anger is an easy emotion

It is for me.  almost easier than love.  there’s little convincing needed in anger and it works so well to cover up other emotions.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned since being away it’s that.  I reach for anger before pulling any others off the shelf.  

There’s plenty of reasons for me to be mad: ringworm on the face, money getting stolen from the house I was living in (twice), constantly being looked at as slutty b/c I’m a white woman and I must want to be hit on if I happen to make eye contact, being looked at as an ATM and constantly asked for money b/c I’m white (good training for parenthood I suppose), loving kids with terrible diseases & no parents who just want love and didn’t ask for this life.  

 

The hidden emotions: hopelessness, insecurity, guilt, fear: of the future, my ability to help, my sanity, death.  There’s more I haven’t even tried to uncover because I’m simply too scared.  I can’t figure out how the world got so fucked up or any way to possibly fix it.  Yet I feel responsible:  for the world being the way it is b/c I represent long ago oppression (and possible new colonialism).  I feel like I need to fix it.  And I never will.  I can’t, not alone.  All I can really do is take a piece and make it better.  Try not to inflict unnecessary harm.  But I want to fix it all.  I want to make sense of it.  Maybe make sense of me along the way.  

 

And the oddest part?  While I’m uncomfortable in many ways in a different culture, I know when I get back I’ll be just as uncomfortable.  Which will push me to action.  A good thing, yes, but once I’ve got a handle on it all I’ll be leaving again.  Why?  Well b/c I paid for a trip and because, most of all, I’m afraid if I settle down, make some adult decisions, I might actually get everything I want, even the things I won’t admit to myself.  

And what the hell would I do with myself then?

 

good bye tanzania (until June)

so we’re off (shirley and I).  Heading down to South Africa for 3 ish weeks of fun and then it’s one hectic week in NYC with 40 hours in Boston then back to MN to see if the world is gonna end and I go ex pat. 

Am I sad to leave Tanzania?  No, hell, no.  Yes, I will miss the kids and the beauty of the place and I would be even more angry had we not met the most amazing woman last night, but good bye.  and right now good riddance.  for a bit.  I’ll be back here in 8 months as part of a camping trip.

Didn’t know I would get so homesick for the US.  My freedom, my culture.  Fast internet and great cheese.  But I did realize how much I love the US.  For all it’s shit I am totally completely in love with the US and everything it has to offer.  Everything I can take advantage of, even when we’re taking advantage of others.  And the fact that I can opt out of taking advantage of others.  And political dissent. 

 

this is short, after the longest time away.  the truth is I haven’t got the energy or patience to explain.  nor will I know, if ever.  Some really shit stuff happened while I was away and it’s made me weary and disappointed in the ablity of people to choose bad instead of good.  Yet it has only strengthened my resolve to make good choices.  most of the time.  at least when it involves other’s welfare.  It also make me want to live up my youth as much and as long and has hard as I can. 

 

if when I get home you see a sadness in my eyes, look at me, smile genuinely, put a hand on my shoulder and say “guilt is a luxury, most of the rest of the world is just trying to survive.” 

and at my best, I’ll smile and say thanks, but when it’s really hard, I’ll just say “me too, me too.”

 

star studded dinner and a congolese refugee camp

A few weeks ago I wandered (meaning flew in a super cold/old/rickety plane) over to Rwanda to meet up with the Heidi T. and meet a new friend in a similar circle, Marissa C. Little did I know how packed that short weekend would be.

I arrived at the Kigali airport under the impression I could change Tanzanian shillings. Marissa told me to bring USD but I also heard from someone who had been to Rwanda the weekend before I could change them. No. This is not true. It’s USD, GBP or nothing! well not nothing but nothing I had. I searched through my small bags and found $12 including my lucky 2 dollar bill. Unwilling to part with it, I exchanged $10 even though a taxi would be $15. I ask if there is a bus and am pointed to a vague destination.

Sidenote: I need detailed oriented directions. not just over there, across from the tribunal, details! A chainlink fence, a massive plastic coke bottle structure, street names if they were posted. But no, I get vagueness yet give details.

Luckily, Rwandans are very nice and a man who spoke very little english took me to a man who did, found out what I wanted then the first man walked me to the bus station. It cost 100 francs aka 20 cents. I love African public transport.

