truthandbeauty

With Thanks

2011-11-27T03:04:00.000-08:00

When I reflect on my past nine months in Juba, I have a lot to be thankful for. I am grateful to be in a setting where I’m consistently tested, challenged, and forced to grow—that my work doesn’t lend itself to stagnancy, laziness or complacency. I wake up every morning with the opportunity to present my best self, my most giving, accepting, kind self, or the alternative of allowing my worst self to rear its grotesquely ugly head. I probably see more of the worst days than I care to admit, but there’s something about the vulnerability, the exposure, the rawness—of feeling such extremes with such consistency—that it feels like a gift somehow, an opportunity to become a better person. I’m grateful for the passage of time in healing old wounds and allowing myself forgiveness. I am thankful for the patience of our national staff, who after all they’ve experienced and witnessed and suffered through, have the ability to accept the shortcomings of their khawaja office mates and gracefully manage my ever-changing moods. I am grateful for my colleagues and housemates who have become my proxy family—and like most families—we have grown to appreciate and accept the flaws and weaknesses in one another, as much as we enjoy and welcome the good. Regardless of our individual stresses and differences of opinion, we set aside our own needs to offer up generosity, compassion, and understanding time and time again. I’m appreciative for the inexhaustible support of my parents—their loyalty in remaining engaged in my life given other obligations and the challenges of time and distance; without them, I would not be capable of sustaining this lifestyle. I am thankful for the friends that despite the years of absence in their worlds are committed to staying a part of mine. I have reconnected with friends I assumed were gone from my life this year, and am amazed by the significance they continue to hold, and the acknowledgement that those complex, complicated pieces of our stories haven’t been minimized by time or life experience. I am forever grateful for these people to remind me of who I was, and how they’ve contributed to the woman that I now am. I even hesitate to say I’m thankful for the modern technologies of Facebook and Skype-without which I would not be able to watch my nieces grow or hear my mother’s laugh. I feel blessed to have been born an American woman, born into privilege that I have in no way earned but benefit from no matter where I am on the globe. It is thanks to this privilege that I’ve been granted the opportunities I have, and been witness to a side of the human condition I never dreamed imaginable. It’s through this lens that I try to be mindful to never take things for granted. I’m appreciative to observe this period of South Sudanese history and participate in the transition of a new nation. I’m grateful to have seen new corners of the world this year, the opportunity to be reminded why the world is such a complex, incredibly beautiful place. I’m thankful for the unexpected joys that arise in the most hectic of days; I’m encouraged with the possibility of new friendships and the meaning they hold. I am thankful that my nieces and nephew have all been born in good health, and their mothers continue to have the strength and dedication to nourish them into beautiful little human beings. I am opening myself up to the possibility of something new—giving myself over to the space of not knowing and believing in myself enough to give myself completely. I am thankful for the daily brilliance of the Juba sunset. I am blessed that my family stays strong in mind and body, and that regardless of how much time has passed, home will always be home.

A Merging of Worlds

2011-11-03T08:16:00.000-07:00

I should have known that Istanbul was a magical place, after hearing from absolutely everyone what an incredible city it was. Doesn’t take much to drink the Kool-Aid in a place like this. But more than its unique reputation of being the perfect blend of contemporary and tradition, Europe and Asia, Islam and Christianity—Istanbul was precisely everything I needed it to be—a completely different world from anything I’d ever experienced, with little to no agenda guiding my days. And nights filled with sleep—glorious, uninterrupted, deep, magnificent sleep. For a directionally challenged, single white female, Istanbul was the perfect backdrop to reconnect with my nomadic, traveling self. The constant flattery from men half my size was comical, with endearing comments like “Your eyes are doing crazy things to my head,” and “You are strong woman, like German!” I oddly welcomed the engagement, if nothing else to have a seemingly informative conversation about Turkish culture and their undying commitment to blue eyed women travelling alone. I find Turks to be honest, humorous, incredibly hard working, and eager to please. The narrow streets are filled with short, round men with tobacco-stained teeth sipping apple tea, with equally round women donning head scarves ushering small children down the sidewalk. Fat street cats harassing restaurant goers, young boys with insanely hip hairdos, the smell of apple tobacco wafting from hookahs. Istanbul is a beautiful place.

My days usually began with a vague idea of what I’d like to do (after a breakfast of olives, cheese, and homemade jams), but basically led to a lot of wandering, random encounters, assistance on public transportation, standing in long lines for seemingly critical historical landmarks (the Blue Mosque actually blew me away, even though the smell of tourists’ feet was particularly distracting), and fumbling through conversations with people who speak little to no English. Spent hours looking for the Grand Bazaar, only to find it’s closed on Sundays; hopped on and off the tram, only to find out I was not even travelling in the right direction; arrived at the hamam with no bathing suit, where a very large Turkish woman in a red lace bra gave me the scrub down of my life, a slap on the cheek, called me Lady Gaga, and our cackles echoed from every tile in the place. I met some wonderful people—shared meals and honest conversation, giggled over my own insecurity and cultural faux-pas, and learned about the culture over countless beers with strangers. Each afternoon, the city came alive with call to prayer, echoing from mosques from the seven hills, with minarets poking through the skyline, and it was something that always forced me to take pause and recognize where I was. Along the same street, you are passing a woman in full burqa, a young girl in the latest styles with sexy boots and tight jeans, an old man puffing apple tobacco from a nargileh, a young business man draining a draft beer. It is tolerance; it is Istanbul both old and new, in its most beautiful forms.

There were many moments in the past few days where I found myself wishing I had someone to experience these misadventures with, yet I recognize that if I hadn’t been alone, my experience would have been completely different; the perspective would have shifted to something shared, not completely mine, consumed by my own thoughts and observations and impressions. What I love about travelling solo, and always fail to remember it until I’m doing it again, is how it connects us as humans on a very basic level; it reminds me of the good in people, the commonality of humor and kindness that makes us who we are. And it’s refreshing and world-opening and somehow life giving—that I’m leaving here feeling this distinct possibility of something new—that the energy in my world is finally starting to shift. I feel ready to get back to Juba and appreciate what I have there, focus on making things better for myself, hopefully starting with a plate of baklava on my lap.

The more things change, the more they stay the same

2011-10-02T02:30:00.000-07:00

It’s a rainy Sunday in the field. I just woke up in my tent, am sipping Nescafe, and sitting here preparing for a donor visit, wondering how so much time has passed without writing. Much of me knows that while writing has always been therapeutic for me, lately I just haven’t had the energy to put down in words what has been going on. I’m feeling a bit misguided and flustered, to be honest. I’ve been travelling a lot. In the past two months, I’ve flown across the pond twice—once for home leave to visit family and friends, and most recently, for a health conference at headquarters.

Both visits have been timely, in that work has felt consistently overwhelming and stressful, relentlessly exhausting, and six months into my time in Juba, most days I feel like I’m still trying to find my feet, and while I feel I’ve built up some confidence with work, I often feel like most days are spent trying to keep myself afloat. I still find myself navigating the social scene here, and still have days of loneliness, lack of fulfillment, undeniable fatigue. And while I don’t know that I’ve found a healthy routine or manageable way to pass through the weeks, time is somehow flying by at record speed. It’s incredible to compare my time here to the six months I spent in Tanzania, and how my experience unfolded in such a distinctly different way. I want to love Juba, I really do. I see other expats thriving in this environment and I wonder what it is I’m missing, or doing wrong, or lacking in my own, freakishly bizarre existence here, and I can’t seem to put my finger on it. I enjoy my work; I love my colleagues; I feel inspired by the country and the people that have struggled for decades to be where they are. But most days, I just wonder where I would be if I had made different choices, and wondering how much longer I can maintain this lifestyle.

The irony is that I’ve been doing this long enough that when I’m home, I also don’t feel like I “fit” there anymore. The creature comforts of home feel somehow too accessible, too easy. My siblings and friends are parents and home owners and measure the happiness and success of their worlds in such different ways than I do. And while it was amazing to reconnect with friends and have treasured time with family, I found myself oddly craving aspects of my strange world across the sea. Home felt simultaneously bizarre and familiar, and in the time it takes me to readjust to being there, I’m back in Africa again. Seeing my family and friends was rejuvenating in a way that only being around people that know you well can be—their support and understanding, their patience, thoughtfulness, acknowledgement of my quirks and need for space. And while I cherished that time with them, I accept in myself that a world surrounded by my own kids and 9-5 job is unlikely and simply not part of who I am or what I want right now…and I found that conclusion to be strange, and slightly contradictory to what I expected to feel.

Being home also made me realize that as much as my life seems to be changing—yes, I’ve moved to a number of different countries on the continent of Africa in recent years—that overall, my life feels static, stagnant, perhaps even a bit stale. That while my lifestyle lends itself to steep learning curves and new experiences, that not much feels all that different than it did. And yet my friends and family are finding great partners, getting married, having babies, and I sadly find myself resentful of that—that I’m still alone and can’t figure out just what I’m doing wrong. I discovered that an ex of mine just recently got married and is having a baby, yet I haven’t been in a relationship that has lasted longer than a few months in years. Years, people. I don’t want to feel bitterness towards people I care about because they’ve been able to find companionship and I haven’t. It feels horrible, and I find myself retreating from those relationships because I am envious of what they have. And so it seems that I don’t want life at home and I don’t want life here. So, I’m basically humming a tune in my head, days away from my 33^rd birthday, singing, “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with…me.”

One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do

2011-06-04T23:23:00.000-07:00

"Travelers who put their homesickness behind them, who explore a place thoroughly, may find upon returning home that they experience a new kind of homesickness, a benign kind, that which comes only to those who travel well: homesickness for a place once visited, even if only briefly -- the sense that only in the western Highlands of Scotland, the beaches of the Lesser Antilles, the markets of Marrakesh, did some deep and very real part of their soul feel completely and exhilaratingly at home." W. D. Wetherell

I wish someone had told me when I was like eight years old that there’s absolutely no way to plan for your life. No matter how much mental energy you put into making decisions, weighing your options, determining next steps, people are still consistently shocked by the paths their lives take, and where we all end up, and how the hell we got here. This has been consuming a lot of my thoughts lately, not for some complicated, existential reason, but mainly for the mere fact that I’m lonely, dreadfully so. One of my dear friends from undergrad is getting married this month; my sister just gave birth to her fourth child; my parents just celebrated their 37th wedding anniversary—and here I am, living in group housing in Africa’s soon-to-be newest nation, and I’m wondering if I had made different choices if I’d still be alone, or be like one of those friends that is buying their first home, or celebrating their child’s third birthday, or taking a weekend away with my partner of five or six years.

What I do know is that no matter how much I didn’t plan for love or marriage or kids, I also guess I never pictured myself still single at 32—a profound single with no potential partners in sight. I feel like I’ve been meandering down a long and winding road of false-starts, flawed expectations, failed attempts. And while the longer I’m away from the conventionality of marriage and a permanent address, I do feel the gentle tugs of wanting some sense of “normalcy”, commitment, companionship in my life. I’m dying for it honestly. I think of my friends and how some of the most successful relationships I know are nothing slightly resembling the daydreams we had as young girls of who we’d end up with or how. Friends who have fallen for partners ten years older than them, divorced, with kids, from different countries speaking different languages, partners with complex pasts and even more complicated presents. All the complexities of juggling careers and culture and step-children—it’s nothing we anticipate when we’re sixteen and imagining our lives…but it is the reality of our world and if nothing else, love seems to surface when we least expect it, and allows us to lose all ability to rationalize or think clearly, and we are utterly and hopelessly consumed by it. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m waiting for.

