Gorillas in the Mist

WARNING: This blog may offend primate lovers, although it was not necessarily my intention to do so.

What can I say about my mountain gorilla experience yesterday? The word that keeps popping into my head is “unprepared”. In all honestly, I guess I hadn’t really put much thought into it at all-just figured it would be a cool thing to see in a really beautiful part of Rwanda that I loved. Other words that consequently popped into my head throughout the day: Goretex, hiking shoes, rain jacket, soccer cleats, Zyrtec and misery. Bridget and I woke up at 5:30 to make it to Volcano National Park by 7am. We figured we’d take motos up to the park, roughly a 20 minute ride and around 12 km. So, we arrive, only to find out that we actually need a vehicle to take us to the forest and the beginning of our gorilla trek. Um, again. Unprepared. I look around and scoff at all the overly-dressed tourists wearing their fancy breathable fabrics, leg guards and expensive hiking boots. I glance down at myself. I’m wearing my bell-bottom jeans from the Gap, a cotton tunic from Target, a fleece, and some Tiger sneakers purchased when my first niece Ella was born and I decided it was time for me to be a “hip aunt”. I figured, come on. We’re young and healthy and hundreds of older, out-of-shape people make this hike all the time. How hard could it really be?

I should have known when I laid eyes on our Japanese counterparts, decked out in their Goretex suits, gloves, and carrying ski poles that we were more or less in serious shit. The hike was, hmmm…seemingly impossible. I mean, I guess the word “trek” should have gotten me thinking a bit more about the difficulty of the hike, but I was convinced that something that drew so many tourists couldn’t really be all that bad. And I had heard from friends (that will be getting a swift kick in the teeth the next time I see them) that the hike was fine, that I didn’t even really need hiking shoes. I had honestly contemplated wearing my Tevas. I was even idiotic enough to think, “Oh, how cute. They are giving us little gorilla shaped walking sticks.” Little did I know this stick would probably save me from blowing out a knee, twisting an ankle, or severing an Achille’s tendon over the next few hours. Let me try to visualize this for you. We’re in VOLCANO National Park. It’s rainy season. We are going to see the MOUNTAIN gorillas. The hike was essentially an hour and a half of walking straight uphill on a mountain path two feet wide, essentially a slick trail of sopping mud. The ENTIRE hike. I was so filled with misery that I had to laugh. If I wasn’t gliding down a mud-slicked path on my hands and knees, I was being stung by plants, bitten by fire ants, or wiping pelting rain off of my face. As many of you know, I have this pesky health problem that arises when I’m in cool temperatures or exposed to too much moisture or humidity. My body breaks out in ferociously uncomfortable hives and the only thing that makes them go away is a hot shower and some allergy meds. I was essentially in my own living hell.

It’s worth mentioning that at this point of the journey, our group was well-aware that I was the weakest link. Not only was I wearing completely inappropriate clothing, but I now had hives all over my body and was being escorted by hand by one of the gorilla guides, Augustin. The Japanese quartet smiled upon me with pity and handed me a pair of gloves, presumably for a better grip on the bamboo shoot I grabbed onto for dear life as I went slipping up the mountain yet again with stinging nettles inches away from my face. I fell. A lot. It was quite possibly the Christmas miracle of 2010 that I got to the mountain gorillas at all and didn’t have to be airlifted out of there, although he thought was tempting.

So, I guess it goes without saying that by the time we actually reached the gorillas, I was wondering what the hell we had signed up for, how this gig could have possibly put me out 500 bucks, and why anyone in their right mind would actually find this experience enjoyable. Also worth mentioning is that mountain gorillas share 97% of DNA with humans, so when we arrived, they were ALSO not super psyched about being in the rain and were huddled in little furry black balls looking about as miserable as the humans who had come to observe them. Yes, there I was. Standing in the rain, soaking wet and covered in mud up to my knees, watching roughly a dozen black furballs huddled into one another to avoid feeling cold. Black balls of fur. This is what I paid 500 dollars to see. Luckily, the rain let up with enough time left for us to witness a baby gorilla peeing on its mom’s back and watching a young’un playing with his own poop. The silverback napped lazily. One curious little friend kept trying to creep up to us. The others rolled around and picked bugs off one another. This was the extent of our hour of observation. I guess you could call it amazing to see them. They were pretty incredible. But at this point, all I could think about was how the hell we were getting down the mountain, and if I faked an injury if Ignatius or Augustin would carry me down on their backs. The rain picked up again as soon as we headed down, and the next hour or so, our group basically struggled through the mud, slipping and sliding, grabbing onto anything stationary to break our falls. Wipe outs galore. Ignatius, the other guide who held my hand almost the entire way down, commented on my slippery shoes. I couldn’t help but cry out to Bridget in complete Goonies style, “Wait, guys. Slick shoes! Data, are you crazy?”

I have never been so happy to reach flat ground in my life. It was indeed an adventure-a miserably cold, wet, rainy adventure, and I’m happy that I was able to witness such an endangered species in their natural habitat with a good friend that allowed me to laugh about all the hilarity that led us up and down the mountain to have that experience. Would I recommend it to others? Possibly at another time of the year, or if it was a gift from a rich relative. All I can say is I was very happy to arrive home, shower for the second time that day, and pour myself a generous glass of wine, vowing to never engage in physical activity that challenging again. I love you mountain gorillas, I really do…from my couch watching you on Discovery Channel.