As usual I am the lone mzungu on the bus. I swear they looked at me like “quoi?” I yawned, enjoyed the ride and tried to spot the downtown area where I was supposed to get off. It was easy enough, it looked similar to any downtown area: tall buildings, construction, only a much much smaller scale. I hoped off and set out on a 2.5 hour journey to change my tanzanian shillings. This included 4 different banks, 2 exchange bureaus and one 1.5 hour wait for a teller at one bank because right as I got there and got my number he went on lunch. No worries, I read and sat in the cool air.

After finally changing money, I sat down a 2 hours whipped by on the fastest internet connection I’ve had since leaving the US. I realize the internet is one of my biggest addictions and I seriously go back and forth about buying the iPhone when I get back to the states. sick, I know. I read the email Marissa sent the night before describing exactly how to get to her house, and that she left money for me. if only I was smart enough to check it. I call, we have an awkward conversation because there is a 2 second delay every time we speak and I get directions to her house via moto. What is moto? Oh, it’s a motorcycle taxi. Yea, haven’t been on a motorcycle since I was 7 and rode on the back of my Uncle Leo’s but why not, right?

After once again having a local help translate (I don’t speak Kenyarwandan or French) I hop on the back, gripping for dear life, and non stop praying. I swear, I thought I was gonna die, or could. Even more so than the winding ride in Guatemala in the back of the pickup. I see where we need to turn and try to communicate it to my driver but alas, it doesn’t work. He drives me 1.5 km in the wrong direction and I get off, pay him and thank the lord I am alive. And if he hadn’t taken the detour I never would have seen the beautiful sunset over the rolling hills and clouds with shadows. yes, clouds with shadows. I rolled into Marissa’s house, pet a remarkably clean dog and jumped on Heidi.

We chatted and tried to nap but were quickly informed people were waiting for us. Whoops. We gussied up our pretty selves and hopped in the car to THE Indian restaurant in Kigali. Apparently everyone goes there. I don’t even know the name but everyone I talk to about Kigali knows it. And apparently so do some “celebrities.”

Celebrities, you ask? Just listen. We arrive, kick it on some chairs and hanging swing and are seated at a table for 15 people. Upon sitting we look over and see a woman with impeccably coiffed blond hair. We’re all looking at each other, mostly the people living in Kigali speaking in hushed tones. I’m oblivious and curious but distracted by the fact that Marissa’s roommate Chris spots Notty Dread, who used to sing with Bob Marley, and goes to say hi. Cause they’ve met before and he’s that kinda guy. I, on the other hand, have no idea who he is but am excited nonetheless.

When Chris returns, it’s been decided that the blond woman is in fact Cindy McCain. yes, Mrs. John McCain. And the man who just walked over to her table: Former Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist. Yea, and what does Chris do? Tells us that’s his former Senator, cause he just happens to be from Tennessee. Waiting for an opportune moment, Chris gets up and introduces himself to Bill Frist. Dr. Frist, he used to operate on chimpanzees at the Smithsonian zoo and then go to Congress. I snap pics like the paparazzi I am.

Then, Chris comes over with Bill Frist and Cindy McCain. Let’s not confuse politics here. They are Republicans, I’m not but I’m giddy about it. I also learned Mrs. McCain was here during the genocide.  I may not like your political choices but I do like the way you help humanity.  Bill (can I call him Bill?) Introduces himself and Mrs. McCain and chats for a few minutes. As leaving he asks for Chris’s email.

We sit, revel that our tables form a triangle (ours, Bill and Cindy and Notty dread) then eat some of the most delicious food I’d had in months. At some point during dinner some guy walks in wearing an Obama t-shirt. I laugh and think it’s hilarious while most of the others think it’s tactless. Apparently I’m not very mature.

We finish dinner, talk to Notty Dread and his son for a while (you have to say both names) then walk with them and hail separate cabs. The evening is capped off by staring up at the stars and playing with their dog. Soo cute, soo clean, so loves sitting in odd positions.  Well, then Heidi and I talk for about 45 minutes in bed about how life has been going, saying we should sleep then continuing to talk.  It’s was like sophomore year of college with Brooke R.  and our dorms room that was originally designed for nurses with the beds right next to each other so they could talk and talk.  Sexist but true.