Yet, the longer I’m away, the more frightening those conventions become to me. I’m not sure I’m capable of settling down, not sure I have the tools in my kit to manage that existence anymore. As difficult as my lifestyle is on most days—familiar aches about disconnection from family and friends back home creeping in and craving that stability—it’s mine, and at some point I became more comfortable with living out of a backpack, hand-washing my underwear in the sink, and eating beans and rice every dog gone day of my life. Thinking about moving back to the states results in anxiety bubbling to the surface—finding an apartment, a car, a job that will pay my bills, finally having a permanent address on record that is NOT my parent’s. It’s overwhelming and scary, and then I’m back to where I started. And that’s when I wonder—do we ever find a moment where we find ourselves thinking this is exactly what we pictured, exactly what we wanted, sitting cozily next to the perfect partner that we hadn’t even known we were searching for, who turns out to be everything we ever wanted, and nothing we could have ever possibly dreamed?

Destinazione Firenze

2011-05-09T10:21:00.000-07:00

The last time I was in Florence, it was coming off a week-long sailing trip (slash bender) through the Greek Isles with fifty of my soon-to-be closest classmates that I would be studying abroad with in Luxembourg for a semester. What I remember about Florence is I smoked a lot of cigarettes, consumed a frightening amount of gelato, waited in an endless line for the Uffizi attempting to look cultured, and shaved my head at the barber shop. It’s amazing what thirteen years will do to a person’s perspective.

I loved everything about Florence—talk about people who appreciate life—I am so envious of the Italian lifestyle and found that the slow pace, absence of timely bus departures, and three hour shop closings for lunch was slightly reminiscent of the continent I am so fond of—Italy is like the Africa of Europe! Mom and Dad were great travel companions…they have become well-accustomed to my weird habits like hand-washing my clothes in the bathroom sink and still wearing flip-flops in the shower (you can take the girl out of the village…), and most importantly, are in strong support of my daily afternoon naps. As much as my father and I tend towards the tightly wound, obsessive planning end of the spectrum, my mother presents a nice balance and we ended up having a relatively spontaneous, laid back itinerary. We’d wake up every morning to a lovely breakfast and spend the day exploring. I had forgotten what it feels like to be surrounded by art and history, architecture and culture. We wandered through art museums, meandered through blossoming gardens, visited ancient churches, and hopped buses to Tuscan towns with incredible views of the countryside. The pace, the style, the long lunches at outdoor trattorias, the lovers laying in the grass in the park, the rhythm of the language, people zipping by on their Vespas with a cigarette dangling from their mouth—it was beauty in its simplest forms…and I did my best to appreciate every last moment of it.

Dad and I were basically having an unspoken contest on who could consume the most food, and I earnestly enjoyed participating in said activity: pigeon ravioli (um, yes please), zesty soups, salty boar meat, juicy steaks, melt-in-your-mouth mozzarella, homemade pastas, vegetables roasted in olive oil, tiramisu, cheesecake, cappuccino and wine, wine, wine. Gosh, I miss marvelous, glorious food. It seemed like each and every meal somehow outshined the last. And just when I thought I couldn’t get enough, I’d have a scoop of gelato that would really put me over the edge. Luckily, I was not feeling even slightly compelled to adopt the style and swagger of Italian women, and wore the same outfit the entire week, so it was well-stretched and comfortable to account for my caloric intake.

The best part about the trip was seeing my parents—just having uninterrupted time together to chat and share, unload my frustrations and doubts about my future to two people that know me better than anyone in the world—and who support me regardless of the circumstances. It was exactly the therapy I needed to come back to Juba feeling refreshed and inspired to work harder, do better, live fuller. I mean, who better than your mom and dad to convince you that your world is not self-destructing? It’s part of their job description to give us kids hope. And let’s be honest, the backdrop of rolling hills and historic picturesque towns, engulfed in amazing food and drink made it all the better. So, huge thanks to the best folks around, for dragging me out of my lingering shit storm normal people refer to as transitioning, and for understanding me and accepting me without hesitation. Onward and upward for the next three months in Juba!

Where electronics go to die

2011-04-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

If you want to experience a place that seriously tests your tolerance and patience for things before 8am, I’d highly recommend the Juba International Airport. As far as African airports go, I’d rank this one pretty far down on the list. At least Mwanza had hot pink hot dogs, samosas, and cold beers while you wait…Juba basically has a wall of various and sundry types of glucose biscuits, Nescafe, and overpriced Pringles. I’m not even entirely convinced there’s a bathroom. Not yet residing in South Sudan for an extended period of time, it’s hard to guess why the Sudanese seem to have no concept of lines. Add to the equation that most people are carry make-shift, oversized luggage jerry-rigged with tape and ropes and are on average over 6’5” and you’ve got a lot going on.

So, the airport doesn’t actually open until 8am, yet airlines consistently give a reporting time of 7:30, so it’s a lot of tall people outside milling about on their cell phones, wondering which glucose biscuits they are going to purchase inside. Eventually, the door is unchained, and people start pushing and shoving their way to the one conveyor belt for security. Both Mwanza and Juba share the sad state of all antiquated electronic devices, including the security conveyor and x-ray machine. I’m beginning to wonder if airports around the world ponder, “Humphf. This 30 year old conveyor belt needs a new home. Let’s send it to East Africa!”

There’s basically not much room to move, and with before mentioned lack of lines, it’s kind of a melee of hilarity once you enter the “departures area”. You get laminated boarding cards that are not even for your destination, and the scale to weigh your luggage looks like it may have been the very apparatus to weigh suitcases at Ellis Island. What makes this airport international (besides the destinations) is the man behind the counter that looks at your work permit and makes you write your name down on a sheet of paper. He sits right next to the 20 year old photocopy machine in case anything hand written needs a duplicate.

Then there’s the security line. Lines are conveniently divided by gender, and there’s a very regimented man who stands in front of a room made of curtains that fits approximately 4 people at one time, housing a table in the center. You place your carry-ons on said table, and a female or male goes through every possible inch of your luggage. It would feel violating if it wasn’t so amusing. I mean, this woman goes through every sleeve of your wallet, looks through your notebooks, is basically trying on your chapstick and making phone calls on your cell. Her thoroughness is matched only by the other security woman who basically gives you a free full-body grope, and again, if it hadn’t been so long, I’d probably find this violating as well, but I find the human contact creepily comforting.

You get to the “other side” and it’s a large room with some cushioned chairs and a whole hell of a lot of white plastic ones. Whoever manufactures those things must be a kajillionaire. I was lucky enough this morning to score a cushioned seat next to one of the AC units-again frightfully old yet seemingly functional. Later on I will realize this assumption to be untrue, as I got up from my seat after almost 2 hours and found that my entire carry-on was soaking wet and realized that the AC was leaking. Sweet. I don’t mean for any of this to sound callous. South Sudan is trying. They are. They are facing some pretty serious constraints and doing their very best to make Juba International Airport comfortable and a pleasant experience for all. The staff are kind and good-natured (minus the cranky Russian UN pilots). But is it so much to ask to get a little wireless internet and macchiato action up in here?

Keep on Keepin' On

2011-04-09T05:08:00.000-07:00

I learned a few things in the field this week. One: it’s fly season in the Sudan. I have never seen so many flies in my life. If Alfred Hitchcock were still alive and interested in making some sort of sequel to that bird movie, Sudan would be the place to do it. They are disgusting, pesky, and everywhere you don’t want them to be—in your latrine for instance, or at the breakfast table, or in the car buzzing around your face. Two: Sudan brings an entirely new appreciation to the word “inaccessible”. I feel like I’ve seen enough of Africa in the past few years to have a pretty accurate understanding of how remote villages can be, how difficult it is to access water, health care, education. Well, let me just say a thing or two about Southern Sudan. It’s large—enormously large. We spent the majority of the week visiting health facilities and attending meetings in Duk County, which consistently suffers from frequent insecurity between tribes, flooding and poor roads, making it virtually inaccessible for roughly six months out of the year. We made these site visits just on the tail end of dry season, often travelling three hours in one direction to reach our destination. It was a lot of time in the car. Calling the roads “bad” would be comparable to making a statement like, “Americans like reality television.” It’s comically understated and doesn’t come close to grasping the reality of the situation. Goats, cattle, the occasional acacia tree and tukuls dot the landscape as far as the eye can see, on some of the flattest, driest, unforgiving land I have ever seen…land that will be flooded in another month, and will remain this way until October or November. I simply can’t comprehend how the Sudanese live the way they do.

I’m continuously amazed at how incredibly hopeful and wonderful the Sudanese are, after decades of conflict and a completely devastated infrastructure. They greet us at community meetings with soft drinks and smiles, using utterly charming English phrases like “Yes, this is well and good” or in response to a statement, “Ah, correctly” or “What say you?” I really, really like the Sudanese. The frustrations bubble to the surface when you realize how little we as humanitarian organizations are capable of doing, how overwhelming vast the needs are, how we are barely scratching the surface. I sat at meetings this week where people are “footing” 5 hours to reach a health clinic that has one community health worker and one traditional birth attendant. No midwife, no clinical officer, no lab technician. They are sharing a stethoscope, have no access to sanitation facilities, receive medications months late due to impassable roads and lack of transportation.

And yet we sit, meeting after meeting, day after day, listening to dedicated staff at each facility list their challenges and requests calmly and without criticism, making requests for things as basic as soap or buckets for deliveries, kerosene for the vaccination fridge, uniforms for the staff. It’s heartbreaking and defeating, yet we do the best that we can. The meetings always start late and last way too long. The available food typically makes us sick. The heat leads to restless nights. The bumpy car ride gives us pounding headaches. Yet we’re still here. We write more proposals. We try to fill gaps. We work longer days. Somehow, this peek into the other side of the human condition—the struggle, the commitment, the resilience and capacity to keep going—to strive for better, to remain hopeful, is what we need to push on.

Asante sana Axl Rose

2011-03-25T04:03:00.000-07:00

As I continue to adjust to life in Juba, I recognize how the complexity of the human condition is alive and well in a setting like Sudan. I readily identify with my colleagues and the ups and downs they encounter and empathize with those who are overwhelmed, stressed or missing family. I realize how nonplussed I am when people are on the verge of tears or snapping out, seemingly over-reacting or completely shutting down. Gloom and stress and the demands of the job manifest differently in everyone, and it’s just something we grow to expect and understand in one another. The daily frustrations of living in an extremely under-developed and highly restrictive city can quickly wear on one’s mental health—this was no surprise. Some days we fare better than others; some days we struggle to make it through the day; some days we can’t imagine being anywhere else. Yet, what I discovered in the past few weeks is that while I easily recognize this in others, I haven’t turned inward to accept it in myself. Give myself some space. Be gentle. Instead of focusing on the easy, I’m fixating on the difficult. I’m wallowing in the scarcity instead of reveling in the abundance. This came into consciousness the other night when I was showering and Guns n’ Roses popped in my head, and has been on replay ever since. Said woman, take it slow. It’ll work itself out fine…all we need is just a little patience.