One Love, One Life

Two weeks ago, I had the undeniable pleasure of spending a week in Nairobi for a workshop for the Fellows living in Eastern and Southern Africa. Not to fast-forward through the work, but the big treat was seeing my fellow fellows again-listening to how everyone has been doing, what projects they’ve been working on, and sharing stories over some delicious food and wine and simply being together. It made me realize I’m not alone in my doubts, my questions, my apprehensions about this work, and also reminded me how wonderfully amazing my fellow fellows are. The workshop itself was actually pretty fantastic. We had sessions to refresh and improve our knowledge on things like budgeting, financial systems, proposal writing, and also had ample opportunity to meet regional staff, feel connected to the work everyone is doing, and regain a bit of momentum for the remainder of the year.

Having this shindig in Nairobi was just the icing on the cake, as that town is essentially the mecca of all things ridiculously awesome. It offers everything possible to the Westernly starved expats: shopping malls, spas, good wine, amazing restaurants, great clubs, hip youth culture. Basically everything that Mwanza lacks (although I love you Mwanza-no hard feelings). We shared Thanksgiving dinner together at a delectable Italian restaurant, where I stuffed myself with pork wrapped in pork (otherwise known as bacon), garlic mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. Combine that food coma with a few nights of sushi and an afternoon of detox massage, and all I can say is, life is good. Really, really good.

So, inevitably, after a few days with this incredible crew, assisted by my old friends beer and wine, I couldn’t help but notice a nagging discussion that kept creeping its way into conversation-a discussion that seems to be following me around the globe, or more accurately is most probably eating away at my brain: loneliness, partnership, marriage, and kids. Here we were, discussing where we may end up next year at our posts-Sudan? Afghanistan? Haiti?...and wondering how and if we’ll ever meet someone in such a place. Does it really have to be one or the other? Can’t we have this lifestyle, do this type of work, and STILL find someone? Now, I don’t want it to sound like we’re a bunch of sorry saps sitting around drinking and feeling sorry for ourselves for being single, but it does seem to be the hot topic these days. Here I am, sharing a meal with an unquestionably phenomenal group of women and men, and most of us are riding solo. I mean, REALLY phenomenal people. Well-educated, attractive, hilariously funny, compassionate, well-adapted people. And I’ve found that the older I get, the more panicked I become. All expats suffer the same loneliness, isolation, disconnection from friends and family back home. So our friendships are formed quickly and without pretense. We are quick to share and let our guards down. This is one of my favorite perks of this kind of lifestyle. So how is it so dang hard to meet somebody? We have similar interests, goals, world views, yet here we are…passing the time with whoever we can, just waiting for that magical person to come into our lives.

And so, of course this thinking always brings me back to my eternal question about the sacrifice. Is it worth it to be the absent aunt, the absent daughter, the absent friend, the absent partner to bounce around the globe? And wouldn’t it be oh-so-nice to have somebody to share these experiences with? Luckily, I’m not one of those women whose body and heart are aching for motherhood. But I definitely have my days where I wonder what if I had made different choices…if I had stayed in that relationship longer, or this city longer, would I still be where I am today? I’m also not one of those girls who has been picturing her perfect wedding since she was 12. It’s just not me. But I also can’t say I ever expected to still be single at 32. So where does this leave me? I honestly have no idea. I know that I don't want to wake up one morning as a 40 year old woman, and realize that it was all for nothing, that my life feels empty because I don't have a partner and kids, and that it's too late. I know that this sounds really defeatist, but it's what goes through my head on a pretty regular basis these days. I guess all I can really do is continue to do what I’m doing, and hope that one day not too far down the horizon, I’ll meet that perfect person who is everything I ever imagined them to be.

Kuku Karanga

Betty and I are just starting our second week of data collection for our new Orphans and Vulnerable Children project. We’re surveying vulnerable households in 20 communities where we’re hoping to work in the next year, to assess their needs and also gain a better understanding of household situations. The hope is that the results will determine how best to implement our program. Fieldwork, for me, has always been inspiring and humbling. It gives us the opportunity to go deep into the interior of a country- to a small village or town and truly see how people live, how they struggle, how they survive. It brings me back to my Peace Corps days when I was living day in, day out, in a community with similar circumstances-no access to services to meet basic needs, chronic illness, physically demanding work…and witnessing how beautiful and overwhelmingly hard their lives are.

Leading up to the survey and training, I was pulling tightly on my compulsive reigns and becoming utterly consumed with planning. After a bit of self-reflection, I decided this was not the way to operate. My goal for the next two weeks was to let go and accept that many things are just not in my control. And more importantly, that this was not my project, and I was just along to be helpful, supportive, hard-working, and not question everything that was happening. Not to sound callous, but I compare development work to event planning in many ways. Much of what we do takes unbelievable attention to detail-anticipating problems, developing contingency plans, and being a linear enough thinker to connect the dots and see how all of the components impact one another over the life of a project. We are just event planning for incredibly vulnerable people as opposed to people who work for corporations or are about to embark on a fancy getaway vacation.