We wake at 7 the next morning to get ready for Goma. It’ll be Heidi, Chris and I taking the 3 hours bus ride to cross in The Democratic Republic of Congo, or D-ROC. Heidi and I go to the only bank in Kigali that will give cash advances on credit cards while Chris grabs us snacks, water, a coffee for Heidi and picks up a laptop sent from Germany. We rendevous on the street corner and head to the bus. Heidi hops off to use the facilities and in the rearranging of bags her iced coffee with whipped cream spills all over my chacos. I laugh while the other people on the bus stare. Heidi’s a bit disappointed but coffee’s a diuretic and who needs that on a long bus ride. During the ride I entertain myself and watch the chick 2 rows up and one seat over get sick and perform some of the most silent puking I’ve ever witnessed. Heidi and Chris learned sign language from two Canadians and a Rwandan.  Chris also bonded with a Rwandan lady whose father is on the supreme court. She ended up being very helpful getting us across the border.  Thank you Alice!

After being shushed in the D-ROC border office we’re across and riding on the second most bumpy road I’ve ever been on (the first was Nairobi to Arusha). And as much as there is devastation and you realize it’s a war zone it’s not even the worst part. Which I have to tell myself to snap back to reality.

We get dropped off at a compound (every foreigner stays in one) and step into another land, I swear.  Green grass, 3 buildings and one underway, a beautiful garden all on Lake Kivu.  We just wandered, amazed.  Alas, we could not dwaddle.  We were late to a music gathering.

We walk out on the bumpy as hell road (it’s volcanic rock/old lava) and eventually grab an SUV cum taxi as not enough motos come at once.  We head into town, or what can be called town, to Yole Africa.  Good music, all in french or other languages I don’t understand.  The occassional smattering of english.  We enjoy, take photos and I marvel at where and how my life has brought me.  3 hours later and it ends, sadly, but not before all the performers have gotten on stage for a huge sing along.  We hop into a Land Cruiser, head back to the compound before dinner for some acrobatics and muffins.  Yes, odd acrobatics I sucked at but brought much laughter to Heidi, Chris and I.  And the muffins:  best and only thing I had eaten all day and although I can’t tell you what they were now (this was 4 weeks ago)  It was just right.

We head to a restuarant everyone calls Rafikis (i think) drinking coke and guiness (the local mixed beverage of choice) as we are joined by some performers and a guy who works for WWF.  He has a laptop, shows us pics he has from climbing the volcano and some crazy awesome french music video.  I’m so overwhelmed I sit in silence, awaiting the food and observing.  When the food does come I realize I’ve made a mistake in ordering chicken and after one bite know it’s a long road of mostly vegetarianism for me.  Until I can get back to the US with unreasonable white meat but the longer I stay here the less I look forward to it.  Except prosciutto and excellent bacon.

The night is capped off by a jaunt onto Lake Kivu.  Suddenly, I’m terrified of water as I can’t see anything and know nothing of what it’s depths hide.  I relax and try to paddle.  We discover Christina, our host, went to the U of M and begin to speak at length about Minneapolis.  Chris stares off and we all decide it’s time to head in.  Heidi, Chris and I relax on the grass as Christina goes to bed.    I’m feeling uncomfortable with myself and leave to take a mercifully hot shower and snooze on a firm bed.  Never thought I would love one so much as I did that night.

Morning comes all too quickly.  We are treated to a feast.  It’s an unlikely dose of western life, surrounded by excellent books and great photographs.  As we scarf down the fresh fruit our guide for the day comes.  We’re off to a refugee camp on the edge of Goma.  It will be an experience to be sure.

And it is.  We get there by driving past people decked out going to church.  We hobble down a bumpy road, waving to the kids as they scream and attempt to keep up on foot.  We’re told we might not be let in but hope for the best.

We succeed in entering and the craziness ensues.  There are dozens of children, running up, staring.  I greet people in my weak swahili, just trying to smile.  The kids begin trailing us and occassionally organized chaos is all that follows.  As we walk we gain more and more until we finally reach an open patch and I begin to make airplane arms and noises.  This switches to skipping so high that I slightly pull a muscle.  Shameful the bad shape I’m in.

The structures these people live in are mud and grass low triangle topped huts covered with a white tarp brought to you by world vision or oxfam.  Oxfam does have a water tank or 2 set up in the distance but it is obvious they are not well fed.  Occassionally they ask for food or paw at my pack but it is minimal, at the beginning.

After our novelty wears off the kids begin to ask for food, money, pepe (candy) then it’s my jacket, my scarf, my rings, my earrings.  anything I could give them.  I try to play dumb but eventually say no sorry.  These things won’t help them and just cause a fight. Heidi is smart enough to point to the Oxfam tanks and say she’ll give money to them.