And just like that, things seem to have shifted. I spent some time with a classmate from grad school. I made some new friends. I spent a Sunday at the pool. I spent three days in the field visiting our health projects. And just as clearly as I saw all the hard, the challenging, the impossible, I see how remarkable Sudan is, and the people here, and their resilience and optimism and unbelievable kindness. I giggle at the names of counties like Yei (yay!), Wau (wow!) and Bor (yawn). I am touched by the tenderness of mothers with their infants at vaccination outreach, curious of the kawaja in the red muumuu and marvel at the simplicity and deprivation of village life. I am amazed at the dedication and commitment of our local partners—the decades of conflict they’ve survived, the positive attitudes and pride they feel for their nation. I love the intentionally bad teeth of the Dinkans, and their over-zealous hand-shaking. I have flashbacks of Peace Corps taking bucket baths under the full moon. And hopefully, just possibly, my life has settled in yet again to an existence I can manage and feel really happy about.

Like a Blister in the Sun

2011-03-09T21:02:00.000-08:00

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.

Abundance

2011-02-20T06:51:00.000-08:00

My time in Nairobi has felt incredibly lonely after an emotionally draining few weeks. In a way, I guess it’s good that I’m here by myself. The solitary time has provided the canvas needed to mentally prepare for Juba, sleep off some of the sadness I’m feeling, stuff my gills with culinary delights that only Nairobi can offer, and get myself on track for the challenges ahead in Sudan.

My last weeks in Mwanza were brimming with goodness, in the way I guess most things do when you are about to leave a place-you make a checklist of all the things you’ve been taking for granted, become more present to the small joys you appreciate every day, and realize and recognize just how happy you really are and how wonderful the people surrounding your world can truly be. Parallel to this was the elusive departure date for Juba-trying to make time for myself to process through the transition but also spending time with the important people in my life; trying to let go of my attachments and start saying goodbyes; attempting to create some healthy mind space for my post in Sudan. It seemed the more I reveled in my Mwanza world, the less of a reality Juba felt. The ever-changing departure was mentally a bit difficult to manage. I felt jerked around. Overwhelmed. Stressed. Frustrated. I was treading water at work to finalize projects, only to find out that my start date had been delayed by another week or so. Per usual during looming times of transition, I felt like I was hanging from the proverbial mental thread.

This anxious state was easily remedied with a long weekend to Zanzibar for the annual music festival with some great friends. It was the perfect mix of ocean and sand; great company, good food, fantastic music. That island is just such an intoxicating place–you get off the plane and exhale and realize you’ve been holding your breath for months. The anxiety evaporates instantly. Your shoulders drop. It was a perfectly-timed weekend away of sunshine and afrobeats and great memories.

Otherwise, my goodbyes in Mwanza felt impossibly hard. One would think that by now, the constant uprooting would make leaving more manageable, more natural…that we grow accustomed to these goodbyes as part of the expat lifestyle, and we adjust and adapt and move on and we’re fine. But what I realized this past week was how the bizarre world that we function in as expats replaces a lot of the milestones we’d typically share if we had a more conventional life. Friendships fast-forward at an unbelievable pace, replacing first homes and weddings and first babies. These friendships shape our reality, form our temporary worlds. We form attachments to people that are probably more characteristic with adolescence. Our relationships shape our entire experience and serve as a mirror into who we are at that moment in our lives; they are a snapshot into our existence. They reflect the person we have grown to become.

People you’ve known for only a few short months suddenly fill the voids of family and friends back home; they understand you in a way most people can’t simply because they can relate in a unique and genuine and ever-so-real way. This connection, this security you feel. It’s the support that keeps you going, that keeps you sane. It’s relationships of unconditional acceptance, never-ending patience, tolerance, kindness and honesty. And when you are forced to cut the cord from these people in your life, move on to your next assignment, the enormity of the loss seems crushing; a part of yourself that you’ve grown so dependent on…a bond you never expected to feel…is ending. And that is what makes leaving so difficult. Walking away from these people that you’ve grown to love and need in your life-people that have exited your world just as quickly as they’ve entered it.

So, as I sit at a coffee shop, drinking my third delicious cappuccino of the day, I reflect on my time in Mwanza with incredible tenderness and love and know that I’m an unbelievably blessed person to have those people in my life. They showed me a world that was filled with beauty and kindness and love, and it’s those sentiments I will pack away with the rest of my luggage and carry with me as I embark on this next adventure, and know that no matter where I am on the globe, I am never alone.

Gorillas in the Mist

2010-12-29T06:15:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-05T03:40:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-16T20:08:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-28T04:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-08T01:45:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-29T17:12:00.000-07:00

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….

2010-04-14T13:49:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-07T14:00:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-26T12:04:00.001-07:00

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!!

2010-02-05T18:08:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

“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.

May Experience Turbulence

2009-12-12T12:58:00.000-08:00

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…

The Long Journey Home

2009-12-03T17:20:00.001-08:00

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 =)

The Darkest Star

2009-12-01T07:13:00.000-08:00

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.”

Ihahamuka-“without lungs or breathless with fear”

2009-11-16T02:18:00.000-08:00

“Everyone from abroad seems to think they have something to teach Rwandans about reconciliation. No one considers that it is the other way around.” Christine Stansell

Since arriving in Kigali five months ago, one of the biggest challenges for me as a foreigner (and a social worker) has been to try to wrap my head around the mental health of this nation, and do my best not to pass judgment or make premature conclusions coming from my Western-educated lens. And like most things, the more I read and the more meetings I attend, I only have more questions. I finished “A Thousand Hills” by Stephen Kinzer a few weeks back, a book following the trajectory of Paul Kagame’s career, Rwanda’s current president. While I didn’t particularly enjoy the writing style of the author (sorry Stephen), it’s a fascinating account of Rwanda’s recent history, and the complex and complicated events that led up to the genocide of 1994, and how the country has since worked to become a leader in East and Central Africa under the Kagame administration. I’m not sure I’d particularly recommend the book to others, but do advise anyone to read many of the books that have been published about Rwanda since 1994 in order to combat some of the ignorance the majority of the Western world still suffers from genocide history.

The ethnic history of Rwanda was strongly influenced by colonization by the Germans and ultimately the Belgians. Prior to this time, Tutsis and Hutus lived together harmoniously, speaking the same language, intermarrying, obeying the same laws, following the same religion and traditions. The distinction between them was not ethnic at all, but based primarily on economic status. In fact, individuals could move between the two groups freely, depending on whether one raised cattle (Tutsi) or farmed the land (Hutu). It was not until the arrival of the Germans in the late 1800’s, and Belgium after WWI that Europeans began classifying Hutu and Tutsis into separate and distinct groups, mirroring Europe’s monarchy by wrongly concluding the ruling class and minority Tutsi as nobility, and the majority Hutus (85%) as their serfs. Further, Belgians found visible distinction among the two groups: believing the taller, lighter-skinned Tutsi were superior to the more “African-looking”, shorter, broad-nosed black Hutus. Further classification was made in 1933 with mandatory identity cards, a legacy that would pave the way for the mass killings of thousands of Rwandans in future years, and pave the way for the racial propaganda that fueled the genocide.

Again, numerous books and essays have been written about this topic, so my feeble attempts at summarizing 100 years of Rwandan history are poor at best, and I apologize for the distastefully abridged version. Further, I won’t attempt to summarize the events of the actual genocide itself. The 100 days of murder, terror turning neighbors against neighbors, media campaigns spreading hate ideology, children witnessing the murder and rape of family members, mass ambushes in local churches, abandonment of the international community (particularly the United States)…it’s all too much to process, digest, and accept. I visited the Gisozi Genocide Memorial museum a few months back, and have not yet been able to write about it, let alone process it. It’s unfathomable, impossible to believe that it occurred.

What’s unique in contemporary Rwanda is this idea of cultural or national identity. During the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s, Belgium and the Catholic Church strongly shaped social and political life. Loyalties shifted post WWII, and the support of a ruling aristocracy in the Tutsi quickly shifted to sympathy towards the powerless Hutu masses. Anti-Tutsi sentiments were stimulated by this new sense of justice for the majority. Local and regional Hutu officials soon replaced Tutsis, and with the support of Belgium and the Catholic Church, the Hutu Manifesto was drafted, calling on Hutus to rise up against the oppressive Tutsi rule. By 1959, attacks became common and Hutu militants began fighting back in fits of organized violence. Tutsis flooded neighboring countries of Uganda, Congo, Tanzania, Burundi and Kenya, and remained refugees afraid of returning to their homeland until after the war. Because of this, Rwanda’s population of 10 million people has a large Tutsi population that never even saw Rwanda prior to 1994. They were raised in neighboring countries, taught in other languages, yet had a strong determination to return to their home and the land of their ancestors. Paul Kagame was one of these refugees. It is not uncommon to find a Rwandan who speaks French, English, Kinyarwanda, or KiSwahili. Despite this historical displacement, Rwandans have pride in their country, their traditions, and their culture. They were asked to repatriate and assist Rwanda in its growth and new national identity.

Today, fifteen years after the genocide, Rwanda is among the leaders of the region. There is no doubt much of this comes from Kagame’s vision. First impressions of Kigali, as I’ve shared before, are that it’s very “un-African”. It’s incredibly regulated. It’s unbelievably clean. It’s the kind of city where if you drop a sweater on the sidewalk, five people run up to pick it up for you. It’s calm and has a strong sense of civil obedience and structure. Days are very routine and predictable. There are strict laws against corruption; police presence is common; safety and security is exceptional. There are no urban slums. Street sweepers in serial-numbered vests clean the neighborhoods each morning. There are speed bumps, traffic lights, helmets, trash cans. The streets are quiet and empty by 8pm.

In the past five months, I’ve pondered whether Rwandans have always been this calm, reserved, comfortable in this culture of obedience to authority…or if this functional compliance is simply a coping strategy to deal with all they have been through. Regionally, Rwandans have a reputation of being very reserved, often lacking the liveliness and colorful friendliness that is characteristic in other Africans. How much of this reservation is self-protection, a way to build walls in order to feel less insecure, and how much is just the natural tranquility of the Rwandese people? I obviously couldn’t begin to draw conclusions about this. Kagame is both revered and criticized for his authoritarian, strong-handed policies. Most agree that it’s what needs to be done at this time of Rwanda’s history…that there must be some sense of comfort in the limits to expression, deviance, and political freedom. The ethnic hate propaganda that poisoned the nation for decades will be ever-present in people’s minds, particularly older generations, and Kagame’s hope for “One people, one destiny” needs to be closely monitored. National messages remind Rwandans that there is no strength in separation, that reinforcing difference divides us as people. Kagame believes security is the foundation for the growth of the nation, and that only reconciliation can allow this to happen.