So, yes. Would I be doing things a bit differently? Sure I would. But much of what we plan in the end doesn’t really make a difference anyway, as we are in Africa, and so much of what happens in a day’s time is simply out of our of control. I mean, we’re talking the bush here. It takes up to two hours to go 18km. We can’t do much about the road conditions, or about when the electricity in town is working to make photocopies, or the rain, or even whether the village governments are around to help us identify households to interview. So, they are long days. Really long days. But they are days that make our work feel worthwhile. They are days that transfer all of our frustrations from the office and impress upon us the needs of these communities and how our projects will inevitably impact lives for the better. It’s a reminder of the importance of what we do.

And of course, it’s also muzungu fishbowl time. Many of the villages we’ve visited in the past week have never seen a foreigner. I spent roughly five hours the other day sitting under a tree with 50 children at any given time starting at me with wonder. We played hide and seek. I taught them duck, duck, goose, or in this case, kuku, kuku, karanga (chicken, chicken, peanut. To date, all Swahili words I know are related to food. Obviously.) I fell in love with a two month old baby named Monica. I ate mangos. I let students practice their English. I giggled with shy toddlers and allowed the kids to poke and prod at my painted toe nails and freckles and tattoos. It was a day of inspiration. All the hard work seemed completely and utterly worth every moment of aggravation. It was peace and beauty and without question exactly what I needed.

The Deep Blue

It’s been a while since I last wrote. Characteristically I feel much more compelled when things are hard, when I need to vent, reflect, release, and writing has always helped me in that way. So inevitably, once things in my life start to improve, I tend not to share. I put the mental soundtrack on pause and offer up some peace to my quieting brain. I slip into cruise control. I revel in the goodness of it all. I mean, don’t we grow the most when things are really difficult? We impose harsh criticism on ourselves, turn inward, nurture our inner psyches to try to get some answers about what’s transpiring in our lives, and determine the role we have played to make this all feel so impossibly hard. Who the heck sits around when their lives are great, wondering “Wow. Things are pretty awesome these days. I should really invest some mental energy to figure out what the hell is going on here.” It feels fantastic when we’re up. We look inside ourselves when things feel out of reach, out of our control; it’s when we beat ourselves up, when we’re begging the universe to throw us a bone, give us a break. So when that change actually occurs (with subtlety as its best yearbook quality) change starts showing its face again at parties and we hardly notice. Things just feel different. We don’t trust ourselves to look back and remember when things felt any other way, because this feeling is so nice, and we want it to stick around, knowing all too well that eventually the shift will occur again, and the ups and downs of life will persist.

So yes, the past six weeks, I’ve established a nice little existence here in Mwanza. I’ve made some wonderfully caring , generous and supportive friends. I celebrated another marvellous birthday on the continent of Africa karaoking my heart out. I dusted off the running shoes and joined an ultimate frisbee team and began practicing yoga on the beach. I’ve ventured out into the market and forced myself to start cooking anything besides Ramen Noodles. It’s a routine that feels pleasant, comfortable, manageable.

Work, on the other hand, does not feel manageable many days. I’m grateful to be getting this experience—it’s fulfilling, truly…yet ohhhhh sooooo frustrating. The longer I am exposed to development work, the more the complexities of it surface, and the less able I feel to understand my role in this massive industry of “helping people”. The demands of the job are high, for everyone. Stress is fueled by deadlines, reports, and donors. In that sense, I would guess that it’s no different than most jobs. But it’s the bigger picture—remembering that the obligatory tasks and bureaucracy does eventually trickle down to helping incredibly vulnerable people improve their lives. It’s keeping my western expectations in check while learning to adapt to local culture and work ethic. It’s allowing myself to brush things off and recognize not everything is a matter of life and death. It’s looking past the red tape and the protocols and the donor requirements to appreciate the work that we do, and know that while it’s not perfect, it’s certainly something, and a something that is making a significant impact in the world. So, yes. Unnecessary to note, I’ve been flustered at work. Throw-my-laptop-through-the-window flustered. I’ve been on the verge of tears. Many, many times. My tolerance has evaporated. My fuse has shortened to a stub. It was time for a vacation.

There’s a reason why in much of the development world, staff are required to take R&R. Granted, I’m not in Haiti, Darfur, Afghanistan or Pakistan, but after three months in Mwanza, the concept behind it was ringing true loud and clear. Luckily, my birthday coincidentally fell around the time that I was basically ready to claw my face off at the office, and my wonderful father planned a long weekend getaway in Zanzibar for me and a friend. I allowed myself to be intoxicated by the turquoise blue ocean, powder white sand, and palm trees blowing in the breeze. I ate fresh sushi on the beach at sunset. I shopped ‘til I dropped in historic Stonetown. I floated in the warmth of the sea and soaked up the sunshine. I stuffed my gills with amazing food. I drank good wine. I slept like a baby. It was a magical, magical place and simply took my breath away. The island swept me up and renewed my love for Africa. I left feeling revived and recharged. I’ve walked away from the dreamy surf of Zanzibar with this lesson: self-imposed R&R every two months, even if it’s just a weekend to get out of Mwanza and eat fried goat and french fries in a sleepy little town 15 km up the road. Next stop?

