Something that's been rattling around in my head for several years now . . .

Summary: From a certain point of view, there are 3 things that make up who you are: 1) Intelligence; I.Q., more or less. 2) Courage to question your beliefs. 3) Courage to act on your beliefs. This applies most when thinking about ideologies and politics.

There are different conceptions of self. In the West, it's mostly about who I perceive myself to be, whereas in the East, it has more to do with my family, my community. That's a broad generalization; there are lots of variations, and no one's got it quite nailed down. What is the self? Who am I, really? One of my favorite ways of thinking about it is the Amish response to the question "Who are you?" According to popular belief, the answer is something like, "Ask my neighbor."

So it's like the self can be looked at from outside yourself, inside yourself, inside your community, outside your community, etc. Really, there could be an infinite number of "selves," and without getting too ethereal with the logic here, who you are could change based on a number of metrics.

So let's think about the construct of a "public self," or who you are as far as your place in the world. While "left" or "right" in terms of political ideology is often an overused oversimplification, it has proven to be fairly apt, and I'm using it here. We know what someone means when they say "I'm a leftist," "I'm a conservative," or "I tend to fall in the middle." It's one metric for getting a sense of the public self.

I posit that where a person falls on the right-left spectrum can be understood by how they measure up on three variables: 1)Intelligence, or straight-up I.Q., 2)Willingness, or courage, to challenge their own beliefs, and 3) Willingness, or courage, to stand up for their beliefs.

Intelligence: This probably doesn't seem very P.C., but some people are just smarter than others. Of course, there are all different kinds of "Intelligence," and a person with an I.Q. of 85 could be a brilliant musician, far outshining another person with a 150 I.Q. who can't carry a tune or keep a rhythm no matter how hard s/he tries. Accepting that I.Q. is a limited conception of "intelligence," it fairly accurately describes a person's potential to reason, conceptualize, and comprehend complex topics such as we encounter in sociopolitical dilemmas. Someone with a high I.Q. is able to understand the complexity of the world, whereas someone with a lower I.Q. might not be able to quite make sense of it all--not that s/he should be expected to. I personally maintain that it is the responsibility of those with higher I.Q.'s to attend to the more complex matters of society, and the extra dignity that is given to these positions is not necessarily deserved, since no politician, leader, or luminary would have any power whatsoever were it not for the thousands of lower-caste people forming the bricks and mortar of the society they are assumed to have "led" or "built." Let's also dispose of the notion that it's somehow bigoted to identify and appreciate intelligence for what it is. If ten people are in a room with a ticking bomb, and none of them has ever defused one, the one of them that is most likely to figure the thing out and save their lives is the best choice to take on the task. And that person is the smartest one in the room. Likewise, smarter people should be given more responsibility in the higher levels of society--to a point. The other metrics I'll lay out should help to clarify.

2) Courage to question one's beliefs: It is scary to think that you are wrong, as it can threaten your premise for existing. If I've been living the last ten years spending all my time and money getting my hands on as many pieces of used tin foil as I can, because I believe that tomorrow the tin foil deity is coming to whisk away all tin foil-havers to a paradise garden for eternity, and then someone challenges my practice by saying I've been wasting my time, it's not only bad news for me, it's an indication that I've wasted the last 10 years of my life and am therefore a fool. That's why it takes courage to question your beliefs: again and again you risk having to acknowledge to yourself and to the world around you that you might be a fool. I don't claim to have a comment on the veracity of religions, but one reason people tend to cling to the beliefs with which they were raised is because it's intensely frightening and horrifying to imagine everything you have believed might be wrong; it's far more comfortable to build arguments and logical fortifications so that you can plausibly defend your belief system, and hence sleep at night. The courage to cast aside that comfort in the name of "truth," (whatever that admirable notion may be--I personally have very little idea) should not be undervalued.

3) Courage to stand up for your beliefs and your self: This is an easy one to understand. It is the domain of Joan of Arc, Rosa Parks, and any martyr from any religion, war, schoolyard bullying session, public scandal. You believe that something is right and you put your life, reputation, happiness, or health at risk. It is the type of courage needed by soldiers going to war to fight for their country. If you don't believe in your country, it's going to be difficult to die in its defense.

Now here's where it gets interesting: People have different mixes of these three. And that's what I think makes up who you are as a public person. It allows you to look at a person through a different lense. When we think someone is wrong, we often simply say they're "stupid," or "an asshole." Maybe they just have vastly different priorities.

Let's give some theoretical examples:

Rush Limbaugh: Very intelligent, Very willing to stand up for what he believes, Very unwilling to question what he believes.

Bill Maher: Ditto.

That bong-smoking friend of yours who talks philosophy all night but never seems to get involved with anything or hold down a job: Intelligent, willing to question what he believes, but not willing to stand up for what he believes.

George W. Bush: Average intelligence, very willing to stand up for what he believes, unwilling to question what he believes--that's why he was a bad leader, though arguably Limbaugh or Maher could have been worse, due to their deadly combination of razor-sharp intelligence and complete unwillingness to question their own belief systems--as has likely been the case with all tyrants.

What about someone with low intelligence but plenty of both kinds of courage? Ah, there we have the underappreciated "salt of the earth," methinks. The people who don't try to stick out, but rather work hard, watch the news, lend a helping hand where they can, try to have a happy life, and never judge people or try to advance an agenda past what seems prudent. These may be among the happiest folks around.

So who are the saddest folks around? I'd say they're the ones who lack either kind of courage without completely compensating with the other kind. There's the woman who's shut herself up from the big bad world because it frightens her, and in her own home and heart she'll never admit that she might be wrong about some things. There's the man who will never, ever question the rightness of his cause, but can't quite summon the guts to stand up at the town meeting. These, I think, are the angry, sad people of the earth.

The ones who may be the most immediately dangerous to themselves and the people around them--though relatively harmless to society at large--are the ones with less intelligence but plenty of just one kind of courage. Think cults (stand-up courage, but no questioning courage). Think self-haters and mutilators (questioning courage, but no stand-up courage).

Of course, the Super Human would be pretty high in all three metrics, but nobody's perfect. Since I'm the one pointing the fingers and judging people, I'll let you in on my own self-analysis: I figure I used to be more of a Rush Limbaugh/Bill Maher, around my high school and earlier college days, but now am more of a "bong-smoking friend of yours." Not that I smoke bongs. You get the idea.

As a nation, I don't think we're getting dumber. I think we're getting more cowardly--and it sure seems like we're losing the courage to question our beliefs faster than we're losing the courage to stand up for them--although lots of people are losing that one too, probably myself included.

. . .

There. I just had to get all that down somewhere. I don't think anyone reads this anymore, but if you did manage to slog through, and you have an opinion on this, please critique the idea by leaving a comment.

Completely unexpected moment of pride in my country, courtesy of . . wait for it . . . . . . Kobe Bryant.

So you know how we've had some real jerk-cough moments in recent Olympic history, like our sprinters or basketball players basically being arrogant pricks?