So, this goes back to my question about mental health. I’ve been attending meetings recently at USAID, the Ministry of Health, and other organizations. It seems mental health is moving up on the radar screen, which is a wonderful leap. Next year will be the first time the Demographic Health Survey will collect data on depression. So, what is really happening here? How can an event such as the genocide that touched every family in every corner of the nation begin to move forward? One post-genocide policy that’s also been the topic of debate is gacaca, the historical practice of whole populations being involved in the processes of justice and reconciliation. Gacaca allows local communities to hold hearings against genocidaires (leaders and organizers of killings), where both victims and witnesses are encouraged to speak in the community where the crime was committed. There are over 800,000 suspects. It is the grounds for which Kagame hopes people will be able to live together again and find peace. Reconciliation and justice are a difficult balance, yet these community hearings hope to encourage this process. So how does one begin reconciling with someone who has killed your entire family, inviting them back into your community as your neighbor? And to what extent is this reconciliation forced?

My experience has been that the genocide is rarely discussed, or if so, it’s discussed very matter-of-factly. “Yes, I had a brother, but he was killed in the genocide.” “I had eleven children, but seven of them, along with my wife, were murdered in the war in 1994.” It is that direct, that honest, and then the conversation simply moves on. How are individuals encouraged to grieve or mourn after all they have witnessed when the government is pushing for this resolution? Some refer to what is happening right now as a state of “artificial reconciliation”. Rwandans are encouraged not to identify as Hutu or Tutsi, but Rwandan, and move forward in a unified way that facilitates a national identity. But what of all the people that weren’t here during the genocide and returned afterwards? What role do they play in the rebuilding of the nation as opposed to the survivors or perpetrators of the genocide?

I’m also moved by this younger generation of Rwandans, Rwandans that are now beginning to marry and have children, Rwandans that were young adolescents when the genocide occurred, Rwandans that lost their families and parents. Intelligent, strong-willed, functioning adults that are becoming the leaders of this nation. How did they mourn? How did they recover? And how do they have the strength to now put energy into their own families and the future of their country? Is this policy of forced reconciliation working for Rwanda, or is it simply blanketing the wounds of a nation that is not encouraged to mourn, to grieve, to heal? I have no idea. The government is making enormous strides in the region as a leader in IT development, human resource capacity building and education, and other goals mentioned in Kagame’s Vision 2020 (which I also recommend reading). So, I leave Rwanda with only more questions, and a incredible space of admiration in my heart for the resilience and integrity of this country and its people—determined, dedicated, kind, beautiful people. I only hope that the efforts of the current government allow for Rwanda to heal and grow in its own distinct way. It deserves that much.

Muzungu in Musanze

2009-11-08T03:19:00.000-08:00

The clock is ticking. I have three weeks left in this country that has become my home for the past five and a half months. Apart from the denial and severely mixed feelings this induces, I’ve also entered that inevitable place where I suffer from thoughts of not having done enough. Much of this I think stems from, you guessed it, impermanence…and the fact that I was initially only supposed to be here for three months. I hesitated to get involved in things I now wish I had—volunteering, visiting rural communities, networking with NGOs to see what type of work they are doing. For many who have done development work or lived overseas, three months is quite literally a blink of an eye. You wake up one morning and realize it’s time to go, and how little you have truly accomplished. And of course, like anywhere and anything, as foreign as a place may appear at first, we naturally find our niche and our groove and things become routine. Work consumes you. Friends stand in for family. And the weeks pass into months and you realize you have spent half a year in a country that has slowly crept into that space in your heart that you call home. It feels kind of like a premature break up. We just need more time to get to know one another! It’s hard not to let my mind go to that place (you know, the completely unproductive, unhealthy, regretful place?) I haven’t seen enough of the country. I should have volunteered. I should have sucked it up and paid the $600 to see the mountain gorillas. I should have asked my Country Director for more work. I should have networked. I should have made a concerted effort to visit more organizations and see what work they do in this complex and beautiful country. I should have read more history and educated myself more.

So, this is roughly where my head is at the current moment. Not entirely awesome but not so bad either. It’s all part of the continuous process that reminds us how human we are. This weekend, I was feeling a bit left in the lurch. My sidekick Karen was out of the country; Luke and his fiancée Sarah had a romantic getaway at the lake; my ever-complicated, part-time squeeze was in Kenya for the week. Ho hum. What to do? My natural tendency was to sleep, which I did for fourteen delicious hours on Friday night. Saturday, I woke up and decided to go to Musanze, the small town two hours north that sits at the foothills of Volcanoes National Park, the home of the infamous mountain gorillas. The bus ride up was spectacular, yet also a harsh reminder of the reality of Rwanda’s food insecurity and population crisis. Rwanda is roughly the size of Maryland, has over 10 million, with a fertility rate of over 6 children per woman. This may not sound like much when thinking about the population of most American cities, but picture the island of Manhattan with everyone living on it requiring land not only to feed their families, but to make some sort of income. The land issues in Rwanda are multi-faceted and incredibly complex, a development issue I will choose not to elaborate on in this entry. But nonetheless, the drive up was filled with terraced mountains, patches of crops, grazing goats, and women, men and children tilling the soil. It’s green as far as the eye can see.

I arrived in Musanze around 11, took a quick moto ride to the next village over, Kinigi, which rests at the entrance of the park. I had no idea what I was actually planning to do up there, I just wanted to see the volcanoes, hike around a bit, and create some mental space in which to reflect over my final weeks in Kigali. Within moments, the sky opened up in a bucketing downpour. Well, I guess I’ll eat lunch. I sat, reading my book, watching CNN, in a lovely little guesthouse and ate quite possibly the most delicious fish brochettes I’ve had since I arrived in East Africa. Yum. So, I start to wander. I have no idea where the park entrance is, whether I will need to pay an entrance fee, how long the hikes are, and if I’ll be able to make it back in time for my 4:30 bus. After approximately three minutes, a very chatty and inquisitive teen named Chris approaches me. He speaks exceptional English. His friends Elize and Jack arrive. We start cruising around, wandering through farms and talking about soccer, snapping pix here and there with the volcanoes in the backdrop. It is a cool, beautiful day. Other friends surface. The soccer championships are coming up. It’s a huge deal. They are pumped. They will call me on Tuesday to give me the results of their match. I spend two hours with this motley crew of Rwandan teens. We talk chemistry, geography, reggae, soccer. I am quizzed on high school course-related facts (Do you know anything about the periodic table of elements…or Mt. Everest?) I answer compulsory questions about myself and America. (Do you have goats in your town? Are you married? Do Americans grow corn?) They are a blast. As we near another small village, the sky reopens and we run to the market, where they shuttle me onto a bus to take me back to Musanze and finally, Kigali. I am a bit saddened that my day is cut short due to the weather, but I’m really happy I came. It’s nice to be reminded how breathtaking Rwanda is, as the months here can slowly head one down a “taking-this-beauty-for-granted” type path.

I get on an earlier bus, and saddle up between two Rwandan women. The ride is winding…and the woman next to me is in the unfortunate, aisle flip up, small enough for an 8 year old child seat and is holding her head in her hands. Hmm. Ending the day with a woman vomiting on the bus in the rain doesn’t particularly suit me. I quickly offer to change seats with her. It’s at this time that I befriend an 80 year old man named Andre who is sitting behind me. It wasn’t until we started talking that I realized how few elderly people I have come across in Rwanda. He shares with me that he had 11 children, 7 of whom were killed in the genocide, along with his first wife. He has outlived the majority of his family. Despite this, he was a sassy, inquisitive, adorable personality who was basically obsessed with me within five minutes. He posed for pictures with his pipe and his sailor hat. He repeatedly informed me how beautiful I was. He had half the bus engaged in our conversation. He giggled uncontrollably at his posed photos. It was the perfect ending to the day. It’s these random encounters that remind me how lucky I am to be where I am, how engaging people can be, how such small events can teach us so much and connect us as humans. It was lovely, truly. So, I’m back in Kigali, gearing up for a crazy week at work, applying for jobs, drinking locally grown coffee, and trying to appreciate what remains for me in these remaining three weeks.

The Booj Part Deux

2009-11-03T03:07:00.000-08:00

“To me, travel was not about rest and relaxation. It was action, exertion, motion, and the built-in delays were longueurs necessitated by the inevitable problem-solving of forward movement: waiting for buses and trains, enduring breakdowns that you tried to make the best of.” Paul Theroux

I finally started Dark Star Safari this weekend…Paul Theroux’s documented journey overland from Cairo to Cape Town. It was the perfect book to begin while making the trek back to Bujumbura, Burundi for round two of beach time, Lake Tanganyika, and the general debauchery that is lacking in Kigali. In the true spirit of travelling, Karen and I set off on Friday morning with no plan, two bus tickets, and a bag full of random Indian snacks. Karen and I travel well together. We’re both just anal enough to compulsively check a few things off the old list before being able to truly unwind and relax. We share similar attitudes about a few essentials when finding a trusty travelling side kick: we’re both seemingly responsible about money but don’t let it stand in the way of having a good time; we both wake up thinking about dinner; we appreciate and revel in the unpredictability and randomness of African travel; and finally and most importantly perhaps, we love the beach. We’re essentially a match made in heaven.

So, the weekend was more or less serendipitous from the moment we left the bus station. We stumbled upon some Dutch military at the money exchange who suggested we were ladies conveying “cheap and quick” recommendations. Um, thank you very much. We are indeed. Next we met Jean Claude sur la route, a 60 year old French Canadian who had been doing development work throughout Africa for over 20 years and just opened a new restaurant. He draws us a map on the back of a receipt and mentions ribs. Done and done. We head to the beach. No room at the inn. Wuh wa. The bubbly and overly-helpful staff person escorts us to the hotel next door. No dice. She suggests another place in town that’s in our price range. And by our price range, we’re talking under $40 a night for the two of us. We hitchhike into town with a friendly couple heading home from work on Friday evening. Strike three at Amohoro hotel. Again, friendly and helpful Burundians lead us to the next possible lodging possibility. We arrive to find the manager waiting for us. He escorts us to a very small, albeit clean room with private bathroom…and a FAN! 30 bucks for the night. Parfait.

Next stop, La Cervoise de Gaulois….the restaurant run by Jean Claude. Turns out he has rooms for rent. Information that may have proved useful roughly four hours ago. We meet a handful of gregarious expats. Quite possibly, my two new favorite expats in East Africa. Ekin-a Turkish, global operations manager that has been stationed at all the recent hotspots: Gaza, Darfur (to name a few) who is endearingly engaging, shares hysterical personal tidbits surfacing as complete and utter comfort with himself, and unbelievably humble. He invites us dancing. Karen and I simultaneously place him on his international development pedestal in the sky and accept without hesitation. And then there’s Pierre Olivier, a Frenchman who rivals Rick Moranis, circa “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids” years. He’s comical, has a fantastic accent, and a mane of crazy, mad-scientist hair.

