Like a Blister in the Sun

My “Fat Tuesday” this year consisted of me wolfing down four starches with a side of fried beef for lunch at the office, sweating through my shirt, and feeling like my eyeballs were burning out of my skull from proposal writing. Hard to imagine that last year on Mardi Gras day, I was waltzing down the streets of New Orleans decked head to toe in psychedelic blue peacock feathers, rounded out by a snazzy, silver sequined mini skirt that caught the sunlight while I shimmied. Drinking white wine out of a plastic egg drop soup container at 7am on the Zulu parade route, making my way across town to the French Quarter, you can’t help but become incredibly overtaken by the freakiness and beauty that is Mardi Gras season in the Big Easy-the subcultures and traditions in pockets of the city and neighborhoods all over town. It’s parading and costuming and fake eyelashing and boa seduction on the dance floor. It’s meeting the early light of morning as you emerge from the dinginess of Tipitinas after having your mind blown by your favorite brass band. It’s king cake and barbeques, street parties, afro wigs and bead-catching; cheering on of high school bands and connecting with strangers in the crowd. It’s marveling at the unbelievable creativity people possess. It’s turning the ordinary into the dazzling, astonishing, spontaneously wonderful extraordinary.

After living there, it’s torture being outside of New Orleans during Mardi Gras and not have it eating away at your brain. Even more agonizing is being two weeks into your early recovery and humanitarian aid post in Southern Sudan and not have Mardi Gras eating away at your brain. I was caught between worlds-craving the debauchery of New Orleans while also desperately trying to remain present and wrap my head around my new and equally bizarre environment. In a nutshell, I was homesick. And bordering on serious depression.

What can I say about Juba? Um, it’s hot. Damn hot. Remember as kids when we used to take magnifying glasses and burn insects in the sun? That’s what Juba feels like. Minus the restrictive movement-curfew and carpooling and group housing with a dozen male colleagues; dust that miraculously finds its way into everything, and feeling like I’m essentially living on the sun, things have actually been surprisingly great. The people here are incredibly kind and welcoming. They are also unbelievably tall and unbelievably dark. The staff are good-natured and exceptionally hard working. Our projects feel relevant and inspiring and the mood of optimism lingers as Southern Sudan transitions into independence. The cast of characters, both international and national, are sarcastic, quirky, full of sass, and totally committed to their work. We work long hours. Really long hours. We rely on one another for support and strength. We ease our stress through humor and alcohol and sleep. And so while the adjustment has been a bit strange, it also somehow feels ok. The initial weeks feel good. I feel inspired. Encouraged. So, as I crawl into bed at an early hour tonight, exhausted from sun and work, aching for the familiar and shaking off the Mardi Gras melancholies, I will close my eyes and dream of the rebirth of New Orleans, and awaken in the morning to the birth of a new African nation.