Opening ceremonies, Beijing Olympics, a-yesterday. Some candid footage of the athletes mingling in the middle of the stadium, having finished their little march with their respective flags. Kobe and LeBron are mixing it up with some of the Russians (some of whom wanted a picture), and they're about to part ways. It's that kind of sports footage where you can just barely make out a few of the things that they're saying, and you sorta have to read their lips too. And I know for sure that, as they were shaking hands and about to walk away, Kobe Bryant sez: "How do you say 'thank you' [in Russian]?"

Dude's wearing Ralph Lauren, nerdy golf cap and all, making a real effort. And it really looked like all of the other basketball guys were doing the same.

Cut, of course, to Bush looking bored and checking his watch (fer serious).

But still.

I just had a thought:

Maybe it's not the candidates who are slimy and pandering and who will do anything to get elected--at least not at first. Maybe they're actually civil servants who want to do some good as they see it.

And then we ruin them.

Douglas Adams: "Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job."

Who listens to the attack ads? Who actually decides to change their votes based on them? Who actually gives a crap about what Obama likes to drink at breakfast or how silly John McCain looks in that picture where he's hugging George W. Bush? Who hones in on stupid, insipid buzz words like "elitist" and "flip-flopper?" Who cares more about whether they can "relate" to a candidate more than whether or not he/she is a smart, capable leader?

We do. And that's how we make McCain spew forth Karl Rove crap, and we make Obama "shift" his positions ever so slightly and ever so often enough that we forget what it is either of them used to stand for, and all we're left with is how mad we are at the other candidate. We could have had an election between Bob Barr, Ralph Nader, Ron Paul, and maybe Dennis Kucinich. Those guys actually stand for something. But we won't stand for it. We'll believe whatever the TV's tell us, and by our complacency we tell them what to tell us.

I used to have fairly high opinions of both candidates. I'm madder at McCain now because of the base he has to pander to, but overall I've just come back to that old, familiar place of having not much faith in either of them. And at the moment, I'm thinking that it's America's fault.

One great thing about working for Greenpeace: I feel like I can write something honest about working for Greenpeace on a blog and the chances are that they won't kick up a fuss. After all, GP isn't exactly about maintaining the status quo and political correctness, and gettin' arrested is something they're not strangers to.

Speaking of which: Whilst my job has little to nothing to do with the sit-ins or banner-hangings that GP does and which often garner arrests, really respect their line on it. They say that civil disobedience is breaking an unjust law--which GP may do from time to time. But what we do more often is break laws that we think are good, for a purpose. This is why GP activists cooperate and act courteously when the cops show up. We do the things not to get arrested but to call attention to an issue and to achieve a goal that we think outweighs the negatives of being apprehended by the law.

One less-than-nice thing about working for Greenpeace: the imprint the crazy hippies seem to have left on peoples' minds. A few guys with dreads associated with the environmental movement in the 70's act like jerks, and suddenly it's like I've killed your dog. Granted, that's only one or two a-holes per week/month who act like this towards me, but that's all it takes to bring you down sometimes.

Ahem: Greenpeace is just trying to protect the environment, everyone. That's it. I promise. I'm in it now, and I used to be a little wary of it. No, I probably don't agree with everyone at GP about every issue. But I also didn't have to swear an oath of allegiance, unlike the US Peac e Cor ps, where I had to swear to protect the US from "any and all offenders." So please. If you're one that thinks GP is a bunch of crazy eco-terrorists . . . well, stop it. We're not.

***

What chafes me about global warming deniers, on a personal level, is that I'll probably never get a real chance to say "SEE? &%$#*&!%@ SEE?! I TOLD YOU!" Because ignorance always fades slowly. All of Florida could fall into the sea, and the ocean could feel like a hot tub, and people would still find a way, at least at first, to say the globe wasn't heating up. I'm sure it took a long time for people to let the flat-earth theory go. We'll look back in 50 years and realize how dumb it was to claim that global warming was a hoax ("Wow, Grandpa, people actually believed that?") but between now and then it'll be a gradual thing. No amount of Intergovernmental Panels on Climate Change is going to change that fact of human nature.

I'm here getting trained in San Francisco for my new job with them. And they're pretty darned good. As in, pragmatic, reasoned, reasonable, professional. Full of really smart people. Those crazy things they do from time to time? They actually get things done. If you thought they were crazy and ineffectual, it's probably because you weren't he target audience. That's my half-epiphany for now.

Yes, yes, yes, yes:

"The mark of a free man is that ever-gnawing inner uncertainty as to whether or not he is right." -Justice Learned Hand

"Adam, you're too hard on yourself."

-Everybody

"Whatevs, maybe I'm just free."

-Author Unknown

I'm not old, but I can already feel a difference from when I was 18: It gets harder and harder with each year to admit that you're just straight up wrong. You've lived, after all, for XX(X) years and you've learned a thing or two. The problem is, you're never too old to be fulla shit. A few days ago my grandfather (Fox News watcher, has framed pic of GW Bush on his kitchen counter) sort of softly ripped me a new one, in his grandfatherly way, for my recently demonstrated fiscal irresponsibility. And you know? He was right. And you know? It was really, really hard to admit it, even to myself. And I said, "Self, how many times have you been called out on your crap over the last year and NOT admitted to yourself that you were wrong?"

(Answer: 14)

Which is (tangentially) why, if my guy Barack wins the election in November, he's going to get anything but a free pass from this Citizen. (Did'ja see? I reference the new name of my blog.)

I've realized that for me, someone's reaction to this speech is a perfect litmus test of who is worth listening to.

It was the best treatise on race covered by the mainstream media that I've heard in my lifetime. Only a true racist can completely dismiss Wright without seeing the underlying truths in what he was overzealously trying to express. The issue goes so much deeper than any person can even comprehend without a humble, concerted effort to understand why your brother acts the way he does without first judging him for it. If you can't see the value in Obama's speech then you: A) Haven't dealt much with racial problems (which is very plausible/understandable if you're from NW Iowa or Montana), B) You were bound and determined to be against whatever came out of his mouth to begin with, for any number of reasons, or C) You just plain don't want to step outside of yourself for long enough to consider what's really going on between races.

Funny, the people I always suspected weren't worthy of very much respect invariably reacted negatively to the speech, and even ones with whom I disagree but are still cool--they reacted mostly positively.

You don't have to want Obama to be your president. You do have to see that it was a vital, honest speech with real content.

http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/hisownwords

Okay.

Okay.

Alright.

If anyone happens to read this post, you've got to see/read the speech Obama gave today about race. Whether you're a Republican, Libertarian, Greenian, Democrat, or Vanilla Swirl. Take the armor off for a minute and just read/watch the speech.

That's all I have to say.

Except one more thing: I'm not much of a patriot. I think patriotism is more or less "the belief that one country is better than others because you are in it." I think it's one step away from nationalism, and nationalism is how ALL of the big wars get started. I think if we actually want God to bless America more than we want him to bless Iran, we're just wrong, and we're the Romans.

But I love my country, like I love my extended family. And today, I have more hope for her.

Easily the greatest picture I've ever been in. Click on the picture to see it big.