Saturday we sleep in after some late night dancing at Havana Club, and make our way back out to the beach via yet another free ride from the fancy Hotel du Lac employee minivan. It is random and much-appreciated. Burundi is lively and loud, disorderly, chaotic, unpredictable. We love everything about it. The beach is filled with locals swimming in the lake and expats lounging on the Bora Bora beach chairs poolside. Cold beers, breeze, sunshine, cold beers, sunsets, clouds, dreamy expats. It is the perfect day.

After a delectable post-beach nap, Karen and clean ourselves up and head back into town for dinner and dancing. It was the night of the annual Marine ball, so all our newfound friends were occupied until at least 1 am. Karen and I sought solace in Havana’s disco lights, techno music, and sweaty Burundian men gyrating to today’s hottest hits. The Turk texts us about an after-ball party. Again, we graciously accept and find ourselves dancing until the wee hours of the morning among Bujumbura's finest.

In addition to the amazing Turk and the peculiar Frenchman, we also meet Mohamed, a Tunisian George Clooney at first glance…a completely chivalrous, sweet, generous North African who is completely adoring of Karen and willingly escorting us around town in his UN vehicle while keeping us steadily supplied with cold Amstels and pizza. Could this weekend honestly get any better?

It was a sad moment to walk away from that beach, I have to say. For all the beauty, quiet, and peacefulness that Rwanda brings, there is something energizing about the spontaneity and heightening of the senses that Bujumbura offers to a traveler. It’s intoxicating in a way that just encourages more travelling. So, I’m back at the office, and sadly counting down my remaining month in Kigali, conflicted about leaving this region of the world that has been so inspiring and welcoming and beautiful and kind. Big, big sigh.

When it rains, it pours

2009-10-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, I discovered that it rains in my apartment. I'm not sure what most of you picture when I describe Patel and my little one bedroom high rise in the center of town. It’s got great views of the city, with huge, 5 x 8 ft picture windows overlooking the bus station, and we are comfortably situated on the fifth floor (walk up, of course. No elevator in these swanky digs). So, imagine my surprise when I get home from a restless day at the office to discover that, while the windows provide glorious natural sunlight and a variety of dream-disrupting, old school tunes from the early 90’s blasting from the streets below (this morning-Lady in Red and an old favorite from the Pretty Woman soundtrack), the windows also aren’t sealed. Like at all. Here I am, laying in bed, journaling about the trials and tribulations of my week, when I hear rain pouring in through not one, not two, but count ‘em, all three windows in the apartment. With appalling speed, a puddle of water forms on the floor, and the next thing I know, I’m wringing out towels and wading through ankle deep rain water that’s collecting in my bedroom. Troublesome. The irony is that we haven’t had running water in the apartment for over two days.

I know, I know. For those of you that have had the fortunate pleasure of reading my emails since my old Peace Corps days in Togo and my last semester in Ethiopia, this water issue is becoming old news. Africa has water problems, blah blah blah. Aimee never showers. Yada yada yada. Ok, fine. This is true. It seems worth mentioning though (just to put things in perspective) that I also have a third eye growing out of my head from some newly acquired thirtysomething acne problem. Not only does this growth merit a good face scrubbing, but quite possibly a warm compress to expel whatever it is that is taking over my face. I’m expecting to wake up tomorrow with blurred vision in my left eye. It’s remarkable, really.

Not only do I have the ol’ acne concern, but my feet have been traipsing through the streets of Kigali for two days in my trusty Tevas (yes, the same pair the freaky foot fetish man in NYC asked to sniff way back when)…and I’m almost 100% certain that my foot abscess is rearing its ugly head again. Is that even physiologically possible? Maybe I should see this ankle deep water issue in my bedroom as a blessing. I just saved myself the use of a minimum of three, much-coveted wet wipes that I can save for, ahhh, yes…a rainy day. I’m not entirely clear what to do with my room at the current moment. I called Patel. He was solution-less as to how to remedy a few, unwanted gallons of rain water on the fifth floor of an office building. He was encouraged that I would have something to do to occupy my time on a rainy Thurday evening. Thanks, roomie. There is no maintenance man to speak of. I’m not even entirely sure anyone knows that people live here. So, while Patel is at the restaurant, serving Kigali’s elite chicken tika masala and lentils and drinking fine wine, I’m laying in a puddle (pun intended. Please.) of my own sweat in a puddle of rainwater in my random room on the top of Ecobank. Awesome.

31st birdle

2009-10-06T03:17:00.000-07:00

I was walking to work this morning amidst the bustling, (relentlessly) hilly streets of Kigali, and couldn’t help but reflect on my birthday yesterday, and the fact that I seem to have spent more birdles in recent years on the continent of Africa than in my own country. Birthdays away from home always provide a distinct combination of adaptation to the long-standing traditions of birthdays past, coupled with the efforts of exploring new ways to celebrate in the culture you are currently embedded in. Yesterday was no exception. Not surprisingly, the 5th of October, 2009 seemed to echo this persistent theme of permanence (or lack thereof) in my existence as a young adult. A year ago, I celebrated my 30th birthday in an archaic bowling alley in Addis Ababa, drinking cheap beers among dear friends old and new, desperately attempting to accomplish my thesis work in rural Ethiopia. Here I am, a year later-yes, still in Africa, albeit a completely different experience—in a complicated yet beautiful nation struggling to grow and reconcile; a technically unemployed graduate of Tulane University wondering what’s next.

The efforts from new friends and colleagues to make me feel special and honored were well-appreciated. I had a fabulous dinner Saturday night with a small group of friends at one of my favorite restaurants in Kigali, followed by a completely random night of clubbing with Kigali’s finest youth showing off their dance moves and surveying the wonderful world of late night expat life. Yesterday, I was presented with a cake from my adorable Rwandese colleagues at Tulane, had lunch with my incredibly supportive classmate and colleague Bridget, and shared a romantic dinner with my latest and greatest love interest. I had a steady stream of emails, gchats, phone calls, and Facebook messages up the wazoo throughout the day. I truly felt loved and appreciated.

So, here I am, a day into my thirty-first year on this earth, and trying to examine what the take home message could be for the year ahead. Quite obviously, I need to continue to grow—professionally, personally…continue to seek love and goodness, live with intention, live presently. But more obvious to me in recent months (thanks universe!) is this idea of how to best navigate and utilize my energy. I have heard from numerous sources (hopefully reliable) lately that I have an energy that people are drawn to, that’s engaging, that people open up to and find positive (yay). While this often lends itself to intense emotional connection and genuine discourse, I also find myself exhausted much of the time. I have begun to question that maybe I’m too quick to offer myself up to others, that I crave that human authenticity so much that I propel myself boundary-less into space…not a very protective way for me to function in such a complicated world. Maybe I’ve been burned one too many times by not creating a shield to the outside world, being too emotionally available, and in turn, attracting people that are desperately needing that space to share in. Maybe I’m the one that’s drawn to people that seem to need that sort of energy. Who knows? But then I think back to yesterday…the sentiments people shared with me, the love I felt; the efforts from friends and family to remind me what I mean to them and the role I play in their lives. And I realize that maybe that’s the only permanence I need in my life. To know that if I continue to give of myself and live with honesty and goodness, it will come back to me ten-fold through consistently amazing people that come in and out of my life, people that continuously challenge me to live freely and grow. Maybe that’s all anybody needs. I don’t know. But I can guarantee that by this time next year, I will feel as blessed and loved as I did yesterday…and that is something permanent that I can certainly live with. Thanks for the gifts, y’all. Missing you from across the ocean…

Move around Mabel

2009-09-17T00:05:00.000-07:00

I’m beginning to realize that no matter how long I remain in Rwanda, there is very little about the expat lifestyle that is not fleeting, momentary. Since I last wrote, I have moved twice, started a new project, welcomed two MSW/MPH interns from Tulane to Rwanda, said goodbye to new acquaintances, and even met a seemingly incredible companion. Overall, I’m really happy I decided to stay in Kigali. I continue to greatly enjoy my colleagues and learn a great deal from them on a daily basis. Not only is the work challenging me to gain new skills, but I have been lucky enough to do some field work bringing me out into rural communities which is always such a great lesson in humility and survival. It has truly been a great gift to try to comprehend the people here, their culture, and what makes them Rwandese. I focus much of my daily intention on staying aware, staying open, allowing for a continuous learning curve that only seems to offer more questions.

Two weekends ago, Karen (one of the new interns) and I went back to Lake Kivu, only this time to the sleepy town of Kibuye. You can walk the entire circuit of the village in under 2 hours, with the lake serving as a calm and peaceful backdrop amidst small islands, jutting cliffs, and trees growing along the mountainside. We stayed at a guest house on the edge of a cliff, with spectacular views of the lake on both sides. Up the road sits a church with stained glass and a tall steeple…the site of one of the worst massacres of the genocide. Over 4,000 people gathered there seeking refuge…and were later killed. It is a hauntingly beautiful spot, with mass graves and memorials…difficult to believe what took place there. It’s hard not to imagine the trauma this community endured…an alarming 9 of every 10 Tutsis were killed in this small lakeside town. It really makes me wonder how little I truly comprehend of Rwandan people, and how they continue to grow and strengthen as a country…the resilience they must have to lead the lives they do. I found Kibuye to be an ironically peaceful place—filled with friendly, calm inhabitants greeting us all day, small children running up to give us hugs, inquisitive yet shy school children wanting to practice their English with the mzungus. Again, words can’t really describe how humbling it was to walk through town and not think about what occurred. I’m beginning to think the longer I’m here, the less I’ll truly understand.

On a much, much lighter note, I am not sure how much I’ve shared about my living situations since I’ve gotten to town. My first month here, I rented from a couple who I knew indirectly through friends of friends from Peace Corps Togo. While a gorgeous house and a relatively nice location in town, it lacked furniture. Like any furniture. I had a bed to sleep in, of course, but with the exception of a very small bookshelf housing my journal and three month supply of sunscreen, the house was empty. Month two I was offered a free place to stay for an American couple who was heading home for annual leave. I was asked to housesit, dog sit, cat sit. I realized during this month that there is no such thing as free lunch. The dog is 4 months, and two days into August, I find myself assisting the local veterinarian in a spay surgery on the dining room table. Um, not the best day I’ve ever had. The cat is 15, and a curmudgeonly old soul—has not yet adapted to the puppy (or the children for that matter). The pets kept me and Lila on our toes and we spent endless hours watching The Office and 30 Rock on the delicious Apple TV until our eyeballs popped out. Then I move in with a 40 year old Indian bachelor and restaurant owner. He literally lives next door to the Tulane office. I open his gate, take about 10 paces to my right, and I’m at work. With rainy season on the way…absolute perfection. I moved in August 28.

Saturday morning I wake up to the sound of packaging tape. I emerge from my room to have Patel inform me that we are indeed moving…the Belgian owner of the house is back in Kigali and wants to move in. Um, huh? Patel assures me that he doesn’t want to disrupt my weekend in any way, but after a few careful minutes of observation, I realize bachelors are not the best movers. Patel was basically taking curtains off the windows, emptying his closet in a huge pile on the floor, and bundling the curtains up to be transported to the new location. Um, do you not have any luggage? Don’t worry dear, he says. Um, ok. I’ll be at the coffee shop. Call me when you’re at the other end and need a woman’s touch. I must say, the new apartment is beautiful…right in the center of town behind the bus station and within walking distance to just about anywhere (although a much longer commute to work…wuh wa). Who cares that it’s technically an office building and everyone else is working for Ecobank, Western Union, or the local radio station? Do I find it odd that I’m sharing an apartment (and a closet!) with an Indian man I barely met two weeks ago? Not at all! Please pass the naan. Only in Africa.