Bend, don't break

I was g-chatting with a friend who’s about to leave for Africa on a year-long fellowship the other day. Our conversation followed an increasingly well-known outline: festering self-doubt, anxiety, stress and feelings of being incredibly overwhelmed just getting through your pre-departure to do list and saying your goodbyes. Questions about whether this is the right thing. Questions about where we’ll be next year. Questions about what kind of lifestyle we really want. And I wondered, do these kind of questions consume everyone, or just us expat types who can’t seem to sit still and are seeking out the next challenge, responding to the next natural disaster. I have to imagine that these thoughts plague the minds of most people my age, they just manifest differently. Don’t women about to embark on motherhood, or men who are taking on new jobs for the good of their families, don’t they all struggle with these existential questions? Don’t we all make sacrifices to do what we do? Maybe it’s just easier for the likes of me to contemplate these things endlessly because there’s nothing tying me down. I have the available mental space to sit around wondering if I’m fulfilled enough. But I also have to ask, do I really want my job to define me? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

I’m not gonna lie. This transition has been a bit of a bruiser. Maybe it’s my age. The things that excited me about travelling the world and doing development work at 23 just don’t get my engines revved like they used to. Perhaps I just have a bad case of Africa fatigue. It’s the same old frustrations, new country. And I wonder if it’s that particular element that seems to be driving me into these uncontrollable spirals of self-doubt. You knew what you were getting yourself into, so why lug around a bad case of the doom and glooms? I will say I’m a phenomenally lucky women that I have support from far-reaching corners of the globe. I have my amazing parents and siblings who have heard it all before, yet never fail to give me encouraging words. I have friends who have suffered through the same questions and lived the same dreams and have found themselves standing at the same crossroads. Knowing you’re not alone in the process certainly helps, and just feeling love and compassion from people who know you well and know your patterns even better.

The constant renegotiations are exhausting. The ping pong brain. The self-doubt. The questions. I realized today (with a lot of help from my friends) that I just need to let go. Not be so damn hard on myself. Allow this time to pass without overanalyzing the extreme highs and lows I’ll inevitably feel for the next few months. Allow myself to sit in whatever I need to sit in, but don’t wallow in it. Dust myself off, try again tomorrow. Seek small victories. Appreciate the relationships I’m building. Move forward, little by little, day by day. And eventually, those nagging feelings will subside and I’ll wake up one day and everything will feel ok. Better than ok, even. There will be the slightest shift in the universe, the subtle turning of a corner, and the way we view things will be transformed, ever so mildly. And you’ll recognize that you are good again. That familiar feeling of strength will replace the familiarity of doubt. Resilience will substitute for despair. Peace will recover from turmoil. I very much look forward to that day, and until then, will just keep swimming through mud.

The Space Between

This month has been a lot about me coming to terms with being back in Africa, and being comfortable in that space. Much of the adjustment is second nature at this point. The fishbowl stares when I walk down the street; fumbling through local language; tolerating the heat and unforgiving sun; meeting new people and seeking harmony in beliefs and experience; navigating public transportation. And being mindful of my expectations, leading to the ever-forgiving lessons of: Patience. Tolerance. Acceptance. Nothing in Africa happens quickly. Nothing. I should know better by now, I’m fully aware of this… but I have learned that just by acknowledging the difficulties of a situation, or even predicting potential pitfalls doesn’t make working through them any easier.

I have never consumed so much tea. I’m not even entirely convinced that I like tea, but it takes up roughly 45 minutes of my seemingly endless nine hour work day. As a dear friend noted this week, this period of adjustment feels a bit like swimming through mud. I sleep ridiculous amounts. Nap at lunch, nap after work, in bed by 9:30pm. I make lists. Compulsive, overly-detailed lists. Small tasks that will make me feel remotely better about my daily existence. Many days these efforts prove fruitless, others are slightly more successful. And I start over again the next day. I have no other choice. 1. Shave head: today, this took roughly two hours for an otherwise effortless ten minute activity. Solution: take off the guard and avoid sun at all costs until any hair grows back. Awesome. 2. Check email: uh, no comment. 3. Laundry: while the guesthouse maintains a washing machine, its functionality is quite the mystery. Some days, the cycle finishes in a reasonable 45 minutes. Other days, three-and-a-half hours later and it’s still stuck in spin cycle. 4. Finish 750 page book (that you started yesterday). 5. Nap. 6. Eat Ramen noodles. 7. Revamp failed exercise routine. 8. Drink another cup of tea. 9. Pluck eyebrows. 10. Paint fingernails. 11. Watch six hours of Glee. 12. Take a shower. These are the things that are currently consuming my schedule. It’s discouraging at best but I just keep telling myself its temporary. It’s the adjustment period.

Three weeks after arriving at work, I am still patiently awaiting permanent housing, driving lessons, Swahili classes, finance tutorials, and basically any remotely useful activity that doesn’t make me feel like I’m getting fatter by the mere act of sitting at my desk. I love my colleagues. I am inspired by the work that we do. Honestly. But right now I just don’t feel like an asset, like I’m contributing, like I’m being utilized in any way that makes me feel valued and excited to show up to work every day. And that’s the hard part…the waiting. I know sometime very soon, I’ll turn that corner and suddenly be swamped with project proposals, site visits, and meetings. And I very much anticipate that time. It’s the space between that’s the killer. The big downer. The self-doubter. Because if I’m not here for the work, what the hell am I doing here? All the sacrifice wouldn’t be worth the trouble. And all those seeds of doubt would blossom into trees. And then where would I be?