My brain’s been a dorm room since I got back from Malawi. I’m back from Malawi.What do I mean by my clever metaphor? I’m having fun, eating a lot of pizza and watching a lot of TV but in the corner there’s a whole pile of granola bar wrappers and dirty laundry and creased-up papers detailing assignments that I should have done two weeks ago. Now that’s all metaphorical, okay? I have no good reason why, but when I was over there doing whatever it is I was doing, blogging was nice. Nifty. And now, like the last time I did this, I feel like a tool when I type things out. That dorm room thing? Would I have posted that while I was in Malawi? That sounds so bleepin’ stupid. Like a dumb jerk trying to make his everyday life seem tasty and funny and relevant to people in the webosphere. Seriously. Webosphere? I typed that because blogosphere is an overused word and “on the web” would have been too commonplace. So, I haven’t wanted to blog for a long time, again. I’m forcing myself right now. So I decided to come home just a bit early because the GF had some medical issues that were stressing her out just a teensy bit—which is to say, she might have had cancer. So I pulled out a few weeks early and I’m home now. I had one of those invigoratingly hellish last weeks in Malawi where I got a few hours of sleep a night and didn’t remove my shoes for about 4 days trying to get everything done. Everything got done. I found a good home for my kitties, spent all the surplus money from the Zikomo Project on orphans’n’sickpeople’n’schools’n’ that kind of stuff, took some pictures, bought some souvenirs, and left. I almost missed my flight because a friend bought me a drink as we were waiting to leave. I said “sure, one drink can’t hurt.” But the drink was about 14 ounces, 8 of which must have been brandy. And as the plane is boarding, 30 minutes behind schedule, I show up at Customs (not the gate, mind you) going, “Uhh, am I late?” Fortunately they were nice enough to whisk my dumb butt through and I got on the plane. Saw some hippos before leaving. That big yawny thing they do? They really do do it. A lot. Also lots of monkeys, a ton of those antelope-type things with the curly horns like a snake coiled around an invisible branch, and supposedly a green mamba, though I’m suspicious. Are they really supposed to speak in a cockney accent? This one for some reason confused me with a governor of some sort. Polite though. Oh, Hillary (GF) doesn’t have cancer, turns out. Possibly should have mentioned that earlier. *** I finally ate bugs before I left. The ones with the wings that you peel off. Now just listen. I’m not doing the thing where you try to make yourself sound really exotic and cool in saying “Oh, they actually tasted pretty good.” But they actually tasted pretty good. On Colbert the other night a guy came on to pitch his newest book, which is about, among other things, why we should eat bugs (because it’s good for the environment and they’re full of vitamins and stuff). And because of my breathtaking African adVENture, I can actually say he’s got a point and he’s probably right. *** That blog post that Catapult Magazine used? They also put it into a book, apparently. Which is cool. You read it here first, folks. I now technically have original work published in two real books with ISBN’s and everything. In the other original work, however, it’s under the pseudonym Adam Solberg, since they wanted to make me sound Jewish. I’m actually telling you the truth here. *** Can I say that I rather hoped that going to Africa would make me feel better about race relations? And it didn’t, really. I guess it might have made up for an upbringing in a place where between the ages of 0 and 21 I saw like three black people, but I still am so far from really understanding what it’s like to be a black dude on the West side of Chicago. I guess that’s sort of the point (that I’ll never understand), but still. Actually, the best education I get these days is listening to Lupe Fiasco or Talib Kweli (whom I really like) and Ghostface Killah or Wu-Tang Clan (whom I like too but can’t honestly say I can quite make the bridge over into my own experience when it comes to the lyrical venom (hate?) and guns and bravado.) Then again, I didn’t grow up under the long legacy of slavery and the injustice that seems to show up when the Haves think they deserve what they’ve got and that the Have-nots are just lazy and stupid. You say you worked your way up the ladder? Well, if you’d started where they did, down in the muck, I’d give you your props. But do you even realize that you started three quarters of the way up? Yes it’s all very fascinating. Hi everybody.

I've been watching the polls for the 2008 Presidential Nomination. Way too much. I know polls are mostly crap and are a civic-minded person's version of Us Magazine, but it's my vice that keeps me a little connected with America.

While the opinions they are a'flying this season, I have to add mine to the stack. I think the following people are actually decent people: Edwards, McCain, Obama, and most of the candidates who aren't getting any support, like Kucinich. And I believe that Obama has a chance of doing some real good.

A recent poll (of 1 household, one person who is Adam) showed the following numbers:

Obama: 72%

Edwards: 21%

McCain: 14%

Clinton: 2%

Huckabee: 0%

Giuliani: 0%

Romney: -9%

I kind of wish you could cast a negative ballot. For example, if the election race ended up being between Clinton and Romney, I'd love to be able to just tick a box that said "NOT MITT ROMNEY" and have it cancel out someone else's vote in favor of him. That'd be sweet.

Got some lice. Apparently they’re not the kind that live in your hair (I don’t have any in my hair), but the kind that live in your clothes (I have some in my clothes) and bedding (I have a lice refugee camp in my blanket). When I find one, I squeeze it until it pops and my own blood oozes out. I go, “Give me that back you little turd.” He goes “. . .” I wipe off my fingers on my pant leg. Apparently I’ve got to boil my clothes and Raid the crap out of my house. A tiny part of me was hoping that all of the itching was some kind of witch doctor hex that would require some formation of rocks, hair and teeth around my house, coupled with some kind of lizard tea, for eradication. But no, just lice. I was on my way into the hospital to ask them why I was scratching my skin off uncontrollably, when fortunately I was accosted by some friends. They told me, “Hospital? What for? You’ve got lice, dude!” I laughed and did a little dance. See, my insurance doesn’t cover skin diseases, and I was petrified that I had some kind of weird skin disease that would require special care and big doctor bills. So lice were a welcome relief. Even though the whole thing is pretty gross. *** Lately I’ve been learning about agriculture. Soil degradation, fertilizer, that kind of stuff. I’m trying to get people in the village to try some sustainable methods of farming. It’s pretty awful to see a village in Africa where one of the few products of technology that have become ubiquitous—chemical fertilizer—is also one that hurts the land. I mean, of all of the advances of modern science that could have come along, of course the one that is more harmful than helpful is the one that everyone’s using. See, you can grow more maize (pretty much the only thing anyone grows around here) with the chemical fertilizer, which means more money to feed your family. Problem is, next year the soil’s going to be worse, and a lot of the land is now at the point where it can’t produce anything without the fertilizer. This sucks, because the land in Malawi that’s been left alone is incredibly rich and fertile. There are a number of people working against this trend, but another problem with third world development is that it’s like pulling teeth to get the average person to try anything other than what they were taught to do. It’s painfully ironic that people are at the point where they’ve actually been taught to use chemical fertilizer, that it’s now part of indigenous village life, but there you are. I’ve only got a month and a half left here, but in that time I’m going to at least try to get a few of the people I know out in the village to try a few new strategies with a field or two. With a lot of luck, it’ll work in the “test field” and they’ll want to do it all over their land. Then the rest of the village will see it and put it into practice themselves. Right. Well, there’s always a chance. Just have to plant the seed. I’ve also been working on building a good stove out of bricks and clay that will efficiently burn wood and produce less smoke. Unfortunately, that project suffers from the same problem. The women say, “We’ve been using a couple of bricks around a campfire-style oven all our lives. Why should we use this weird-lookin’ thing?” I usually reach for a chicken and bite its head off, to show my disgruntlement. They go, “Hey, we’re running out of chickens. You’ve got to curb that shit.” I go, “Sorry. It was either the chicken or my own elbow. The chicken was lookin’ at me weird too.” “He was not.” “Yes he was.” “No he wasn’t.” “Well, he did the other day.” “No he didn’t.” “He did too.” “No, no he didn’t.” “Okay fine he didn’t. Leave me alone.” *** Latest illusion of which I have been disabused: That going overseas and working in development does more relevant good for the planet. It doesn’t. In fact, this little trip has made me much more sensitive to my duties back in the states, and made me realize the interconnectedness of “development” in the first world and the third world. While there are a billion reasons why cultural engagement is just as important at home as abroad, I present three: 1) Systems affect systems. The more just the U.S. is, the more justly it will treat other nations. Maybe if we were nicer/smarter/humbler as a nation, our aid programs would kick ass, our economic policies would be compassionate, and we wouldn’t drop so many bombs and deny/overthrow so many democratically-elected governments. Educating our fellow countrymen (where we have knowledge and expertise to do so) and getting involved in local governance, as boring as it may seem to us youngsters bent on world-changing, is of course what grownups do. 2) It’s easier to affect what you know. While it’s sexy and adventurous to go to Africa, the fact is that I’m not African and the myriad cultural differences mean that it takes a long time to understand the culture enough to be able to effect change that’s sustainable and correctly principled. Anyone who tells you otherwise is stupid. If I’d put in the time and energy doing what I’m doing here to doing similar things in the States (and, of course, been able to convince people to give me money to do it), I’d probably have been able to do things at least as good if not better. 3) The environment is the environment. Since we pretty much spit out a quarter of the world’s pollution, and that actually produces ill effects in places like Bangladesh and East Africa (see: Typhoon(s), Record Flooding/Drought), seems pretty logical that fighting against pollution in the U.S. must be pretty important. Feel disillusioned about making a difference in the States? It’s just as hard and frustrating anywhere. See my previous rant about disillusionment. Yeah. Them’s my two cents. Again. Aaaaand scene. *** Yes I know I blog about my opinions and my diseases and little else. I am aware of that.