Jesse Grace

2009-08-31T02:27:00.000-07:00

It was a hard week to be away. My sister gave birth to her third daughter on Tuesday—Jesse Grace. There I was, at a party at the Marine house behind the US embassy, drinking white wine and chatting with friends when my cell rang. How unbelievably different our lives have become. It’s moments such as these that I really question my decision to continue living so far away from my family, and if the void it creates can be filled by doing challenging work or living in beautiful and complicated countries. And maybe I’m cracking my own case…that for the simple fact that my life IS so different from my sister’s—no partner, no stability, no children…I continue to choose a path that doesn’t allow me to be even remotely settled or sedentary. I persist in the belief that there must be something more, something superior to my current reality, something more gratifying elsewhere that will slowly begin to fill that emptiness, eliminate that doubt. That as long as I’m doing work that drives me to regularly step outside my boundaries of comfort and work with populations that have greater needs than anything I will ever experience in my privileged life, it’s okay that I’m alone. It’s okay that I feel slightly disconnected from my family. It’s ok to change my address every two years. It’s okay to not know what’s next.

Some old colleagues from the Population Council were in Kigali this week for a UN workshop. It was such a wonderful treat to see them and get caught up. I had forgotten how wonderful that organization is, and how important and inspiring their work. Of course, within two days, Judith in all her amazingness had passed my email around to half the workshop, connecting me to projects and work consulting on adolescent girls programs. It made me question my decision to leave New York…wondering how different my life would have been if I had worked through some of the unhappiness and anxiety I felt there…where I would be if I had stayed at the Council and gone to Columbia part time and built a career for myself. Why do I allow my mind to go to these places? I don’t know. It’s a totally futile exercise and is only contributing to my mental instability…as if I need the additional fuel.

And what is it I’m searching for exactly? I’m not entirely clear. I’m pretty sure it’s nothing quite as simple as a light bulb going off in my head and begging me to stay put. Maybe I’m not meant to settle in or settle down anywhere. Perhaps I haven’t met the right person or the right job to convince me to do so. Maybe I never will. But I have to believe that it’s all part of my path that I’m intended to take. That my life wasn’t meant to turn out any other way.

I also don’t find it ironic that I finally received the go-ahead from my Country Director to stick around through December on the weekend of the 4th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Last year I had just arrived in Ethiopia. Now here I am in Rwanda. And the longer I’m away, the more I’m convinced that I am not ready to walk away from that city just yet. It feels like home in ways no other place has felt in years. There’s so much work I want to accomplish there. So many more things I need to experience and see and comprehend. It saddened me to be so far away from New Orleans on a weekend that stresses the resiliency of such a troubled yet proud community; remembering and paying respect to the tragedies of the storm; bringing people together to share in the struggles that continue. Reminding us that there is no strength in separation. That there is much work to be done. Ok, so good. Maybe I did answer that question about New York after all.

So, here I am. A new auntie. A semi-temporary, semi-permanent resident of Rwanda. A soon-to-be 31 year old single woman who is kind of employed. Not too shabby I guess. The journey continues…

Cause I gotta have faith, faith, faith

2009-08-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

Lila and I just returned from a four day excursion to Uganda. She’s leaving for the states tomorrow to finish up her degree at Tulane (enter stage left: Aims loses her entire social network and becomes a huge loser), so she convinced me to tag along for her final hoorah in East Africa. We left Kigali at 5am on Saturday morning in a horrible rain storm and the pitch dark to board the bus to Kampala, Uganda. It goes without mentioning that I was awake roughly 25 minutes of the 9 hour trip…long enough to gracefully accept a cookie from my Kenyan seat mates, watch two Michael Jackson videos on the bus TV, and get in an argument with a rude face (no cuts, no buts, no coconuts) at the Rwandan/Ugandan border.

We got to Kampala at around 6pm. I felt instantly at home…much more the African city scene I’m familiar with—oncoming traffic dodging the same monstrous potholes; people throwing litter out of bushtaxis; mud; men peeing on walls; streetfood chapatis; mud; oversized billboards promoting HIV testing (or cell phones); loud music; traffic, traffic, traffic; flip flops; mud. We were greeted by two very bubbly Ugandans named Julius and Michael. Julius is the nephew of our Tulane colleague who graciously hooked us up with a free place to stay. Evidently, they took their hospitality very seriously in showing Lila and I around town. We had a blast! Ugandans are incredibly lively, friendly folks. Loads of great restaurants, bars, clubs, music. We spent the evening shuttling around all the hot spots in town, meeting Julius and Michael’s friends from law school and dancing the night away. It was fantastic. Also, I just have to mention that Julius and Michael really restored my faith in men. Two well-educated, attractive, compassionate, thoughtful, hilariously funny men who were giving up their weekend to host Lila and me around town? Maybe there is hope for me after all.

Sunday, we headed out to Jinja in late afternoon…a small town about an hour outside of Kampala world-renowned for its rafting down the Nile River. We arrived after dark at the Nile River Explorers hostel. I always love getting thrown back into the backpacker’s scene…gritty, adventurous, adrenaline junkies seeking out their next thrill and global wanderers hoping to experience Uganda in an authentic, down-to-earth sort of way. Within moments, I questioned my decision to pursue two Master’s degrees and amass an ungodly amount of debt when I could essentially be an extreme sports fanatic with ripped arms, a great tan, and cheap beers at my disposal. Damn.

Rafting was ridiculously fun. The most extreme sporting activity I’ve participated in in recent adult years was learning how to simultaneously hold a can of Bud Light while playing beach volleyball. I had forgotten how exhilarating it is! Our raft consisted of three Brits and a South African, Lila and I, and our Australian guide, Jesse. Obviously, Jesse informed us within moments that Americans complained the most and when Lila suggested we come up with a team name, Joel from the rural UK muttered, “How bloody American of you.” Totally weak sauce. We had some serious moments of extreme sports, I am proud to say. Although we dubbed our raft the “super sloths” (for obvious reasons), we actually did quite an impressive job of battling the raging rapids. We flipped the raft twice. Not only did I miraculously manage to hold on both times, but managed to keep both my contact lenses and come out unscathed (minus the loss of a perfectly manicured pedicure and almost my bathing suit bottoms). It was five hours of hilarious conversation, beautiful scenery, and swimming. With the small exception of the torrential downpour which clearly resulted in an outbreak of hives and Jesse yelling for our sloth asses to paddle harder, it was a perfect day. Totally extreme. Totally awesome.

We really lucked out with our raft mates (I’m not entirely sure they feel the same about us). The two couples were both on an overland journey from London to Capetown…Angela and Andrew in a Land Rover, and Joel and Hannah on a motorbike. Not only was I unbelievably envious of this voyage, but was almost instantly pummeled with questions challenging my current place in life. My self-esteem plummeted by the sheer fact that I could not conjure up one soul that I could take such a trip with and not want to murder after 3 days, not to mention how the hell would I ever be able to afford such a thing? Additionally, my three chronic health afflictions: being allergic to the cold, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and travel narcolepsy, would essentially make me the worst travel partner in the universe. I have to say, it was unbelievably refreshing to be around them and listen to their experiences and stories up to this point of their journey…and even more inspiring to see how affectionate, loving, sweet, and playful they still were. Ahhh, the perfect partner. The flexibility and freedom (and money!) to travel through the continent of my dreams! Why oh why is my life so hard?

All in all, the weekend recharged the batteries (as Vince Vaughan so aptly states in Wedding Crashers) in numerous ways. It was a break from the stresses of work and Kigali. It reminded me of the goodness and joy in meeting new people. It reinforced that being 30 is not, in fact, the beginning of the end as I sometimes think it is…and most of all, encouraged me to continue to believe in living my life with intention and purpose…and from this, only good things can come.

I don't limbo at parties

2009-08-04T05:18:00.000-07:00

You know, I’m the first to admit. I don’t “limbo” well. I’m an incredibly OCD-type personality who spends countless hours making lists and thinking too far ahead about endless possibilities impacting my existence on this planet—what some like to refer to as an “over-thinker”. I have attempted many times before to be more mindful; awaken to the present; open myself to the universe and allow things to happen. It’s incredibly difficult for someone like me. And the irony is that “people like me” are often self-aware enough to recognize that the mental gymnastics are nothing more than a futile exercise that never truly gets us anywhere, nor do we gain much by exhausting all the possibilities our little brain can conjure up. Does it present some sense of calm in a very delusional way? Dare I say peace of mind? Not in my wildest dreams.

The source of all this newfound anxiety you ask? A potential extension of my time in Rwanda. Oh god, the mental energy I’ve expended. Abandoning the geriatric poodle and imposing on friends; missing the birth of my third niece (or first nephew =); missing family, missing friends, missing out on life in the Big Sleeze. It’s exhausting. Honestly. My guilt is a full-time job. I won’t bore you with details, but in a nutshell, I have been offered a research position through December here in Kigali. It’s a great opportunity, one I really shouldn’t pass up. When it comes down to it, it’s really kind of a no-brainer…once I clear out all the clutter and guilt and loneliness.
So, here I am again-the dreaded limbiosis. (Please acknowledge that I’m completely aware that this is a made up word, yet somehow perfectly articulates my current state). No matter how much I persuade myself that the transient lifestyle is totally my bag, I’m not entirely convinced that I’m very good at the actual act. Ironically, I’m pretty sure this is stemming from my deep-rooted fear of permanence. I am uncompromising in my state of dissatisfaction. There’s too much to see, explore, experience. The thought of sticking around any place for too long gives me the heeby-jeebies. This is most likely why at the ripe old age of 30, I still don’t have a couch, a car, or a matching set of dinner plates to call my own. That’s just too much stuff. It is also a reflection of my guttural response to becoming a parent. Dang. Now THAT’s permanent. I can’t even date someone longer than a month.

So, I’ve come to terms with sticking around a bit longer…I think. It feels good to have some clarity and make a decision. I think the hardest thing to accept is that while my life is in a constant state of change, the people surrounding me are, too. My best friend leaves NOLA this Thursday. Never crossed my mind when saying goodbye in June that I would come home to an Eddie-less New Orleans. Not even an option. Or meeting amazing people in Rwanda that are just as transient as I am, leaving just as I am getting used to having them in my life. It’s painful. It’s expected. And yet there I am again—finding new ways to transition out of one life into another. Adjusting. Adapting. Recreating a life for myself in a city I love or redefining myself in a new country altogether. I guess it’s part of the impermanence I cling to so strongly. I guess it’s simply just life. And that IS something I can be mindful of.

Now…if only I can convince the next Tulane interns coming this fall to bring a 12 year old poodle as their carry-on?