At this point, before things get tense, Chris and our guide had left to get the car.  But tensions are rising.  A young man who speaks very good english tells me they have been there for 3 years with no facilities, no way to finish school, and they want contacts to go to school in the states.  I take his information and only hope I have enough strength adn courage to follow through when I get home.

But this is not enough.  We attempt to engage them in song but it’s clear we’re just useless mostly, to them now.  It almost feels like they know or surmise that they are on display and won’t have it.  A few kids tell me to go away, get out of here.  I’m getting anxious and walk off but they still follow me.  I feel so helpless and not for possible harm but because I can’t do anything for them in that moment and thus decide to try and sing and dance lamely.  it gets the kids to laugh and they attempt to teach me a song and dance of their own.  We all laugh at the pitiful Mzungu and the car pulls up.  We have a hard time getting Heidi away form the kids but we pull away, waving.

In the car (or perhaps it was earlier) I learn they used to be given 50 kgs of food per person per month.  Now it’s down to 6.  and it’s mostly flour.  that can’t feed or nourish anyone.  The excuse is that other people are also in need.  And there’s the catch 22: not well enough organized to help, although the resources could be there, are left to help everyone halfway.  of course how do you choose who to help and who dies?  It’s a shame humans and their fallibility runs these things.  What we need are some saints and accountability.  Sorry U.N you’re not cutting it for me anymore.

After leaving people who are starving to death we go eat lunch.  A rather jovial affair considering what we just saw but lightened by drinking beer with straws and watching terrible re-edited music videos on tv.  Rushing back to the compound, Chris and I pack our things while Heidi decides to stay another night.

And then it’s a race.  A race to the border, through 2 border crossings and hoping on the back of motos to catch the bus.  Alas, there are no seats left and we take a mini bus.  We’re squeezed in 4 to a row, for a long ride across Rwanda mostly in the dark.  We constantly switch seating positions and I thank God I grabbed some water and biscuits before we departed.  Near the end of the ride I stand so as to give Chris and the guy sitting next to me some more room.  I figure ten minutes at the most.  unfortunately the woman on the row with the baby takes this as a chance to get even moe room.  When I do sit down 45 minute later it’s an awkward half sit, tilting on my side.  And remains so for the last 30-40 minutes.

We’re so happy to get into town and out of the bus we hug our seat mates good bye and walk til we grab 2 motos.  I’m comfortable on them now, sad to miss them when I return to Tanzania.  When we get home a Sunday evening gatehering is just breaking up.  I shower and Chris goes to get us pizza.  We sit, recant some of our weekend and play 4 games of MASH, the brilliant idea of Chris’.  Just when I thought the kid couldn’t get any cooler.  I hug Marissa good night and good bye.  It’s not until 2 weeks later I realize their other roommate, Lindsay, is a good friend of mine’s (Stevie) friend from college.  The world really is a small place.

At 5 am, I leave the house as quiet as I can, which feels like an elephant stepping around mice.  I hop a moto to the airport, nap til my flight gets called, grab the obligatory duty free bottle of liquor and some candy and saunter on the freezing airplane.

adieu Rwanda.

 

must I title these? apparently so

I’m exhausted.  but sassed in my exhaustion with a WSJ article about my friend’s platoon in Afghanistan. (http://www.wsj.com/article/SB121519575561429201.html?mod=fpa_editors_picks)  His name is Hank and he made amazing films at BU. 

Anyway, I’m tired, my back is kinda hurting, I walked all the way to the Shoprite and Woolworths and back, about a mile one way, I think.  it’s hard to tell distance here.  I got a few Western luxuries (I had to get cadbury’s cocoa mix, they only had strawberry quik) and stopped into Woolworths for a peek at Dayton’s like fashion.  I loved it in South Africa but they also had a sweet local designer doing stuff.

Much to my surprise it was tiny… and crappy.  Or perhaps my perception has just shifted.  Oh wait, yea, it has.  They wanted 20 bucks for the cheapest t-shirt.  Do you think I’m made of money?  And how do I know you didn’t use small children to make those shirts?  And even if you did, you can’t gurantee laughter and smiles for them, probably cuts, missing digits and no pay.  The shopaholic in me is slowly dying and it’s been a 6 year quest to make that happen.  Please hold me accountable when I get back to the US. 