Hi blog. I got Malaria—finally. I was starting to get exasperated at my inability to catch any of the really cool diseases. First off, I have another installment into the “Africa for Regaling Guests at Cocktail Parties—Like a Douche Bag” handbook: Ha! You know you’ve been in Africa for awhile when all of the following happen and none of them surprise you: 1) You get Malaria (and go to the hospital).

2) At the hospital, the floor is strewn with large, moth-like flies, floundering around like as many fish in the bottom of a boat. Well, flying fish. 3) You go, “Doesn’t inspire much confidence, does it?” and the nearest woman with good English replies, “When they get big enough we eat them.” Ha! So as I was saying, everyone must visit Africa. And read The New Yorker or something. End of excerpt. Apparently the bugs you fry up with just oil and a little salt. I’ll let you know. Anyway. Got malaria out of the way. It wasn’t that bad, really, because I was on prophylaxis—which doesn’t prevent malaria, but kind of smushes it a bit when/if you do catch it. Malaria here is more like the flu: Everyone seems to get it from time to time—you take a few days off of work, get some medicine, and then you get better and go back to work. It’s not as big a deal as it probably seems. Yeah, people occasionally die from it, but that’s almost always very small children, old people, or people with HIV/AIDS. *** Oh, some friends from college who do an online magazine for people who like both God and social responsibility (though if you ask me, those don’t mix) saw my blog post about cynicism where I talked about Dreamingers and asked me to tinker with it a bit to make it into an article. So it’s at www.catapultmagazine.com. It’s a biweekly e-magazine, and the current issue will be gone by this coming Friday. A goodly amount of you people who peruse this blog already know about Catapult, but if y’don’t it’s worth a look. *** I’m going on record now as saying Permaculture is the future of Planet Earth. (Google is your friend.) As the planet gets hotter and our unsustainable practices piss off Mother Nature enough that she really does something to get back at us, and we actually get it through our heads that we simply can’t keep living like we have, I predict 1) Massive population control efforts—cuz after all, if we’re honest, none of these things would be a concern if there weren’t so danged many of us doing the same danged things—and 2) Permaculture as a way of living for almost everyone. Personally, I want to be able to tell my grandkids I was on that wagon long before the band. ‘Cuz yeah—it’s getting pretty crazy. I mean, we’ve already obliterated so much forest worldwide, caused so many species to become extinct, and generally mucked things up to such a degree that it seems we’re kind of on a collision course with some sort of cataclysm, doesn’t it? I mean seriously. I don’t mean in a doom-and-gloom sort of way, but really quite seriously. I don’t think it’s even possible, what with people so doped up on all their frivolous technology and consumption habits, that we’ll change in time to avert major disaster. I feel kind of bad, because I’m pretty sure that as a privileged, educated Westerner, I’ll be fortunate enough to escape most of the consequences, but do I deserve to?*** Better tell you this: John is my neighbor. He’s cool—really, really awful teeth though. His family’s originally from Zimbabwe (which is somewhat more developed than Malawi); they came here a little over twenty years ago and now hardly anyone even remembers that they’re not Malawian. The men of his family were meeting to decide what to do about their niece. Her husband’s away in South Africa working. He’d been there in the past too but was fired after stealing from his boss. She just started working as a maid for a richer man affiliated with one of the political parties here. Aaand, here it is: she was raped by this guy. At the moment, she was at large—she’d fled and they couldn’t find her. They’d sent the smaller children on various missions to go out and look, but at the moment they couldn’t find her. As you might expect, the chances of the political operative seeing justice is slim to slimmer to none. As I write this, they still haven’t found her, at least to my knowledge.