Paradise Lost

2009-07-21T03:47:00.000-07:00

Travelling brings out the best and worst in people, particularly international travel. I have learned this the hard way on numerous occasion, yet am always astonished when I find myself on a weekend where we’re leaning much towards the latter. Coupled with the somewhat inevitability of the artificial, superficial expat world, one typically finds it completely acceptable to by-pass niceties, jump in with both feet, and force oneself into a level of closeness that would otherwise simply not jive in most other settings. It’s part of the transient lifestyle, the adventure, the attitude. Therefore, it didn’t require second thought when planning a weekend trip to Burundi (a short, five hour drive to the small country south of Rwanda) with four other people I have barely known a shade over a month.

There is also something to be said about expectations when travelling, personal perceptions of culture, and overall cohesiveness of groups. My travel companions in a nutshell: a 50-something Indian man who has spent the majority of the last two decades shuttling around East Africa for business. He is more Kenyan than he is Indian…and a complete wild man. Add his silent counterpart: a shy, 20-something, non-drinking Indian Muslim; a 24 year-old sassy Dominicana Americana who also attends Tulane; and a Pittsburgh native and fellow-RPCV from Togo. We were a regular old Benetton advertisement.

I learned quickly that my own expectations were being challenged before we even left Kigali. Evidently Indian time is not a far stretch from African time. Leaving at 10 am really meant 12:30…and that was pushing it. Breathe. The drive was gorgeous as we climbed hills and fell into lush valleys, watching the vegetation become more tropical as we drove farther south. Indian Punjabi music blaring on the semi-functional stereo system; escaping into novels; Ipod salvation; resentful silence; napping…ahhhhh; polite chitchat.

We arrived in bustling Bujumbura just around sundown. At first glance, Burundians are a bit more of a lively bunch that the peaceful calm the Rwandese project. Outgoing, lovers-of-life, energetic, colorful, welcoming. These were my first impressions.

Hindi, Kiswahili, French, English (and I assume some well-warranted choice words in Spanish muttered under the breath)…Burundian francs, US dollars, Rwandan francs. And I wonder why we’re not getting along? It was pure mayhem across the board. Utter confusion every step of the way. Wait, you don’t eat ANYTHING but Indian food? Really? I thought YOU had enough Burundian francs to pay for dinner! Alcoholics socializing with non-alcoholics. Workaholics frustrated with pending deadlines and lack of internet access. Pasty white gals needing too much sunscreen. Disastrous.

I have to say overall, against all odds, I really did enjoy myself. We stayed on the beach at a lively joint which had a dance party going at all times and an amazing view of the mountains and Lake Tanganyika, Africa’s deepest freshwater lake. I spent much of Saturday hopping waves with some Burundian teens, who asked me endless questions about hip hop and Michael Jackson. I fell in love with a four year old named Ritchie, who basically shuffled between my beach towel and my lap all afternoon and giggled uncontrollably while drinking his Fanta and hiding bottle caps in the sand. Magical.

Saturday night, we somehow ended up at the Indian restaurant (again) and got swindled into attending the expat party of all expat parties…karaoke night at the Marine Corps house. Now THIS is what I call cross-cultural exchange. Seriously? I have to say, my Bobby McGee rendition was a bit weak due to the small crowd (and lack of cocktails consumed) but overall, it was interesting to see the expat scene in Bujumbura compared to Kigali. Shocker to discover that it was basically the same. A bunch of Westerners over-indulging in their beverage of choice, chain smoking cheap African cigarettes, and listening to their favorite MJ tunes while figuring out how to score for the night. Pretty standard.

Sunday I stayed on the beach all morning, laying around on day beds plush with pillows and sparkling pools and fruit smoothies and small, inquisitive toddlers wanting to befriend the very pale American in her bandanna and tankini. (Please don’t judge me about the hairy legs. I haven’t had hot water for days). It was a really beautiful day. I started reading a fabulous book. I was consumed with sunshine and music and breeze. It was lovely.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the drive home. Bickering. Fighting over where to eat lunch. Hindi. English. Hindi. English. KiSwahili. Go. To. Hell. Stupid. Ass. Face. Racing to the border before it closed. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again! Oh dear Lord, was I happy to reach Kigali and peace out to my travel companions. I’m not entirely sure I’ve processed the weekend entirely, if I will ever subject myself to such social turmoil again. Maybe there’s something to be said for riding solo…at least to the restaurant of your choice =)

Truth and Beauty

2009-07-09T00:40:00.000-07:00

There is a moment when travelling when your mind shifts from initial perceptions of a new place, filled with questions and shock and interest into the next layer of complexity—where suddenly what you observe begins to enter a certain realm of normalcy and routine, yet you begin to gain a deeper understanding of what is going on around you, or at least make valid attempts to.

I just spent the last few days in the countryside-partially doing field work and also to celebrate Liberation Day. Getting away from the organized, regimented, structured world of Kigali and heading out into the rural areas (where the majority of Rwanda’s 10 million people live) both simplifies and magnifies the complexity that is Rwanda. In one sense, rural living highlights simplicity; it is red dirt, hand-washed laundry drying in the sun, mud houses, jerry cans strung to the back of bicycles, groups of men hovering around a radio. It is small children wearing ill-fitting clothing, waving at the mzungus in the white SUV. It’s the livelihoods of farmers and village woman selling and weaving and chopping. It is the commonality that is Africa. It is beauty in its purest form.

While this lifestyle is simplistic by our standards, impressions are challenged by the complexity of comprehending this type of poverty and recent history—the daily survival and struggle faced by people that have most likely never visited Kigali, where a President makes decisions for a nation based on progress and forward-movement that the majority of Rwandese will never directly benefit from. It’s almost impossible to watch the gentle-natured Rwandese and picture their lives fifteen years ago during the genocide—the terror and fear they felt; the loss they continue to endure; the violence they witnessed and the loss of trust in their neighbors, communities and the rest of the world as we sat back and watched. And while their government strives towards “One people, one destiny”, there is an unmistakable sadness for that part of their history, and the pain is still very fresh.

Liberation Day commemorates the official end of the genocide when the RFP took over power in 1994. I spent the weekend at Lake Kivu with some friends, appreciating the quiet and also trying to wrap my head around what this nation was like 15 years ago. It’s devastating to think about. Truly. And even more perplexing as I watched the calming sunset over the lake, and how different Rwanda now is, realizing that on the other side, the Congo continues over a decade of suffering similar atrocities…and the chaos and horror faced by the Congolese due to corruption, greed, natural resources, tribal conflict, a breakdown in infrastructure and government–an enormously divided country in the heart of Africa awaiting any sort of rescue. And yet they wait…

For being such a tiny country, Rwanda boasts about its biodiversity…lakes, mountains, forest, volcanoes, plains…as it rightly deserves to. It is magnificent. So, I guess it’s a natural tendency to reflect on one’s own existence when surrounded by such a backdrop. It helped that the village we stayed in was well-lit by the full moon—Africa’s flashlight paving the way. As a dear friend mentioned before I left, this type of work awakens something in me that typically lies dormant in the States. I believe this to be true, and why I’m continuously drawn back to the continent of Africa. It allows me to see my own life with clarity and invites questions that are otherwise dismissed or ignored at home. In that sense, it’s a great privilege to seek that kind of meaning in my life. So yes, after a month in this deeply gorgeous yet pained nation, the cobwebs are once again beginning to clear…and I am opening myself up to the truth and beauty that is Rwanda.

Beautious Butare

2009-06-24T09:29:00.000-07:00

Well, here I am in Butare, a beautiful university town three hours south of Kigali. I’m here with my Tulane professor who’s in town for the week overseeing a Social Work training dealing mainly with psychosocial care for people living with HIV/AIDS. Social Work appears to be an up-and-coming profession in Rwanda. In general, my initial impressions of Rwanda are that it is incredibly progressive and becoming a great model for this region of Africa, if not the whole continent. President Kagame appears to be quite the visionary, seeing the benefits of development, accountability, and the acknowledgement of wanting to move forward as a strong country. I was with some fellow expats the other night and there was a sobriety checkpoint (that alone was mind-blowing…in Togo, if there were sobriety checkpoints, there would be no taxis. Ever.) Even more surprising was when the guard gave the driver back his identification without a bribe! I mean, seriously…where AM I?

But it’s been nice to see another part of Rwanda. The entire country is so beautiful—rolling hills, lush mountains, coffee farms and gorgeous horizons. Butare seems a bit more “African”: women walking barefoot carrying things on their heads and babies on their backs; men with their bicycles toting jerry cans; older ladies in traditional African dress from head to toe. Everyone is very kind and fun and much more westernized than I always expect. Everyone has cell phones. Everyone knows who T.I. and Young Jeezy and Ciara are (sorry Mom and Dad-totally hip-hoppin’ it up).

Basically my week has consisted of attending this training five hours a day with Dr. G. and attempting to translate for her from French. Unfortunately for me, the majority of the participants prefer to speak in Kinyarwanda, so I spend the majority of my morning looking at my planner (as only I can do for endless hours) and attempt to look interested. It’s a very motivated and engaging group, though, and exciting to think of where Social Work could go as a profession in a country like Rwanda with so much recent trauma and history.

After the training, I go to town to pick up my “lunch”, which today consisted of a warm juice box, two samosas, a half tin of Pringles (once you pop, you really, really can’t stop), and some shortbread cookies. I’ve basically decided to boycott eating out in Rwanda. It’s ridiculously expensive and I can’t seem to find local food (which is my favorite thing in the world) so until I come across the deliciousness of homemade beans and rice on the side of the road, snack shack it is. After consuming my delectably nutritious lunch, I go to my hotel room (which of course has no water. For those of you who remember my emails from Ethiopia last fall, this is ALSO becoming a sick curse that is following me around the globe.) I nap. My foot continues to heal, but I haven’t been able to really walk around much, and I am now fighting off a bad cold/sinus infection which I’m pretty sure is my immune system’s way of saying a big old screw you after the events of last week and attempting four different antibiotics in a ten day span). So, I sleep…and sleep, and wake up in an enormous puddle of my own drool because I can’t breathe through my nose, and head to the hotel of Dr. G. to steal her wireless internet at the fancy mzungu hotel.

Today, I paid to use the pool as a shower substitute. Obviously, the temperature was hive-activating, and I spent like 40 seconds in the pool, only to have a very sweet Rwandese girl tell me I needed to expend some energy to warm up. Little did she know I was simply rinsing off in hopes of not getting scabies or head lice.

I have no idea why I haven’t taken any pictures yet. It’s a stunning country. Well, I do know. Last week I was hospitalized for a foot abscess and my battery died in my camera. So there. I promise they are coming soon. Or I’ll just post my friend’s pix and pretend they’re mine like I usually do =)

Missing you all madly. xoxoxoxo

The $75 foot

2009-06-19T03:37:00.000-07:00

I have to question my continued decision to travel overseas, as I appear to have bad luck hovering around me no matter what corner of the globe I’m on. Basically, I’ve been in Rwanda for five days. It’s glorious weather, unbelievably beautiful hills, helpful and humorous people, sunshine…loveliness all around, really. Kigali is very un-African in many ways. It’s the most organized, law-abiding, regimented African country I have ever been to. There are smooth roads, speed bumps, cross walks, matching outfits, lunch buffets, helmets for the motorcycle taxis. There is no garbage littering the streets. There is no street food; there are no mangy dogs wandering the streets in search of food. There is no need to bargain for taxi prices. The city is covered with social media campaigns discouraging sugar mamas and sugar daddies (my favorite billboards by far). It is beautiful here.