As for now, I’m gonna grab my somewhat heavy pack, pay my $1.35 for one hour of internet and walk the half mile back to the house in the 6:30 pm dusk for a meal of rice and beans/lentils.  I think I eat meat once a week here and not since I saw a chicken plucked and cooked over open coals.  I may become a vegetarian yet………..

 

Mambo mzungu!

Which roughly translates to what’s up whitey.

Well, white foreigner.  I’m in Tanzania, a little village called Tengeru which is just south of Arusha.  Arusha is in the north of the country, about an hour south of Kenya.  It’s quite nice, winter here but that means 70 degree weather and sun.  I can see Mt. Meru everyday but have yet to see the mammoth called Kili due to clouds.  Perhaps it’s hiding cause it’s afraid of how I’m gonna conquer it.  Or gasp up to the top in 6 weeks. 

I started my volunteering today, officially.  I hang out with 30 orphans aged 2-6 and try to teach them a thing or two.  Basically, I stand, occassionally say some things in english which they repeat but do not learn and then they run around, touch my hair and call me mzungu.  I mostly love it.  Mostly because I just started and haven’t gotten into a groove where I can really help them.  We’ll see, we’ll see.

Differences from the US:  I say hi to about 30 people I’ve never met on a daily basis, I walk atleast a mile a day and pay 15 cents for a bus ride. The electricity in our house frequently goes out and I try to relish every minute of sunshine before darkness covers us for the night.  All in all, pretty good.  

Except for the internet.  While available, terribly slow.  Terribly terribly slow.  There will be no posting pictures until October in South Africa.  And then watch out!

 

A quick recap

So, I am actually quite tired and not sure entirely what has happened in the last 2 weeks but here’s a quick run down of what I’ve been up to:

- Cruised in a felucca down the Nile, learned how to steer then slept on the shore after a bonfire with dancing

- Climbed Mt. Sinai and almost died

- Had a small Egyptian girl ask for money then pat my stomach lovingly when I said no.  Nothing beats getting told you need to drop the vacation weight by begging children. 

- Sat around in the “Bangkok Hilton” for 7 hours waiting for a ferry from Nuweiba to Aqaba

- Was repeatedly harassed in a nice way by Egyptian and Jordanian men. 

- Floated in the Dead Sea.  Craziest thing.

- On a biblical highlights tours without trying:  Mt Nebo where Moses ascended to Heaven, Bethany across the Jordan where Jesus was baptized, the pillar claimed to be Rachel after she was turned into salt and many more

- Learned how to sleep on a bus in 7 million different positions.

- Experienced a hot waterfall

- Safely made it into Syria

- Walked around Petra for 2 days and met the nicest people

- Saw more inappropriately dressed tourists than I ever want to see again

- Was driven in a Jeep all over Wadi Rum aka Lawrence of Arabia country and then slept under the most beautiful stars

- Rediscovered my love of climbing all over rocks

There is much much more but I’m exhausted nwo and will go crash on my bed in a hotel where my room is acually underground and has windows but just a view of dirt.  Why not save on windows and curtains and leave it as a wall?  I’ve stopped asking questions like this in tMiddle East.  They do things differently here and that’s good. 

 

correspondence, or the lack thereof

I realize that I was never that good at it before and that this blog doesn’t really count (more of a monologue than dialgue but I do appreciate all 453 views I’ve had so far.  Good to know people care) but I miss hearing about everyone else.  Regular day to day life, something that made you laugh or beyond frustrated.  Travel and reporting back about it can make me feel entirely too self important and while what I’m doing is cool (I mean, let’s be honest, it does rock) I’m just as interested in YOUR life. 

So, family, friends, drop me an email about what’s up with you, cause I do love and miss you all.  OH and a note to my father, sending me 5 news articles a day does not count and only gets my hopes up for real emails until I can see  what they are. 

 

a crazy 24 hours

so, I’m nearing the end of my second tour (well part 1 of it) and almost 5 weeks on the road, I haven’t sent out a single postcard BUT this next story gives you a little insight as to why.

 

So, I leave Jerusalem last Friday (May 30) on Nesher ( a share taxi) to get to the Tel Aviv airport.  I leave around 8 pm with a flight at 11:30 thinking it’s more than enough time.  Of course I forget that we have to pick up 6 other people from all over Jerusalem and wouldn’t you know I get the crazy driver on the sabbath.  Jeru is a ghost town and this doesn’t help as streets are closed off.  So I’m sitting in the backseat, rocking out, hoping and praying we get to the airport before 10 so I can get through security in time.  No big deal, everywhere else it has taken me 35 minutes total.  Someone may have mentioned that they recommend 3 hours before in Israel but come on, that’s silly, right?