Tilt-A-Whirl

Whirlwind, whirlwind, whirlwind. It’s incredible to think about where I was a week ago, and the week before that, and the two weeks before that. More amazing is our capacity to shift from place to place, city to city, mental space to mental space, and come out seemingly unscathed on the other side (a bit bruised and battered nonetheless). In the past month, I left my beloved city of New Orleans, spent a week soaking up the comfort and loving space of family and home, spent an exhausting week of fellowship training in Baltimore, and sigh…here I am again, on the continent of Africa. Don’t get me wrong. This month was riddled with mixed emotions: fluctuating between being robotically numb to desperately heavy-hearted and trying to manage my ever-changing feelings of doubt, guilt, excitement, sadness, and acceptance. I guess it’s easier to coast through difficult transitions, as a survival mechanism to allow us space to adapt and breathe, hoping that a few weeks or months down the road, we’ll actually be able to take a deep breath and process what the hell just happened to us.

Leaving New Orleans was hard, but in a really affirming sort of way. I was feeling conflicted about leaving the city, felt like I was abandoning it in some strange way, not sure I was ready to walk away from my life there and the energy and comfort that physical space gave me. But as a friend recently counseled, it’s pretty incredible that I am at a point in my life where I’m choosing between two loves, and that I have multiple places on this glorious planet that make me feel that I belong. Granted, it didn’t stop my mind from ricocheting; recognizing that I am quite possibly just one of those people that always misses what I don’t have.

Time spent with family created a generous space for reflection, allowing me to digest my departure from New Orleans and my impending move back to the continent of Africa. It was days of creeping fear and tugging guilt of leaving my family and once again facing the unknown. It was the joy of welcoming a new niece into this world. There was the purity of spending time with my nieces at the pool, or sharing meals with my parents, or laughing over holiday memories with extended relatives. I felt heavy-hearted at times, wondering if I was making the right choice, wondering if I could continue this kind of life.

And just like that, I am in Tanzania, where adjusting to day to day life seems almost secondary, natural. And without much effort, your day to day existence settles in, and you realize that while this lifestyle polarizes the world you knew in the dirty south, it is still your life, and you are pretty content and familiar and comfortable with this space, too. And maybe it’s a blessing to realize that after all the questions and worry and fear, you come to the conclusion that quite possibly your quest for balance can be achieved in more places than just one…that quite possibly you’ve reached a point in your life where the world you left is equally appreciated to the world you’ve just arrived in. Perhaps that’s happiness. Perhaps it’s peace. Perhaps it’s just your home away from home for this moment in time.

The Union on Union Street

Burlington, VT is one of those places where your preconceptions and initial impressions are matched perfectly: spotlessly clean streets, beer-making hippies, sporty young people biking and hiking and running all over town; green mountains, cows, maple syrup. Of course, beneath these thoughts are the complexities and realities of rural poverty and a whole lot more, but I much prefer to think of it as the home of Ben & Jerry’s and those teddy bears everyone seems to love so much. Regardless, it was a welcomed respite from the oppressive heat of New Orleans, and the chance to visit and celebrate with very dear friends.

Weddings are always fantastic. They remind you of the goodness in the world, and the hope that love can bring, not to mention the free alcohol and an opportunity to get dressed up in something besides Tevas. Of course, I arrived a day earlier and stayed a day later than everyone else, wondering what my options are as someone who can’t afford the hotel or even a nearby camping site. Now, I know there are many couples out there who are amazing planners and organized and thoughtful and all that razzmatazz, but I have to say, having two brides instead of one seemed to make all the difference. All the little details that guys simply just don’t care (nor think) about are double the pleasure, double the fun. I was one of the lucky few who got to take advantage of the vacant apartment downstairs from Kim and Lauren’s. Not only was it a great set-up from a convenience standpoint, but I was also able to spend a lot of time with Kim and Lauren, their families, and other guests (all while comfortably relaxing in my pajamas). They provided me with essentials like toothpaste and soap, a new queensize air mattress, and a fridge full of deviled eggs and pickles (that were technically for the rehearsal dinner BBQ but my over-consumption appeared to go unnoticed). And I got beaucoup time with the fam. Met the aunts and uncles, hung with the siblings, made pasta salad, stressed over turning off the brownies, teased younger cousins. Absolutely fabulous.

Lauren is a cherished friend from Peace Corps Togo, and while I had only met Kim once before, it was such a delight to have that extra time with them. There’s just something about the familiarity and comfort of a shared, intense experience like Peace Corps that joins people in such an authentic way. It had been three years since I had seen the majority of RPCVs from Togo at the wedding, and like they always say, we didn’t skip a bit, as if no time had passed at all. You learn to know one another in an exceptionally unguarded, vulnerable way that creates such an incredible space for honesty and compassion. It was an incontestably hilarious and joyful time to be together again, stitched over in laughter, trading village stories and sharing in new memories.

And the wedding itself…how can you go wrong in Vermont in the summertime at a barn in the middle of a green pasture? Um, you actually can’t. Perfect setting. If there is anyone that does not condone same sex marriage, I strongly suggest going to the ceremony of a gay couple. The love and commitment between Kim and Lauren was evident in everything that happened all evening, from the glances to the vows to the gestures—filled with beauty and truth and the simplicity of an undeniable love. I couldn’t help but feel that we were witnessing something bigger than the marriage of Kim and Lauren (of which my waterworks could vouch for), while that alone in itself was enough. It was more the symbolism of what they represent. Undying devotion. Unquestioning commitment…and the legal right to be recognized and supported as spouses. At the end of the day, that’s all we really hope for anyone, right? That they find a partner that brings to the surface things that were once dormant; fills a void searching for completeness; enhances the goodness in the other, and is built on the foundations of invincible adoration, respect, and dedication. I left the weekend feeling inspired about life, joyful about love, and grateful for the wonderful friendships I have in my world. Thanks Lauren and Kim for such a spectacular weekend (and for trusting me with the reception playlist).

out beyond ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing

there is a field--

i'll meet you there.

when the soul lies down in that grass

the world is too full to talk about--

ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other'

doesn't make any sense.