I am not cynical. People are generally more bad than good. Most Western aid to Africa doesn’t work and some of it does more harm than good. The human race does not, in general, move forward. We are no less barbaric than we were four thousand years ago. The situation of the poor here in Malawi is not going to get better for a long time. I am not cynical. I don’t think telling the truth is ever cynical. There are two kinds of dreamers. Those who have a dream (Dreamers) and those who dream as a way of life (Dreamingers). I’m trying to be the former, and I’ll never be the latter. I’m tired of Dreamingers. I’m tired of being called a pessimist by people who’d rather fantasize about tomorrow’s reality than start building the bridge from today’s. I’m sarcastic. I chuckle about gross injustices when there’s nothing I can do about them (which is precisely the reason I usually don’t chuckle about American politics). Not everyone needs to be sarcastic; it’s my way of coping. What makes me mad is that no one seems to see that big brick wall called disillusionment coming. Some people hit it and become truly disillusioned—they sink like Peter trying to walk on water. That’s when you’re cynical. When you’re no longer looking out for the good. Others do what drives me nuts: It’s like disillusionment is an ugly pink eviction notice and they slip it into the bookshelf and hope it blends in with the other printed material. They learn to ignore it. They buy the groceries, read the funny pages, raise the kids. They forget about that awfulness they caught a glimpse of once upon a time. It’s always there, but if you talk about the kind of new blender you want to buy and the rising prices of cable TV for long enough and with enough people who think likewise, it can start to feel like maybe these are really the things that matter. Still others live in a fantasy world, constructed by their egos or religion or just plain naïvette. Dreamingers. If you come to Africa with both guns blazing, spraying money every which way, starting new projects that aren’t anchored by years of training and/or experience, having seen firsthand the cornucopia of SHIT that comes along with poverty and injustice, AND acknowledged it to be such, you’re a Dreaminger. I could give at least ten pages of examples of such shit without stopping. If you’ve read my blog much over the last year or two, you have a hint of what I mean, and you certainly don’t have to go to Africa to experience it. I’m not saying I’ve found the perfect way to scale that wall of disillusionment and I’m not saying I’ve got the perfect dream. I’m just saying that any attempt at redemption needs to have a working relationship with the suffering and misery it’s trying to overcome. Don’t get disillusioned, get even. Dig a foundation of determination that runs deeper than the disillusionment—you’ll probably get really dirty and you’ll have to make several trips back to the hole to make it deeper before you can set the forms and pour the cement. But do it anyway. I am not cynical.*** Three days ago. Seven new “conversations”, entailing at least twelve new messages, all about the New Jerusalem Food Farm. Gmail doesn’t archive e-mails one-by-one, but sorts everything by conversation. So when I realized that about a dozen people had responded to my seven Zikomo Project requests (spread out over four conversations). It was another very good day. I find that here in Malawi people don’t express joy quite the same as I do—that is to say, like a drunken college student at a football game. So I don’t really do that round here. Hence, instead of letting my jubilation explode like fireworks, I had to settle for setting off a few Ground Bloom Flowers inside my torso. (You know the ones. They’re pink, the shape and size of an AA battery, and they hop and spin like a top when you light them.) I just sort of wriggled and giggled like an autistic schoolgirl. But it was still nice. For some reason people really seem to like the Zikomo Project. It’s been pleasantly surprising, actually. *** Okay, I promise not to go on long about this. Last polls I had time to read say Hillary’s going to win the Democratic primary. Un-%#!$#*!-believable. We are offered Barack Obama and we prefer Hillary Clinton. What is wrong with us? Are these primary votes being bought like bananas at the supermarket or are we really that blind? Hey, I hear she just voted to identify the Iranian army as a terrorist entity. Nice. Hey America! Let’s replace our awful, nepotistic, warlike, entrenched-politician administration with another nepotistic, warlike, entrenched-politician administration! Just what we need! Please someone tell me that I’m wrong about the polls. I don’t want to have another lesser-of-two-evils choice this election. If she wins (or if anyone else wins, for that matter) and we invade Iran, I’m going to D.C. to join the other protesters. *** You know my visa problems from the last post? They really brought me down. I felt tense all the time and it wore on me. I felt very sorry for myself. During the weeks when this was happening, 3 occasions come to mind: 1) Job, a kid of 21 who wants to be an actor and was “working” (only paid occasionally, when money was available) with the Umodzi Drama Group, a little troupe that tries to scratch out a living in a culture-starved place with little hunger for theatre. He just helped wherever he could, writing, acting, running errands, whatever. Good-looking and America-philic, he was awaiting the outcome of his application to university so he could go on with his education. If he was very, very lucky, he might be able to go to school for acting. If less lucky, he could just get a degree in something else and do theatre on the side. Unfortunately, he turned out to be unlucky, and he was turned down flat. His parents are dead and he lives with his uncle, who won’t suffer his nephew to do theatre, only to work hard for a living. Now Job can hardly even do that. And why was he turned down? Because the year he passed his high-school diploma exams, there was massive cheating and results fraud, and most employers and colleges refuse to recognize any results from that year. Hence, Job had to stop working with the theatre and literally return to high school in order to pass his exams again. Before this happened Job had been a friend and I like him a lot. I haven’t seen Job for almost two months now. 2) I had a long conversation with the teachers at one of the orphanages where I volunteer. They were frustrated with the Board (which is driven along mostly by foreigners), because it was investing all of its time and money into developing a new facility for the orphanage, but paying little attention to the dire needs of the present: Over 300 kids have one dirty outhouse in which to urinate and defecate. There are regular food shortages. And most dire for the teachers, they spend 7-8 hours a day at the orphanage and get paid nothing. Some have families to support and it’s almost impossible to volunteer so much time when you really ought to be out trying to hustle up enough money to buy nsima and maybe some beans for your family to eat. A few have no income and one earns about $2 a week selling eggs. They complain to me and ask why the board won’t help them—after all, most board members drive cars and live in houses with walls, guards, and a gardener. I try to explain but it’s not good enough and I myself don’t agree with the board either. They feel more and more hopeless, after being promised a salary but not receiving it. Meanwhile the Board almost never even visits the orphanage and rarely listens long enough to take in the advice from Steven, the Malawian who tries to hold everything together. I have nothing I can tell them that will help. (Later on through the kindness of a few Missourians, I was able to give the teachers one month of salary as a sort of stopgap, but that money was spent mostly on food and was gone quickly.) 3) “Old man veggie,” a guy who comes to the office of McKallie’s Home of Future and Hope selling vegetables, charges too much. He wants almost double what a person could get at the market for the vegetables, and since I bought from him once, since then he always walks in, stooped and slow, looking at me with those big eyes and expecting me to buy something. He overcharges because for a long time he sold most of his veggies to white people who didn’t know a fair price and were happy to pay the “cute” old man whatever he asked. He got used to it, and sometimes even looks at me like I’m not being fair if I don’t buy from him. His family lives in Zomba and when he has enough money, he goes to visit them. One day when it was raining he came in and told me he couldn’t visit his family that weekend because he’d not sold anything today on account of the rain. I’d once before responded to a similar complaint from him by paying him 500 kwacha for about 120 kwacha’s worth of vegetables and telling him to go and see his family. This time I bought 50 kwacha of broccoli and told him that was all for today. He sort of thanked me and clearly told me through his eyes that I should have bought more.I think that covers it. Those three things. It’s the poverty. Not like our world would be perfect if there was no poverty, but I don’t think people who’ve grown up well-fed, clothed, and educated often realize what poverty systematically does. Without poverty, racism would be a largely moot point. Without poverty, we wouldn’t have anything close to the present rates of robbery (armed or otherwise) or even murder. Without poverty who could see any of the wars in recent history even being imagined? And this is just scratching the surface. Poverty touches everything. Massive deforestation in Malawi, for example: People can’t afford to give up the living they earn from the charcoal industry, a terribly wasteful one that indiscriminately burns down forests for the charcoal they can get and then sell in the markets. The people are also not educated about the effects their actions have on the environment, because—surprise surprise—the schools are poorly funded and the level of education is dismal.Let’s not go too far—We’ll always have poverty because we’ll always have lazy, indolent people. But anyone who names this as the principle reason for widespread, infectious poverty is ignoring, um, HISTORY. If we really decided to get down to it and beat poverty back with a big fat bloody cricket bat, we’d really be getting somewhere. *** So whatever happened to funny, short posts, huh? Funny . . . let’s see . . . I dunno. I find that funny. Am I twelve?

As for short . . when was the last time I did anything that could be described as “concise” or “economical?” You should have realized this by now.