Wrong.  We roll in at 9:45.  Sweet.  I pay the man, toss my bags on a cart and steer it in.  First, I sit in a line to check my luggage thru security before I can even check in for my flight.  I get questioned by 3 different people and asked the same 10 questions over and over.  Though it makes sense, I don’t have an Israeli stamp in my passport and I’m going to Syria in a few weeks so I’m suspect already.  I get a 5 put on my bag and pass thru the first checkpoint.

Then I go to check my luggage checked out before getting my ticket.  Apparently 5 isn’t a good thing and my checked bag needs to be completely unpacked (which I spent 20 minutes doing so it would all fit perfectly) and all my inner bags need to be unpacked.  She swabs my luggage with some thing, gets checked by another lady then I can pack everything back up, while being watched and sent to check in.  I was also questioned several times as to why I don’t have a paper ticket.  It’s an e-ticket peple and I’m traveling. 

I check in for my flight but since I have a backpack it needs to go in oversized luggage.  I go to drop this off but need to pass by someone checking tickets and passports.  Something is amiss and I have to follow her back to where my luggage was searched.  Apparently a number wasn’t checked off and it looked like I hadn’t had my baggae checked.  We get that settled and I drop off my bag. 

I grab some water and a coke, trying to spend the last of my shekels, and head to another security checkpoint.  Ticket and passport checked again and I walk to be screened.  I get motioned over to a less frequented security checkpoint and I take off all my metal and anything else.  I hand them my passport, get a look from them and head through.  I’m sitting there, waiting for my bags, smirking at all the ites people are trying to carry through, like a 16 piece knife set.  Come on people.  Knives, on a plane?!  That wouldn’t fly even before tighter regulations. 

So, I’m waiting and  getting slightly impatient but try to appear compliant.  I get asked the usual questions of who packed this, was it out of your sight. The security girl starts to unpack things from my bag to run it through security again and asks me the following question: So, did you just graduate high school, are you doing a gap year?  Di

d I just graduate high school?!  The last time I mistaken as 6 years younger was when I showed Kevin a picture of me from freshman year track and he said I looked nine years old.  Hence why I almost always wear makeup now. 

No, I respond, I graduated from ollege two years ago and I’m just traveling for a few months.  She says, oh, you look young.  (Well yes, if you’re going off my passport picture (I was 16) and my slightly disheveled state then yes, I look younger but not 18!)  She then goes on to say how she’d like to travel but she’s in school and has too much responsibility.  I’m once again reminded (and humbled) about how lucky I am to live in the States, have money to travel and the desire to do so. 

The head of security comes over and starts asking me questions saying you’re the one who is traveling for a while and going through Syria.  Yep, they know me now.  I tell her there aren’t any sharp objects and yes I did pack it.  She looks at the screen asking if I have anything metal, a bullet perhaps?  I’m slightly taken aback until I realize there’s a 90 year old bullet in my bag from a battlefield at Gallipoli. 

You read that right, a ninety year old bullet.

I made it through all of Turkey’s checkpoints, getting into Israel, and through most of the beginning checkpoints to forget about the bullet that’s so rusted and crusted over it wouldn’t work anyway.  I start to profusely apologize and explain but she just gives me a look that says Dumb American, finds the bullet and tosses it into the confiscated bin.  I’m left to pack my bag and get through passport control in 15 minutes before my flight begins to board. 

Brilliant, now I just need to jump the hurdle of explaining why here is no stamp in my passport and not get one in there so I can enter Syria.  I hop into a line that looks like it feeds into two booths.  But then somehow people split the line and I get stuck behind 5 rows of couples who decide to go through singly.  I’m pacing, cursing silently and wanting to hit something as I have 3 minutes to get there.  FInally, I get up there, quickly start to explain myself but the woman says, oh ok no stamp.  She stamps my boarding ticket and I sail through. 

This is just 3 hours friends.

I settle into my half hour flight, get through oOrdan and buy a visa so I don’t have to do it later, worrying that maybe they said I came from Tel Aviv and possibly ruining my entrance into Syria but I forget it.  I find some chairs to lay on, roll out the sleeping bag Matt P. gave me and settle in to read and try to sleep away the next 8 hours.  (By the way, Amman has a terrible airport, at least my terminal.  Smelling of smoke, dirty bathrooms, and just generally gross.  I’d rather be in Detroit). 