It’s been fantastic being able to communicate again after my three months in Ethiopia, never mastering more than ten Amharic words. Interestingly, Rwanda is shifting from French-speaking to English speaking, so it never fails that if I address someone in French, they speak English and vice versa. I’m hoping to get a grasp on Kinyarwanda while I’m here, but so far, I have failed miserably at directing the moto taxis to the Tulane office.

Everyone at the office is wonderful—incredibly kind, dedicated, friendly people determined to make some positive change in a progressive country. I’ll be working mainly on the malaria projects here, as well as dabbling a bit in the Social Work training program that is being developed a few hours south at a local university. The other interns are great. I’ve managed to hook up with some Return Peace Corps volunteers from Togo also doing graduate school work, so it’s always nice to have that community. Through my friend Joan, I have landed a gorgeous house to rent for the summer (through a friend of a friend of a friend through Peace Corps), with a veranda overlooking the entire city from above. Looking forward to moving out of the guest house and making some space for myself that feels a bit more permanent.

I wish I could say more about my work week, but alas, it has been consumed by the $75 foot. Now, as a brief reminder, I arrived in Kigali Saturday evening. I wake up Sunday to find a very small red dot on the ball of my foot, which I assume is a spider bite or something of the sort that attacked me during the night. Well, by Tuesday, I am barely able to walk and am wondering why my foot has its own heartbeat. Hmmm. I get to the office and Josh (my supervisor) suggests I go to the clinic. It costs $27 just to get a consultation with a doctor. Rwanda is expensive, folks. Like $4 cup of coffee expensive. I don’t get it. It just don’t seem right y’all! The French comes in handy as I argue with two doctors—one who believes I have an abscess and the other who thinks I just have an infection and need antibiotics. I leave with a prescription and a phone call from my boss, Laura. Lucky me—Tulane’s infectious disease specialist is in Kigali teaching a two-week course. I head to her hotel. She takes one look and says, “Yeah, it’s an abscess.” She proceeds to boil a sewing needle in her hotel room and puncture this massive growth on the bottom of my foot. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. If only I knew the half of it. She advises me on some better antibiotics and I’m off.

So, two days later and Gimpy Gertrude has not slept a wink and can barely walk. While a self-admitted hypochondriac, I like to pretend I have a pretty high pain tolerance. As I have mentioned to a few friends and family already, if I had a worst enemy, I would wish they got an abscess on the ball of their foot. It’s unbearably painful. So, I call Dr. McLellan today and she is not thrilled with my progress. I make plans to meet up with her and show her the infamous foot. “Damn. Damn. Damn.” Comforting Dr. Susan. Very comforting. She is worried I have a raging infection that has possibly spread to my bone, assures me I’m on the wrong antibiotics, and rapidly rearranges her day’s schedule to accompany me to the hospital. Awesome Thursday. A minor procedure and some cultures are needed. Fantastic. Luckily, we bargained for some localized antiseptic to numb my foot before the scalpel went to work. Not the best 15 minutes of my life. I am proud to say that I didn’t cry, but was basically pounding my fists on the table and biting my arm in agony before begging Dr. Rwanda to take a break so I could catch my breath. Not super fun…not fun at all…and another 50 bucks. Wuh wa.

So, I am now back at the hotel, drinking a very large beer and ordered by the Tulane staff to stay home tomorrow and rest, as I am intended to head south on Monday morning for a Social Work training for the week. Pictures are on their way. I haven’t had much opportunity to explore and photograph due to the crazy foot, unless of course, you are all interested in the progression of the dreaded abscess, which I doubt you are.

Alas, I am convinced I’m on the up and up…and hoping to experience Kigali without hobbling around like a first class dork. Lots and lots of love to all…and more from Butare next week. =)

Mr. Lyons Aime and Lemon-lime Gatorade

2009-06-12T23:04:00.000-07:00

I should have sensed it…the black cloud of travel hovering over my head as I walked through the doors of the NOLA airport. My initial attempts at self-check in failed miserably. No reservation for a Ms. Aimee Lyons. Chicago? Nope. Brussels then? Nada. Uh, Kigali? Sorry, darlin’. Um, awesome. It’s not the most settling feeling to have the gate agent shaking her head as she types frantically into the computer as you are about to embark on a two day journey. But wait…we DO have a reservation for a Mr. Lyons Aime. Score. Now about your luggage. It’s 6 lbs overweight…that will be $50. Eek. Hmmm, maybe this In Touch weekly magazine will lighten my load? After a few futile moments of shuffling around my Tevas and tank tops, the woman says, “It’s alright, baby. Go ahead.” Gotta love NOLA. I get to Chicago uneventfully, carefully planning my last American meal during my three hour layover in the mecca of food options in O’Hare. I settle on a steak sandwich, fries, and a strawberry margarita (with an excessive side order of dill pickles) and spend my remaining time endlessly saying my goodbyes over the telephone.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that airplanes are the only location on the planet that I do NOT suffer from Social Boundary Disorder. Rarely am I awake long enough to engage anyone in meaningful conversation, and if I am, I prefer to catch up on celebrity gossip, listen to music, or dive into a book. Yet, alas, I found myself chatting it up with an adorable newlywed couple from Michigan headed to Ireland for their honeymoon. And time continues to pass…and we wait, and wait…and the pilot comes over the intercom and hour after sitting on the runway, alerting us to some “cargo issues”. Wuh wa. I immediately shift my thoughts to the storage bin of technological equipment I agreed to take to Kigali for Tulane. Is it my fault we are sitting here, resorting luggage? “Sorry folks. We need to taxi back to the next available gate and sort out this cargo issue. Five to seven minutes max.” And that is a direct quote. 2.5 hours later, every person on the jumbo jet has missed their international connection. Glug! I sleep it off, hoping that during my six hour nap we will miraculously make up time due to some forgiving wind patterns and gain back an hour of our lives. I wake up as we land in Brussels. It’s 10:12 am. My flight to Kigali leaves at 10:40.

I’m 44D. This is not my bra size people-this is my seat assignment. I am literally the second to last row in the airplane, and by the time we all deplane, I am sprinting to the gate. I arrive at my terminal only to find another security checkpoint, and am in a line behind 15 people with no fewer than 30 pieces of carry-on luggage, all assuring me they are also on my flight and I can’t go ahead of them in line. They are liars. My bag goes through the x-ray machine. It’s flagged. The very deliberate and delicate Belgian man starts removing every item out of my backpack, inquiring innocently about each and every object. And what is this? That is 3 months worth of tampons that I would appreciate you returning to their rightful place. And this? My Gatorade powder mix. Anyone who has done any travel in a developing country understands the essential nature of Gatorade. It serves numerous functions: curing horrible hangovers on account of cheap, locally made brews and liquors; rehydration nation after days of traveler’s diarrhea. It’s no joke…and it’s a necessity. I’d rather lose a finger than give up my Gatorade. I grow impatient, muttering, “Seriously, dude? My plane leaves in like 3.5 seconds.” Very culturally appropriate. He allows me to go and I sprint down the ramp to the gate door, only to have a Belgian woman radio over her walkie talkie, shake her head, and apologize that I am too late to board. I look longingly at my plane that sits at the gate and walk away defeated and depressed. To be fair, it was literally 10:38.

Next flight to Kigali? Saturday morning. It is Thursday at 11am. Poop. Sooo, I accept that I am now in Brussels for two unexpected days, a European vacation of incredible circumstance yet welcomed at the same time. I meet a few other Africa-bound late-comers, and we spend the next two days gallivanting around Brussels like regular old tourists: Belgian draft beer, french fries, cobblestone streets, cathedrals, chocolates. Maybe I could get an internship here? It’s been a while since I had been to Europe. I had forgotten how wonderful it is…the outside cafes, the laissez-faire attitudes, the style, the romance. It was no irony that I went to see live music last night, only to discover an incredible African band that tore the roof off the café. I’m anxious to get to Kigali, but grateful that I was able to have a taste of Europe before returning to the continent of my dreams…

Hopefully the next time you hear from me, I will have successfully arrived in Rwanda, and will be eating french fries and drinking draft beer on the streets of Kigali.

The Passage

2009-06-07T16:47:00.000-07:00

It continuously amazes me that someone who self-admittedly has issues transitioning chooses to do so on such a regular basis. It’s as though my body has a 24 month internal timer, alerting me that life is becoming too mundane, too settled, convinced that there is too much to discover, experience, explore. I haven’t lived anywhere longer than two years in the past decade-possibly something to explore with my next therapist? So, off I go again…this time to Rwanda…to intern for Tulane for three months in Kigali. What I will be doing particularly, I’m not entirely certain…I only know that I’m anxious to return to Africa—a place that has inexplicably made me feel more at home than most places I’ve lived in my own country.

I’ve certainly entered that head space of change: losing sleep, feeling anxious, expending serious emotional energy about leaving my little world in New Orleans. The last few weeks, I’ve been questioning whether the abundance I’ve been feeling lately is my mind’s way of challenging my decision to leave, or if I truly feel this happy and dare I say content in my life. The shift from being a full-time, dual degree grad student to having all the free time in the world to spend with friends, engage in community, and celebrate spring festival season is most likely not coincidental in this mood shift. There’s something so engaging and authentic about New Orleans that makes it unlike any other place. It’s gritty and determined and organic. It’s a city that’s constantly evolving while holding tightly to the roots that make it the unique and spontaneous place that it is. It’s full of beauty and pain and history, and welcomes a space for you if you so choose. It’s a place that believes in the strength of community. It’s a place I picture myself staying for a while…yet I am drawn back to the continent of Africa as I always seem to be—to listen, engage, experience, learn, appreciate, practice patience and tolerance, and open myself up to the beauty of the world and its people.

Some of you may be wondering where the title of my blog came from. It’s from Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, a book that has held great significance in my life. If you have not yet read it, I strongly recommend it. Essentially, he argues that from personal tragedy comes triumph; that suffering allows man the opportunity to grow spiritually beyond himself; that if there is a meaning to life at all, there must also be meaning in suffering. A message that struck me was one of his ideas behind being human—that if energy is directed toward something or someone other than oneself—by simply giving to a cause or another person, the more human that person becomes. Man can discover this meaning by experiencing truth and beauty—by experiencing nature and culture, or by experiencing a human being in his uniqueness and loving him, allowing us to see our own potential not yet actualized while also reaching salvation through love—what Frankl believes to be the ultimate and highest goal to which a man can aspire. Being overseas challenges me to be present in this mindset…seeking commonality and exploring what connects us as human beings, attempting to improve the human condition in some way, while simultaneously gaining more insight into myself and the person I am.

Stay tuned for more….hoping Rwandan internet is up to the blogging challenge…much love and abundance from the Big Easy….