-rumi

Do You Know What it Means….

Well, I am in a much better place than the last time I blogged. I finally heard from CRS, and I can honestly say that after all the anticipation and conflicted thinking about staying in New Orleans or going back abroad, it didn’t seem like much of a decision at all. Adding a week to the anticipation only solidified what I already knew…that I wanted to go back to Africa and continue to do this type of work. It was one of those heartthumpingoutofyourchest moments that just felt incredibly perfect. Yes, grad school was totally worth it. Here I go. I will be placed in Mwanza, Tanzania—on the southern tip of Lake Victoria, on the outskirts of Serengeti National Park, working on HIV programming, agriculture projects, and livelihoods. Yay me. My life for the next year…what I want. Hands down.

In saying this, though, comes the acceptance of the expat life. Again. I’m sure to some my lifestyle seems exciting and somewhat intense, and in some ways I guess it is. But we expats also sacrifice a lot to do what we do, by choice. We choose time and again to uproot, adapt, learn, adjust, and settle in. Over and over. It’s a gift to learn about a new culture, a new country, put your footprint on a new spot of the globe that just blows your mind when you step off the plane. The majestic beauty, the vastness, the simplicity, the kindness, the resilience. It’s enlightening, challenging, humbling and hopeful. It’s what keeps us coming back. But coupled with this comes insecurity, isolation, disconnection, and the day to day turbulence of working in a foreign land. I will never be Togolese, Ethiopian, Rwandan, or Nicaraguan. As much as I educate and assimilate and accept, I will always have white American privilege propping me up, making excuses, justifying whatever it is I do or don’t do. It’s a lot to manage. You build friendships, but many are out of necessity or convenience. You balance the desire to live like a local while appreciating the comforts afforded you because you ARE white and you ARE American. You learn how to function seeing your family once a year and supporting friendships over Skype, email and Facebook. You give up the familiar and sacrifice what you could have had if you stayed. Your New Orleans wrapping you in her arms and showering you with a culture that can’t be found many places. So, yes. We agree to the loneliness and solitude in order to fight a greater cause, contribute to something much larger than ourselves. We overextend ourselves professionally, work incredibly long hours, frustrate ourselves beyond belief, and it’s all for the sake of the project, the work…because if the work isn’t changing lives, what the hell is the sacrifice really for?

Now that I finally know, it’s hard to start closing the door on New Orleans. I wake up every morning determined to recognize and appreciate how magical of a place this city is. I envy the richness of her culture—the festivals, the food, the music, the attitudes, the family. There’s always something to do in a very spontaneous, organic, wonderfully New Orleans sorta way. It’s also timeless in a way that I think most people recognize if you have spent any amount of time here. The pressures of fitting into those pre-determined timelines ruling and robotically running most of America just simply don’t exist. Must be married by 28. Must buy first home by 30. Must have first child by 32. It’s a great place to feel freedom without judgment. Everybody moves to the beat of their own drum, trombone, or washboard. Which is why I feel so happy to have had this four months back down here…to enjoy and appreciate and thank the city for the time I’ve had here, and also to know that there is no question in my mind that I will once again call New Orleans home…in 3 years, 5 years, 10 years…she’ll be waiting for me with open arms...back to her tradition and soul that make New Orleans so special. And, yes. Time and time again, I do indeed know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Anxious Anita

It never fails. As much as we convince ourselves that we are becoming more comfortable with uncertainty, don’t trust ourselves to be consumed by anticipation, we inevitably fall into that age-old trap of being disappointed by the expectations of which we set for ourselves, and allow to govern and rule our day to day worlds. The topic of this week’s meltdown? The international fellowship I applied for months ago had stated at our final interview in February that we would hear an answer by April 5^th, yay or nay, by telephone. This date became a fixation for me in every aspect of my life…like I couldn’t even schedule my dog’s haircut without knowing—knowing whether I’d continue a life in New Orleans and settle down into a reasonably stable, gloriously fun and challenging existence in a city I adore, or continue down the path of international work that would likely bounce me around the globe for the next few years. And when I say fixated, that’s putting it lightly. I’ve compiled massively extensive lists in the NOLA vs. abroad column…just waiting for that magical day to say, phew. Now I can get Netflix. Or, I can finally call my lender, fix the chain on my bike, take Spanish classes, sell used books, buy that tee shirt I want. Oh, I really shouldn’t go to that museum until I’m sure I’m staying in New Orleans or not. Huh?

