It's Beginning to Register

I recently moved back to my beloved New Orleans, after another two years in Africa, and a lovely 12-month stint enjoying the quirky, grittiness of Charm City. While I can’t say that I had ever really committed a considerable amount of time dreaming about my life trajectory, I guess I’m also surprised to see where I am at the ripe old age of 35. The longer I’m back in the states, the longer I recognize that my life choices haven’t necessarily meshed with society’s view of where I need to be. I’m working at an incredible school, with unbelievably dedicated staff and amazing leadership. Yet, when I glance around, most educators are a decade younger and securely exploring their mid-20’s. It makes me beg the question, “What the f#$k have I been doing with my life?” After six months of unemployment and lounging on my parent’s couch in my snuggy, waiting out the winter months in hopes of the perfect job, I found that “putting my time in” in seemingly soul-destroying, emotionally-draining posts like South Sudan got me no closer to my dream job at all. I found myself amongst the many middle management, high-aspiring, discouraged, over-educated 30 something’s patiently awaiting for the light bulb moment when the debt, the sacrifice, and the poor quality of life and self-care made it all worthwhile. I’m not sure it ever will. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my time in Africa. I feel so lucky to have been exposed to that world, and to have witnessed the struggles and resilience of that continent. But I was tired. And ready to come home. My work in Baltimore was a great segue back into the domestic arena—it allowed me to stay connected to the global community by working with refugees from all over the world, yet my day-to-day left me feeling under-utilized with the skills I had acquired overseas, and resentful for the poor pay. So, yes. I seem to have found the perfect fit back here in the Big Easy. I’ve returned to a city that has always felt like home; I’ve reconnected with dear friends and made some new ones; I’ve easily bounced back into the spontaneous, laid-back culture of afternoon beers and late-night, sweaty music spots and weekend festivals. But as I unpack my two suitcases of clothes and dust off my African knick-knacks, I have to wonder...are my choices really valued in the same way as my other friends and family who have taken much more traditional, conventional paths?

The other day, I jokingly posted on Facebook that I was going to pull a Carrie Bradshaw. You know the episode…she goes to yet another baby shower for a friend, and someone walks off with her $500 Manolo Blahniks, only to be criticized by the mom-to-be for spending so much on shoes. She calculates how much she’s spent in the past decade on weddings, bachelorette weekends, baby showers, housewarmings, etc, and is ultimately reimbursed for her stolen pumps only when she registers for them. I can feel her pain. After being overseas and transient for the better part of a decade, I can comfortably fit most life belongings in my little Toyota Yaris Hatchback. And yes, this was an active choice. I’m not complaining. But as I unpack my little life in New Orleans and attempt to make roots for the first time since my early 20’s, I have to wonder how I’m viewed by others. Unattached and awesome at 35? Or pathetically still searching for happiness and fulfillment in all the wrong places? I guess I haven’t really answered that question myself yet, although I do know that I’m not actively turning away from things like love and commitment and a fulfilling and worthwhile way to spend my working days. I simply keep looking for new experiences to allow me to have those moments when I feel that I’m exactly where I need to be. And New Orleans feels like that place.

Did I want to be married with children, with a house in the suburbs? I’m not really sure, but that reality seems further and further away as I get closer to 40. And I’m ok with that, too. For now, I’m perfectly content being an auntie, and seeing my friends’ children in spurts and having the freedom to give them back at the end of the day. Do I wish I was farther along in my career? Um, yes. I most certainly do. But again, maybe this was the path I was intended to take. Maybe I needed to experience a lot of different things until I ended up at my little red schoolhouse in the French Quarter. I guess I’ll never know. But I do know that I’d love some matching plates, and some stemless wineglasses, and perhaps even a matching set of towels and a Dustbuster. Does our society not allow me to celebrate anything I’ve accomplished in my adulthood, simply because I’m unable to check off the boxes that historically link us to feeling accomplished and complete? I am not married. I am childless. I do not own a home. I don’t even really own my car. My most valued possession is a five year old poodle named Ruby. And yet, I have two Master’s degrees, have lived, worked, and travelled in parts of the world most people have only seen on the news or National Geographic. I have effectively “put my time in”, only to come home to a society that is I struggle to relate to on most levels. And to a society that more importantly does not celebrate nor seem to value any of the choices I’ve made as an independent, strong woman. Someone recently told me that my freedom comes at a price to those that love and care about me. Maybe this is true, yet I can’t imagine doing any of it differently. And I really would love a set of matching dishes.