I attempt to board my flight when they call me but the security tell me to wait 10 minutes.  Another woman tries but gets told the same thing.  We sit and a line of men form.  2 minutes later they pull back the rope and let the men through.  The woman and I roll our eyes, join the line and get motioned to a security point with a woman where we go behind a curtain and are patted down.  The men get to walk right through.  Love this country.  As I wait I realize that there are 5 women on the flight, 3 with kids and a lot of men.  That is til we’re settled in and an Indian tour group comes on with mostly women. 

The flight to Cairo is uneventful.  I purchase my visa, get hassled about a cab and have to go to 2 different terminals to find an ATM.  I hop into an old black cab, fear the driving and end up paying more than I should.  They always try to squeeze you.  I settle into my hotel, sorta.  I have to wait for my room, telling me 5 minutes but it’s more like 20.  Eventually I hop on the overpriced internet, just barely finshing before our meeting.  I meet a bunch of aussies and we set off on a tour of Cairo.  To a mosque and a couple of street markets we go.  And the staring is back in full force.  As is the shouting of Shakira, Shakira.  It’s good to be back. 

We’re kicking it outside a bazaar, smiling at the locals and I play with a baby.  Then I notice all these kids running around playing soccer in front of a mosque.  I ditch the sandals, bag and sunnies and join them, entrtaining the entire crowd and surprising many people by being a white westerner playing soccer and not totally sucking.  I’m dripping sweat, my feet are nasty and I must rest as some of the kids start fighting and I don’t want to be the cause.  Some kids ask me to keep playing but we have to go to a Sufi dancing show.  We head back across the street and sit in a hot open air room.  We’re an hour early so I ask Adam, a canadian who just met up with our tour group, if he wants to go for a walk. 

Thus begins a 1.5 hour adventure involving: getting lost on the backstreets of Cairo, me wearing a tank top and jeans (totally flashy there) which elicits shouts, disgusted stares and a kid sticking his tongue out at me, a furniture market, a picture with a goat, getting several wrong directions, many more leers, a few marriage proposals, one time of actually being scared and finally finding a soldier who stops a passing man who speaks english. He gives us the right directions.  We make our way back, catch 15 minutes of the dancing and questions about where we were.  We answer while following our guide so we can get 75 cent falafel.  It is delicious.  We head back in a cab, grab some water and fanta from the corner kiosk and I fall into bed.

And that’s just my first day.

 

One day a month

That’s what I decided to give myself to feel homesick.  And that day happened two days ago.  Sorta 2.5

We got on the sleeper train in Cairo on Sunday night.  I’d been feeling weird, out of sorts.  Basically, I’d been over stimulated and too many people and new situations and I hadn’t had time to myself despite the fact that I’d had 12 or so hours by myself but not alone.  I need my alone time. 

So, just when I needed it the most I’m stuck on a train, with a roommate and surrounded by new people.  I adjusted surprisingly well, that is til the next morning when it hit again.  We’re walking out of the train station to our hotel, it’s hot as can be and only going to get hotter and I’m agitated.  I want to accomplish something.  Do something, get out of this funk.  I try checking my email til we can get into our rooms but this only winds me up more. 

Eventually, finally, we get into our rooms and I can breathe.  My roommate kicks it in the room for a bit but thank the lord, she can tell, and says she’s gonna leave me to be alone for a while.  I sit on the bed, listening to Halloween, Alaska and fall asleep. 

Sometimes all you need is a nap. 

 

i miss you in my heart

Sitting in Matt’s kitchen area this morning, munching on the delicious omelette he made, I got this feeling in my heart: longing/slight homesickness/a general missing of you.  Now when I say you, I really mean several people and places but it felt individual.  Not overwhelming but specific.  It’s been so long since I felt I really fit somewhere, not thinking about the next place I’m going and I realized what I had built in Minnesota in such a short while.  Yes, at times LA was fun, but these past few months felt complete.  I was more sure of myself and my place in life.  

Does this mean I regret leaving or want to come home?  Hell no!  I love what I am doing, where I’m gonna be going and the people I’ve met so far.  It’s just a nice realization that if I decide I need to come home early/when I do come home, I’ll be going back to a great place, not just one of transition.  

And I do miss you (yes, YOU!)