I went crazy. Literally. By Monday night, I had stared at the screen of my Blackberry so many times, I was seeing icons when I blinked. I sobbed hysterically at the kitchen table, drank a bottle of wine, and allowed myself to feel knock-down, drag out, horrible about myself. Rejection and doubt are a bad combo, particularly when the rejection hasn’t even been confirmed yet. And again, I became mad at myself, because instead of being “rational and understanding Aimee” who realizes that there were numerous and likely reasons why there was a delay in communication, I permitted myself (with reckless abandon) to go to the bad place. That horrid, unhealthy place where you hate everything, above all yourself, and curse the very mentality you pretended all this time you didn’t have. It manifests itself in ugly ways. Your road rage exponentially increases on the way to and from work. Road rage in NOLA is a bad idea, people. Nobody has insurance and everybody owns a gun. You eat Taco Bell for like the third time in a decade; you convince yourself it’s ok to go to bed at 8pm. You decide with definitive authority that you detest each and every one of your coworkers, the majority of your friends, and even tolerate a short fuse with that loyal, fluffy, geriatric poodle who has never wronged you in your life.

It’s bad, and it’s your fault. The power of your own thinking is extraordinary and totally bizarre. It’s your expectations that have brought you to this mental space that’s unraveling you more by the day, and what has honestly changed between this week and last? Really? Nada. It’s still the waiting game. It’s still the same day to day existence you were living last week, so why all the hysteria? Because we are our harshest critics, our worst enemies, and the expectations we create and intend for ourselves will never be surpassed by anyone else. So, fine. Lesson learned. Again. Breathe. Live presently. Exist calmly. The universe will unfold in due time, either on April 5^th or otherwise.

Crescent City Spittin’ Her Game

Moving back to New Orleans for springtime festival season was an obvious no-brainer for me. While being home in Philly for the holiday festivities, as well as post-Nicaragua wintery blizzard world of 2010, was a gift in the sense that I got to share immeasurable time with my nieces and my folks, it was my age-old “holding pattern” scenario that I knew I just couldn’t get sucked into again. I’m curious as to whether there’s an age limit to the feeling you get being back at your parent’s place and you just magically revert back to early adolescence. Delicious homemade family dinners every night; 200 channels on the flatscreen tv; fluffy pillows and soft-smelling laundry; dinner and a movie outings with mom and dad. I mean, it’s just so comfortable and lovely and easy. But inevitably, there were the mornings that I woke up wondering, “Um, can I really live here for the next six months until I hear about this fellowship gig?” That familiar family place said yes. This is awesome. Time with my parents. Time with my sister and brother-in-law. Time getting to know my nieces to teach them all my annoying habits and forcing them to watch old Disney VHS tapes. No bills, no responsibilities, nothing to do but hang out, relax, regroup. Sigh.

But, when I came down to New Orleans for a much-anticipated and snow-delayed Mardi Gras, it seemed like a sign from the universe when Tulane offered me this temporary job at the Social Work school—a job that would take me through the end of July, upon which I would then either head back overseas or stay in New Orleans to pursue other work. Fast-forward through crazy transition week of the world: bought a car; found a place to live; went to Baltimore for my final fellowship interview; spent a day in NYC with my folks to see a broadway show; roadtripped to NOLA with my mom….and phew. Here I was. Again.

Now, it goes without saying that in my twisted brain there’s huge risk to being where you’ve already been. You’re battling some serious expectations about a place that is incredibly familiar, but in a completely new context. Things change. People change. The universe shifts. But I was thoroughly convinced that this was it—the right choice for right now. All signs pointing South. I could push aside all those nagging thoughts of temporary vs. permanent yet again. So what if I’m moving down for only four amazing months in a city I love? I can handle the uncertainty and live my life. Stop coasting through at my parent’s place.

Well, there’s this thing about New Orleans, see. For anyone who has lived her for longer than, ohhh, I’d say six months, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That undeniably authentic, spontaneous, gritty energy and culture that everyone raves makes New Orleans the funkiest city in America? Well, it’s true. Damn true…but that same energy can turn on you. This city is one moody bitch. All the sudden you look around at the past few weeks and think, “Shit. Can I really handle anything else right now?” All those seemingly unrelated bad strokes of luck—the car breaking down, you losing your job (and your boyfriend…and your dog), finding out you need to get a root canal, serve on jury duty, owe money for taxes…that’s not the universe, that’s the Crescent City, baby. She’s a living, breathing creature like any of us, and this is why we love her. She can welcome you with her sunshine, crawfish boils, tree-lined parks, brass bands and southern hospitality, and she can just as quickly make you wonder what the hell you’re doing there.

That’s kind of how my first month back has felt. It’s been full of ups and downs that I guess are typical of any transition, but it feels different because it’s familiar. But I lived here before, my head says, “Why the hell is this so hard?” It’s hard because it’s different and familiar. Friends have moved on. Work is not school. Gentilly is not Uptown. New roommates are not old roommates. But I feel confident that just like me, she’ll get through whatever it is she needs to get through, and the city will once again magically embrace me with open arms and things will start feeling at home again. They always do. It’s springtime in New Orleans, for Pete’s sake. And there just ain’t nothin’ better than festival season in New Orleans. Yes, indeedy.

Me Gusta Nicaragua!!

I’m sitting in my parents’ kitchen in my Snugmee (yes, people actually wear these), awaiting this monstrous storm that’s supposed to be hitting the east coast, and figured it was a great time to sit down and blog about Nicaragua. Technically, I should create a new blog dedicated to this amazing little country, documenting all the adventures, amazing people, and overall voyage on a personal level. But in a strange way, I’ve been finding it difficult to write. And I’ve found it equally challenging to field the question, “How was Nicaragua?” in a way that really captures what the journey meant for me, my experience there, and how it feels to be back. I’m sure this blog will become mercilessly long, and I’ll end up dividing it up into a few shorter snippets, but for now, I’m just allowing myself to ramble.