Okay then. About 6 weeks ago, I went in to the Immigration Office to get an extension on my visa. See, I bought a one-year multiple-entry visa before I left the States, like a responsible traveler--or so I thought--but was told when I entered the country that it was worthless because Americans don't need visas and if I want to stay longer than a month I need to have them stamp it every month. Great. Well, at the end of the first month, they stamped it for another two months, saying "After these two months, come and get a six-month stamp. It costs $40." After those two months, I came and they said, "Fill out this stuff for your Temporary Residence Permit (TRP)." I fill out stuff and submit it a few days later. A few hours after I'd submitted it, it comes back with "Rejected" written on it, and a signature. I go, "What?" and the guy goes, "I dunno." I go, "Well, what the heck to I do now?" "Umm, I'll get you a meeting with the Deputy Chief, who rejected your app." Okay. Now that meeting is scheduled for FIVE DAYS later, for goodness knows what reason. I meet the guy to ask about the rejection, and it turns out he's a complete anus of a human being. He won't listen to a word I say and insists that, though I have all the necessary documents AND my Program Manager, George, in tow to back me up, what I'm doing is WORK. Of course it's not, since I receive zero pay, but he's having none of it for some reason. He tells me that I need to leave the country. Now. The conjecture, in hindsight, is that A) He was looking for a bribe, B) He's just generally the contents of a transverse colon. Either one could be true, probably both. Anyway, we go straight from his office to the office of Trouble, the lawyer for the orphanage I came with. By this point, because of various delays (like the 5-day wait for the meeting) my visa has been expired for over a week. I'm getting stressed. To Trouble I say, "So, do I high-tail it for Mozambique and then come back a day later (effectively resetting the free 90-days you get when entering the country)?" He says, "Well, you could do that, but talk to my friend, who works with this kind of thing." Two days later, I meet the man, Richard, who at first says, "Okay, if you pay me a lot (like $1000), I can guarantee that I'll get you a Temporary EMPLOYMENT Permit (TEP)." We were talking in the back of a car, all sneaky-like, and he informs me in so many words that it's pretty much a back-door outfit. They bribe people. I say, "No, that's not for me." He says, "Well, since you're a friend (of Trouble's), I can just submit the application for the TEP for you, the regular way, tomorrow (so the Deputy Chief doesn't see you and make a fuss). Then, I'll give you the receipt for the submission. It takes them at least two months to decide each case. During those two months (and it will likely be more, since delays happen often), as long as you have that receipt, you're legal.” I say, fine. Thank you. I scramble to get the documents together, making expensive calls to home and bugging Dordt College for my transcripts. It all comes together and I give Richard the application and all the supporting documents, along with the application fee of about $27. I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking okay. Now if he just submits the stuff I'm legal again and I'll figure out what to do after the two months. (If they actually grant the permit, you have to pay another $450, which I can't afford, but my plan is just to get the two months indemnity while they decide my case, then leave the country for a day and come back when those two months are up. They probably wouldn't decide in my favor on the work permit anyway, since the orphanage isn't fully registered as an NGO yet.) AND THEN, for about four weeks, there was an almost daily ritual: Me calling Richard to ask him for the receipt, and him either telling me he was about to submit it or he was in the process of submitting it. And every “next day” it hadn’t been done. Four weeks this went on, each assurance more persuasive than the last, and me going more and more crazy each time it turns out to be a lie. Now, Malawian society in general has a tendency not to be very good about follow-through. If you say you'll meet someone, you mean Maybe. If you say you'll do something, but don't want to do it, you never tell them that you don't want to do it. You just say you will but then don't. But this goes way beyond that. This guy knows that I'm hooped without that receipt, more and more illegal each day he delays. After about the third week it was clear he’s had no intention of helping. Once a week or so I call Trouble the lawyer, who had recommended Richard as a friend, and ask him to prod his buddy, who was as the weeks went on answering my calls less and less. Trouble invariably says "Okay, I'll call him and get back to you." Naturally, he never gets back to me. By the end of four weeks, it's clear that this isn't just a case of Malawian laxity. Something's seriously rotten in Denmark. To confirm this, at one point on the phone Richard claims to be away on business refers me to his wife, Yasmine, whom he's allegedly told where the receipt lies within his house, so she can look for it and give it to me. She tells me to meet her at her school at 4:30. I go to the school at that time and call her. She says she's already gone home and can't find the receipt. I should call back when Richard returns. I call her the next day and she actually hangs up on me and turns off her phone. A week later Richard does the same, and I officially cannot get a hold of him or Trouble at all. It's clear someone's got my money and isn't giving it back or helping me with my visa problems. I can't go to Immigration to complain about this guy, since the Deputy Chief told me to leave and he's biological fertilizer anyway. So it's time to get serious. I talk to two other lawyers, who both tell me that Richard is probably looking for me to give him a load of money--you know, cuz I'm white--and Trouble might not be helping because he's expecting legal fees. But who knows? I talk to a friend who offers to pull some strings to have Richard investigated. I say let's hold off for now, but hold that thought. I call the US Embassy, which begins, slowly, to make some calls. I call my girl and family at home, saying, "I'm in deep in this, please call a few Senators." My Dad and girlfriend do so. Another friend knows the wife of the Chief of Immigration (not Deputy Chief), so he tries to go through her toto put in a good word for me. George, the program manager, tries to get a hold of Trouble, and he gets through. Trouble once again pledges to talk to Richard, and once again we don't hear from him. I give Trouble a piece of my mind, via text message, since he won't answer my calls. Trouble acts offended, for some reason, though I'm assured by scores of Malawians in my corner that he's the one who's at fault here, and possibly not throwing straight dice. George goes back to Immigration and, through a series of about seven visits, gets us an appointment with the Chief of Immigration, who's the head of the whole department and outranks the Deputy Chief who moonlights as a wad of used toilet paper. It's hard to get an appointment with him, but we manage to do it and without the Deputy getting wind of it. We also prepare a completely new TRP and enlist the help of Steven, the Director of the other orphanage I volunteer with. On the morning of the meeting, the Embassy guy has agreed to call ahead and put in a good word for us. I don't know if the messages from the Senators' offices have gotten through yet, but I'd breathe easier knowing that the Chief, prior to the meeting, got a call from the US Embassy saying that there were Senators stateside who were interested in this case, and I was a good guy and everything and please help. An hour before the meeting, the Embassy calls and says the Chief is out for the day. What? Oh. So, I figure there's no rush; we'll have to meet him another day. I'm with Steven at this point, and it's about 8:00 (the meeting's at 9). We're getting a last-minute letter from the other orphanage ready for supporting documents for our meeting with the Chief. I tell George at about 8:45 to go to Immigration ahead of us and make a new appointment since the Chief is out. George calls back somewhat frantically at 8:50. He says that the Chief is in and we need to scurry to the meeting. I run out of the building I'm in towards the Immigration office, calling the Embassy while I'm at it. "HEY! What's up with you guys!? The Chief is too in his office, so call him!" I grab Steven and we hustle to make it to the meeting. WE show up about five minutes late and are told to wait outside his office. (I've since cut my hair and shaved my beard so the Deputy won't recognize me--oh, did I mention his office is adjacent to the Chief's?). We wait ten minutes, then twenty. At exactly 9:24, the secretary's phone rings. She patches it through to the Chief on the other side of the door: "US Embassy for you, sir." I look at George. He looks at me. Do I dare feel relieved? Five minutes later, we're called in. We have the meeting, and I plead my case. The Chief seems interested in Richard. He says they've had problems with him before. He tells me to give my statement to the investigations officer. And what about my status? He reviews my documents and says, "Well, I talked with a man from the Embassy who asked me to look favorably on your case. He also said some people from the USA had called as well. On the strength of that . .” And he stamped it, approved. Whew. Chief also says Why the heck do you have this guy Trouble as your lawyer, when he associated you with a crook and helped your situation zilch? I say why indeed. I'm not the one who makes those decisions, though. Anyway, I gave my statement to the investigation officer, who also sends me to the police station to give my statement. The next day, I get a call from Richard (!) I don't answer it but ask the cops what I should do if he calls again. They say I should set up a meeting with him so they can catch him. Two minutes later, I call the crook. Richard tells me he's already been arrested and posted bail. So nice that the cops know WHEN THEY'VE MADE AN ARREST. Anyway, they say I should meet him at the station the following Monday. He wants to give the money back, and have me drop the charges. Apparently he's a suspect in some other cases too. At the meeting with him, George, and the detective, Richard claims he was trying to help, but only a sucker is going to fall for that again. I’ve been a sucker, certainly, but at this particular point I’m not one. Hence, the case is still under investigation and is probably going to trial soon. Either that or I’ll get my $27 back and let the other cases Richard is a suspect in catch up with him. As for Trouble the lawyer, I’ve recommended to the orphanage director, Tracy, that he be terminated as its attorney. She hasn’t responded one way or the other.

