became independent it had very few institutions. It still doesn’t have many. The donors aren’t contributing to development. They maintain the status quo. Politicians love that, because they hate change. They tyrants love aid. Aid helps them stay in power and contributes to underdevelopment. It’s not social or cultural and it certainly isn’t economic. Aid is one of the main reasons for underdevelopment in Africa.”

“I sketched out my theory that some governments in Africa depended on underdevelopment to survive—bad schools, poor communications, a feeble press, and ragged people. The leaders needed poverty to obtain foreign aid, needed an uneducated and passive populace to keep themselves in office for decades. A great education system in an open society would produce rivals, competitors, and an effective opposition to people who wanted only to cling to power.”

“I was passionate about the cause. But I had had an epiphany: though my children would be enriched by the experience of working in Africa, nothing at all would change as a result of their being here.”

“You visit a place and peer at it closely and then move on, making a virtue of disconnection.”

“Humanity is a product of Africa. We are what we are today because we’ve been shaped by our environment—and it was the African environment that hosted almost every major evolutionary change we’ve experienced on our journey towards being human.”

“First contact was a vivid and recurrent event for everyone—bumping into a stranger on the subway, finding yourself with a fellow rider in an elevator, knocking elbows with your seatmate on a plane—at a bus stop, at a checkout counter, on a beach, in a church or a movie theater, wherever we were thrown together and had to deal with it. As a traveler, first contact was the story of my life, and was a motif of my African trip…”

“That had been in the world news, as African disasters always were—earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, massacres, famines, columns of refugees. And these are the lucky ones. Images of inundated fields, people clinging to treetops, and helicopter rescues had appeared on TV for a week before becoming old news. The trouble with such disasters what their unchanging imagery—viewers got bored with them for their having no silver lining and no variation. For a catastrophe to have legs, it needed to be an unfolding story, like a script with plot points, and preferably a happy ending. The ending of the Mozambique floods came with the news of cholera and poisoned water, of thousands of people who had been made homeless, and hundreds who had drowned like rats.”

“Africans praying for a disaster so that they would be noticed seemed to me a sorry consequence of the way charities had concentrated people’s minds on misfortune. But without vivid misfortune Africans were invisible to aid donors.”

“In even the whitest town on the veldt there was a reminder of less fortunate Africa—a ragged man walking on a path, an old man riding a bike, a woman balancing a bulging bale on her head, an amazing bird on a post, African huts, barefoot kids, tin privies, squalor, corn fields.”

“The train was almost heartbreaking for being so pleasant, for offering this view of South Africa, the same misery, the same splendor. But my work was done, my safari finished. This trip was just a dying fall; I was clinging to Africa because I had not wanted it to end.”

“Travel had changed him. You go away for a long time and return a different person—you never come all the way back. Like Rimbaud, you think, I is someone else.”

“The kindest Africans had not changed at all, and even after all these years the best of them are bare-assed.”