A Year Sans Afrique

It’s incredible to imagine that I have been away from the continent of Africa for a year already. Some days, I feel like I just left. So many things about that place had become so familiar, and in many ways, yes. I miss it dearly. The travel bug has not left me completely, but it has certainly taken a snooze. I have mostly been amazed by how quickly the time has passed, and while reflecting back on this calendar year, it appears in my trusty little Moleskine planner that I did not achieve much at all, I do feel like my journey has continued and I am in a much different space than I was last September. As far as achieving the basic goals of my return to the U.S., I’d say I’m faring pretty well. I am healthy. I am healthy. I am healthy. I have spent an incredible amount of time with family and friends. I am gainfully employed again after six months spent in my slanket, watching countless episodes of Game of Thrones, Dexter, and Downton Abbey. I feel more balanced than I’ve felt in years.

I have shared immeasurable giggles with my nieces and nephew. I have hugged them, shared meals with them and enjoyed fresh air with them. I have tucked them into bed after movie night and seen school recitals. I have swung in the park and glued Rudolph noses on reindeer; I have cut the crusts off sandwiches and shared my fashion opinions. I have given creative license to Halloween costumes and snuggled into the couch reading books. I have even made it to a few birthday parties. It has been glorious, and I am so grateful that I had that time to get to know the hilarious little people Ella, Caitlin, Jesse, Ansley, Josh, and Avery are becoming. It’s pure magic.

I’m incredibly grateful for the patience and support of my parents, treading cautiously when my mom suggested things like, “Are you planning on getting out of your pajamas today?” or, “You went to TJ Maxx again?”…knowing me well enough at this point to give me the space and time I needed to process and not pressure me into decision-making, life choices, or adult-like responsibilities like rent and taking daily showers. They listened to countless hours of job-hunting frustration, shared advice about marketing my skills and networking, and sympathized when I didn’t hear back from potential employers. They helped me mend a broken heart. They never gave up on me. We cooked. We weekend movie-matinee-ed. We drank a lot of coffee. I was happy to be home to celebrate the 60^th birthday of my beautiful mother, and spend random weekday mornings meeting my Pop-Pop for breakfast at his favorite half-way point diner. It was my first birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas I had been home for in almost a decade. I traveled and traveled, reconnecting with great friends, seeing new parts of this amazing country, giggling over old times, meeting children and spouses and family pets. I costumed and glittered and shimmied my way through the streets of New Orleans for my first Mardi Gras in three years. I was able to attend numerous weddings in a calendar year—another thing I have not accomplished since I was probably 25. Incredible stuff, this reconnecting with people you really care about. Truly, a gift.

My family will tell you, this past year was not all sunshine and rainbows. I had some very low days. Very, very low days. I questioned my decision to leave humanitarian work and Africa. I underestimated the time, effort, and complexity of the domestic job market, and felt completely defeated that after years of difficult placements and overly-challenging jobs, I could not secure a gig. I worried that I’d settle for something just to have a job, a function again, only to hate it (and myself) for not doing what I love. I constantly ping-ponged over the cities I would consider laying down some roots. I hated myself for fumbling through another failed relationship, and the loneliness that resulted when I compared myself to my happily-married peers. I wondered why after all the changes I had made, all the risks I had taken, I still woke up every morning feeling like everything was wrong. Everything.

And then suddenly, miraculously, things changed. I was offered a job in Baltimore doing work with refugee youth, which despite the day-to-day insanity of it, I love. It’s certainly not boring; I’m learning new things every day, and I’m surrounded by people from all over the world who have overcome incredible struggles to be here. It is humbling and inspiring on a daily basis, and I love that I have something to give back. I have wonderful friends that fill my social calendar with BBQs, cultural events, quirky Baltimore city festivals and creative outlets. I have recovered from my break-up and come out stronger and more self-aware on the other side, and have allowed myself to open up to someone and something new. I am two hours from most of my family. I am a phone call away from my siblings. I drive home every day at a reasonable hour in my little Yaris hatchback and eat delicious food and visit with friends and watch TV when I want and don’t need to check in with 20 housemates if they need the car. Life is good, just like the bumper stickers say. 

The Seeds of Doubt

I submitted my resignation from South Sudan about a month ago. The initial signs of relief and confidence after finally making a decision are slowly deteriorating into an anxiety-filled space of uncertainty, doubt, and a heavy-handed dose of second-guessing. It’s no secret that this post has not been the best fit for me; from a professional standpoint I never really felt competent and effective in my position. While I learned a great deal, I’m not convinced it’s something I’d chalk up as a professional success, although in many other (and probably much more important) measures of life experience, I could not have learned more—about myself, the world, and the people that make it a complicated and beautiful place. So, how are these old creeping feelings of fear and doubt resurfacing?