A main objective of this trip south of the border was to create some mental space in order to process all the changes going on in my life…my return from Rwanda, my unemployment, my upcoming decisions about my career and relocating and where I really want and need to be…and in that sense, Nicaragua was the perfect backdrop for that type of personal work. I quickly recognized that in order to cultivate that mental space, I needed to let go of a lot that’s been holding me down—expectations about where I should be in my life, friendships and relationships that just aren’t giving me what I need—simply allocating some affirming energy and effort on me—without the daily distractions, stresses, or influences of the normal routine. And this magical little place in the middle of Central America did just that, and so much more.

Nicaragua is charming in a really honest, genuine, simple sort of way. The people are proud and family-oriented, hardworking and kind, helpful and humorous, affectionate and diverse. Nicaragua is cobblestone streets, papayas the size of small toddlers, riding on the handlebars of a friend’s bike. It’s corner parks and lime trees, brightly painted walls and sunshine, running children, toothy smiles, churches, churches, and more churches. It’s guitar playing and salsa, riding horses down the beach and hand-washing clothes in the lake. It’s ice cream, cowboy hats, hammocks, and fishing boats. In a month’s time, I felt as though I had barely scratched the surface. I travelled along the western side of the country, visiting a deserted beach on the Pacific coast among small fishing villages; a quiet mountain community growing coffee and raising cattle; colonial cities teeming with colorful churches and history; and eventually made my way to the peaceful volcanic island situated in the middle of a very large lake.

I was lucky to not only meet some amazing Nicaraguans, but travelers as well. It seems that all of Canada has migrated south for the Winter Olympics and the 40 below temperatures. Who can blame them? I hadn’t realized how long it had been that I had actually traveled anywhere, simply for the sake of discovering new places and understanding new cultures. It was nice to feel that sense of connection and unity again, visiting with and meeting people who were in Nicaragua for the sole purpose of wanting to see more of the world, better understand who we are as human beings, and the common threads that unite us as people. Truly incredible, fascinating individuals. And a hell of a lot of fun, too.

Overall, I left Nicaragua feeling an unexpected connection to the culture and the people there, feeling revitalized and revived, feeling appreciative that I had allowed myself this time to grow and process and just be. The journey felt timely and important and full of lessons. I learned to accept the discomfort of my loneliness. As much as I am longing for love and companionship and connection, I also don’t ever want to feel like I am convincing someone they want to be with me, or convincing myself I want to be with them. Persuading someone I’m worth the effort or the risk, or that our time together was more than it was meant to. I don’t want that for myself. I deserve more. I just need to have the patience to let the universe unfold in its own way and appreciate the solitude for what it is—time to learn more deeply about myself, figure out what I want and where…and just maybe, eventually, that void of who will be filled by someone at the exact moment it’s intended. I also learned that I may never feel “settled” or satisfied, that there is just way too much of the world to see and understand and discover, too many people to connect with and seek community and connectivity with, too much truth and beauty to stay put in one place for too long. And I feel pretty darn ok with that, too.

Quantum Leap

“Because you never know where life is gonna take you and you can’t change where you been. But today, I have the opportunity to choose.” India Arie

Wow. 2010. What a decade. I guess we don’t realize what a wild ride we’re on until we get off the train. The 2000s have ended, and with that my 20s. I kinda like that parallel. Years filled with graduating college, my first real job, Peace Corps and my first, savory taste of Africa; long-term relationships (and with that, lost loves); grad school; travel, new cities, new friends, new countries; joy, pain, truth and beauty. The decade marked huge life transitions from late adolescence into adulthood—witnessing my siblings find their life partners and sharing in the joy of their wedding days, and now enjoying the beauty and innocence of their children. It was friends finding themselves in new cities, new careers, new relationships, new homes, and through that, progressing to the next stages of those relationships and friendships as adults. It was coming to terms with the lifestyle I’ve chosen, and the challenges that come with always wanting more, seeking, searching. It’s accepting non-conventionality and the possibility that I may never marry or have children of my own. It was a decade of questions and answers and more questions…a decade of growth and disappointment, discovery and presence. It shaped the woman I am today—my strengths, my weaknesses, my dreams, aspirations, and hopes. I learned to be gentle with myself, and invest in the difficult work of examining myself more closely in order to be a better person, a better sister, a better daughter, a better friend. It was a decade of blessings and incredible privilege; ten years characterized by struggle and challenge, goodness and light. It was a gift.

So, on the first day of 2010, as I am packing my bags for my month-long voyage through Nicaragua, I can’t help but feel incredibly lucky for where I am. That my nomadic tendencies are once again allowing me the opportunity to see a new corner of the globe, invest time and energy in myself and be present; welcome the crossroads I have once again found myself facing. So, it feels like a big year in many ways. I’m hoping this trip will allow me to make my next choice in life: whether it’s moving back to a city I love and investing in a life, a community, a job that lasts longer than 24 months, or if the nomad in me will desire a new country, culture, language, world in which to pour my energy. Perhaps it will simply give me space and time to be me.

My hopes for this next decade: Be authentic. Learn. Live with integrity. Live passionately. Accept. Live with tolerance. Live fully. Love completely.