I told you it was long. And that’s the shortest way I can tell it without leaving out any pertinent details. The unabridged version is at least twice as long.

So yeah. Hence the blogging hiatus. I was a bit disturbed for some time, and everything was suspended. I’m still recovering, to be honest. It took a big toll. It made me a little meaner and less energetic (hopefully temporarily). Feeling like your very presence in a country is to try and help, yet feeling betrayed on all sides and like somehow the country is going to spit you out . . . well, just try it and you’ll see what I mean. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

***

I want to go off for a minute on two things, because the typical level of conversation I get here is something like, "So. You're riding a bike." "Yes. You're carrying a bucket!" "Yes boss." "Sweet."

1) Denying global warming is noisome. It's one thing if you're a scientist/climatologist and you want to make a point about how maybe we don't know exactly how/when/why human activity is affecting the climate. But when the scientists from all over the world (the United Nations IPCC) gathered to say it's 90% sure that the planet's warming way faster than ever and humans are causing it, it's not just another contention or another report from someone with an agenda. You're now just blocking out what you don't want to hear if you're still holding out. It's like seeing someone who has a fever throw up in front of you. The "alarmists" are saying, "He's got the flu!" and the skeptics are saying, "Let's not jump to conclusions!" The planet's throwing up and it's got a fever. Can we at least agree it's sick (or at least sick of our pollution) and get moving on solving the problem? Let's not wait until it breaks out in a cold sweat and gets hallucinations. Wasn't it obvious from the first time that, as a child, we saw that acrid black smoke coming out of a tailpipe or smokestack or visited the local landfill that some things just can't be good for living things on Earth?

2) Barack Obama is in my opinion the best option we've had for a President in my lifetime. Don't give me this about Obama not having enough experience--we need a good man who can inspire and unite us, not another entrenched politician. After all, look at what happened to John Kerry after all of his "experience." Obama won't "save us" from the mess we're in or turn the whole system around. But for once can we show a little courage with our ballot? If you're still on the fence about candidates, do your own research and look at who a candidate was before all of the election crap started. Hillary Clinton's seemed a rather disingenuous, deeply politicized figure for as long as I can remember. Nowadays she seems warmer, but I don't buy it. Barack Obama was inspiring to me long before any of this election stuff started. If you're a Christian and the religion of your President is a big deal to you, take a look for yourself at Obama's faith. He's got better ideas about faith and governance than any US politician I've ever heard--ever. Mitt Romney was adamant in his support of Bush long before the election stuff started. Now that pretty much the entire educated world hates Bush (except for 1/3 of America) and almost everyone around him has resigned in shame, he's not so buddy-buddy. I don't buy it. Based on the good committees he's spearheaded and his willingness to go his own way if he thinks it's right, I'd be a John McCain fan if it weren't for the fact that he seems to support war in general. Call me crazy, I think war ought to be a truly last resort. But I digress. Bottom line: Don't believe anything you see in the TV ads or in your favorite newspaper. Find out who they were before the campaign began. That's who they'll be after it's all over.

Sorry. Just had to get those off my chest.

***

Nyambadwe Cup Championship Football match. Someone had gotten wind that I haunt the area and invited me. I got a seat under a canopy next to the band and alongside the President of the Football Association of Malawi and the rich guy who sponsored the tournament. Complete with free snacks and everything. Yet another wedding-cake-ornament experience--those are never in short supply when you're a white guy in Malawi. Anyway, a goal gets scored. INSTANTLY there are about a thousand people flooding onto the field. Is the game over? No. Do the referees mind? Neaux. Are people running around like chickens, rolling in the dirt (the football pitch is, of course, grass-free), throwing dirt into the air, and yelling crazily? No. I mean yes. Yes. Very much so. Fantastic. I wish we could do that in the USA.

Game wasn't much. The Spring Marshals beat the Old Slashers 1 - 0, on an anticlimactic free kick that just made it over the defense line and trickled in. The goalie's view was blocked so he didn't get to it. The Old Slashers played better football but squandered several good chances.

When you have diarhhea really bad, you'll be laying there in bed or sitting or walking, and a mass of foulness somewhere near the end of your small intestine will say, "Well, we're leaving. Now. You have 15 seconds." Now, of course mother nature gave us all a doorman to help too many guests from leaving without one's making ample preparations for their reception outside the house. And I have a strong doorman, experienced and hardy. But for these particular guests, he has to call in favors from other muscles around the entire campus. So yes, if I can't make it to the crapper on time, you'll see me leaning against a tree or what-have-you, one leg bent, my face red, and muscles from the arches of my feet to the front of my torso to the back of my neck joining the struggle.

So then I make it to the toilet, after the mass has been turned back, broken some furniture and gone back for more reinforcements. I have been provided with a hole the size of an orange in which to deposit my guests. And when the blast radius is closer to the size of a smallish frisbee, so that even when I grab onto something and attempt to lower my ass closer to the dirt, let's just say that unlike Elvis Costello, my aim is RARELY true. After all, it's not as if I'm dealing with a high-precision instrument.

On their way out, they leave comments: "The DJ stinks, the CD's keep skipping, those assholes from Pasadena are drunk and making a mess, and you're out of fiber." I say, "Right. Thanks." They smash their beer bottles on the ground as the one in front goes, "Taxi!"

***

As you may have deduced, I've moved out to the village. I sleep on my thermarest on the ground under a net, I cook over coals, I walk about 45 minutes to the nearest market, I draw my water from a well, I listen to my short-wave radio and burn a lot of candles at night. Not really a big deal. Like I said back in the Bangladesh days, these things take a few days to get used to. They're not the hard things--they're the romantic things.