The long and short of it is, while I recognize that this is probably for the best, I’ll always wonder about the alternative.  I’m afraid this choice is short-sighted from a career-standpoint—that I’ll beat myself up for not sticking it out, enduring my final six months, staying with an organization that I could have continued building a career with. The easy answer is that I couldhavewouldhaveshouldhave, but the more important question I’d have to ask myself is why? Are the arguments compelling me to leave more important than the ones questioning my ability to stay? When I fast-forward to unemployment, relocating to a new city, starting my life again somewhere new, paying off student loans, finding an affordable apartment , do the opportunities replace the nagging doubts I feel about leaving, even though I’ve determined I’d probably be better-suited elsewhere? I told myself months ago that no job is worth unhappiness, or lack of fulfillment, or a non-existence of work/life balance, or consistent health problems, or, or, or,…so why the self-doubt?

I’m terrified that leaving South Sudan will disrupt a relationship that has the potential to bring me lasting comfort, understanding, companionship and unwavering acceptance….that my premature departure will be interpreted as lack of commitment, and I’ll create unnecessary distance with someone that understands me for all that I am and most importantly for all that I am not and seems to love me anyway; that we won’t be able to get back to where we are, to a space that works for us…and the distance will become too hard and in the end, destroy us.

I’m afraid I won’t be relatable to any of my friends or family back home—that our familiar reference points will be replaced by play dates and mortgages versus pit latrines and malaria, that I’ll have no ability to understand or share in the lives of the people I care about. That after a few weeks of creature comforts and relishing in the little things that make life enjoyable (fresh food, freedom of movement, the family dog, home-cooked dinners), that people will return to their own schedules, lives, priorities, and I’ll feel lost, incredibly lonely, misguided and misunderstood. I worry that after all these years of transience, I’ll spend time with my brother and sister’s kids and witness my friends as parents, and I’ll crave a family of my own, too. That I’ll realize this is the life I’ve wanted all along and it feels too late, that I’ve missed the boat, gotten it all wrong. That I missed years with my family that I’ll never have back. That my work didn’t mean anything. I fear boredom, the mundane, a lack of purpose. I’m terrified I won’t find another job that allows me to give back, feel committed, feel alive. I have feelings of abandonment-that I’m leaving my project prematurely and that the impact of my time here will not only feel inadequate, but completely worthless. I’m afraid that life will never feel so extreme again. I’m troubled that I’ll never be surrounded by people that understand me so well, and have a similar sense of purpose again. I’m afraid that the happiness I imagine when I think about returning home won’t turn out to be happiness at all. 

The Wait is Over

My year anniversary in South Sudan passed unremarkably, although notably on Mardi Gras Day, of which this irony was not lost on me (and required some serious rechanneling of mental energy not to be consumed by it). For months, I’ve been setting soft deadlines for myself to get through the next snippet of time, the next R&R, the next reprieve from the continued stress that has become the norm here. What I’ve realized recently is that while I may be adapting and adjusting to maintaining some sort of functionality here, the mindset of waiting just doesn’t offer me any comfort or respite from my current life circumstances. Waiting to have more energy to exercise, feel healthier, less exhausted, waiting to drink less and sleep more. None of these things are going to miraculously change in the coming days, weeks or months, so I either need to embrace them, accept them and learn how to manage, or walk away from this place.

And while things are challenging-relentlessly so at times-I am trying to shift my paradigm and recognize and appreciate what I do have here, acknowledge that in some bizarre, fucked up way, I am lucky to be here. I have amazing colleagues-supportive, understanding, patient colleagues that fill my days with hilarity and drama and are able to relate to me in every way imaginable. I have a handful of wonderful friends that provide respite from work and can commiserate over my questions and what choices lay ahead. I have a job that forces me to problem solve, initiate, interact with a variety of different kooky characters, force myself to try and offer up my best self—my most patient and calm and understanding self—and maybe, just maybe, possibly, make a difference in the lives of some people. I need to look at South Sudan as the opportunity many of my peers will never have—the possibility to grow in impossible ways, to discover strength I didn’t know I had, to witness a pocket of the world undergoing incredible hardship and facing unbelievable challenges.

I need to stop mourning the loss of watching my nieces and nephew grow. I need to stop picturing what I’d be doing if I was living in some other city, some other job, stop glancing at the calendar and imagining myself at Jazzfest or the Thanksgiving table or my niece’s birthday party. I need to accept the life choices I’ve made and allow myself to be fully engaged in them—not just focus on the next post, the next trip home, the next job, but really force myself to be here, really be here and take it for what it is. I have to let go of the notions of what path my life could have taken had I done things differently a decade ago, or five years ago, or five months ago. In the simplest of terms, I need to be present. Live fully. And for the love of God, stop questioning myself.

With Thanks

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Love, One Life

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

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

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

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

Kuku Karanga

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

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

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

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

The Deep Blue

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

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

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

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

Bend, don't break

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

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

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

The Space Between

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

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

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