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.