***

Biglongthing: My visa. They're giving me trouble with the next phase of it: The temporary residence permit. After the first 90 days you need one. For some inexplicable reason, my application's been rejected. So I've been calling in favors from friends of friends (the third-world way of getting stuff done when you need to make everyone play nicely). Peter says that when I meet with one of the contacts, I'll need to provide something, a token to make sure they know I appreciate what they're doing for me, and to make them more amicable towards me and my situation. He suggests a bottle of Fanta.

and I laughed.

Listening to The Album Leaf (soft, electronic ballad-type music) last night, I noticed that the clock on the wall was ticking exactly on the beat. You know how that happens sometimes. And you hope it’ll stay perfectly in synch, but it never does. But it did. This time it did. For someone who has compulsions like guessing how many steps it’ll take to get from the edge of the market to my front door and then counting (I guessed 1441 but it was only 1123--bad guess. I do this all the time.), the clock thing is a momentous occurrence. It stayed exactly on the beat for the entire song. It felt like a cross between being on The Twilight Zone and winning a billion dollars. Y’know. Like that. They must have had the metronome set to 60. (Is that right? Any music nerds ever read this? Erika just left a comment, so I know you’re out there.)

***

How to get on TV in Malawi:

1) Go to the TV station.

2) Put your name and reason in the log book under the day you want it.

3) Show up with transportation on that day at the assigned time.

You get a reporter, cameraman, and camera, and a spot on the evening news.

(The orphanage is getting some donated stuff from some big people from rich stores. The big people wanted media coverage for advertising, to make it worth their while. We complied. Big day is Friday. I’m torn between a John 3:16 sign, “Hi Mom!” and just making rabbit ears behind Steven.)

***

This is so “Africa for Regaling Guests at Cocktail Parties, Like a Douche Bag” that I almost don’t want to relate it, but I am part douche bag on my father’s side and it’s cool anyway, so: 3 guys, one very African xylophone. Crappy chunks of wood for keys (keys? tiles?), improvised mallets using tire rubber, dried out pumpkin shells with tops cut off seated below the keys, each sized according to the size of the key, and all of this tied together with old rope and twine. About 7 feet in length. 6 hands moving all over like Woody Woodpecker obliterating a tree trunk. Sounds fantastic. Guy #4 shakes the rhythm with two old aerosol cans on sticks and filled with something like rice, and, as expected a crowd has gathered. Oh, and the guy playing the bass notes is blind, for Pete’s sake. My presence has created a small bubble in the crowd as everyone always gives me a wide berth, which suits me fine. Half the people watch me rather than the musicians, but this is old news and I’m used to it. They’re playing a song akin to “Tequila” in that there’s a part in the song where the music cuts out and everyone gets to sing, “Aliyabwerera!” It takes me several passes to hear it correctly, and venture to say it along with everyone else. Naturally, since being in Malawi is like being under surveillance, from the second I start trying the word people are noticing. When I finally give it a shot, there’s this explosion of pure glee from the crowd. See, they love it when you just try something that’s “theirs.” They friggin’ love it. And Malawians in particular, they just laugh a lot. Doesn’t matter what the conversation topic is. I mean it. If it’s two people talking there will be laughter involved. [insert cannily absurd conversation about people dying or wanting to kill each other] I’ve seen kids at the orphanage trying to beat the crap out of one another and then smiling and giggling seconds later. After the song’s over, a few people throw in some bills, one of the guys hoists the xylophone onto his head, another stuffs the mallets and shakers into a sack, and another leads the blind guy by the hand, and they’re out. Got a gig in Tucson tomorrow and then a long drive to Santa Fe.

***

Long Distance Relationship. Sigh. You again. I am, quite regrettably, an bit of a professional at it, mainly from messing it up several times. This time is very different, of course, since I’m really quite committed to this particular girl, but a lot of the same pitfalls are just waiting. I keep some light reading down there and a snack or two since I spend so much time in them. Okay really though. There are special pitfalls for wordy, somewhat obsessive people, such as myself and my love. D’ya wanna hear about one? It’s called e-mail. When you get one e-mail per week, and if there’s something nasty or negative that can be drawn from it, all of the other good things will slowly fade and the negative thing will grow as you water it with your thoughts and turn it towards the sun . . of . . . . your . . . . . . . . . I’m out of metaphors. Point is, if that’s the only thing you have from the other person for seven whole days, it’s like you’re having a fight that lasts a week. Naturally, they didn’t mean it like you took it, or at least not like you took it and ran with it.

And words that were meant to be transitory, if taken to heart as gospel, can rip ya up. It’s a bit like, while living overseas and learning the language, getting a translation of a word, and then starting to use the word. For example, “tuma” means send. But it only means send in the sense that you send a person to go do a task. If you try to “tuma” a letter with the people at the post office, you’ll get blank stares. Then maybe you’ll get angry at the postal employees for not “sending” your letter. You’ll snatch the letter back and stomp home, your progress towards getting that grant completely halted, your dander considerably up, and the poor employees shaking their heads and confirming that yes, foreigners are crazy, irate, and unreasonable people. And all because of one badly translated word that you tried to use. I recently transgressed in such a way, causing her almost as much confusion and worry as I caused myself. Time and space between people just have a way of stealing communication and making you want to blame the other person for things. You ache for her and instead you get clumsy and too-malleable words (Your words are eloquent, Hill. I mean words in general). But I’m ready for this challenge. I’m going to learn as I go, give the benefit of the doubt, and swallow my pride as many times as it takes. I’m going on record as saying that I’m gonna do good this time. It’s time to love like a man, not a boy. Bring it on, Distance. Come on, bitch, let’s dance.

It took awhile, but it’s finally begun: The Zikomo Project.

Here’s how it goes:

1) I meet a person or local organization (here in Malawi, Africa) and interact with them, in everyday settings.

2) I learn of a material need they have that is not within their current means of acquisition, the procural of which would help them to reach their goals for the betterment of themselves and of all Malawians.

3) I do a little bit of poking around to make sure that the person/organization is of a good character and would take full advantage of the procural of said material need to press ahead and work hard to make things better.

4) I submit a request via e-mail to the list of willing donors who trust me to connect them to such persons/organizations. The request lists a specific amount (ideally somewhere in neighborhood of $50-$75) for the specific material need.

5) Whichever donor responds first sends money that, through the wonder of technology, reaches me here in Blantyre.

6) The money is spent, posthaste, on the material need. The transactions are detailed in a ledger, and a photograph of the recipient(s) along with the purchased item(s), is sent to the donor, through the wonder of technology.

7) We all dance like TeleTubbies.

Here’s an example:

Innocence Banda, a 21-year-old man who plays football and likes reggae, wants to become a teacher. At present, however, he can’t afford to finish Forms (high school). He’s honest and personable, with good English skills. He works hard at whatever he does, but just can’t get ahead, since both money and opportunity are in short supply around here. He needs about $80 to finish his last semester and pay the exam fees to get his diploma. There’s no way he can get this since he doesn’t have a job and his family doesn’t have any extra money.

I ask a few people to confirm my perceptions of him as a good kid with solid work ethic. His teachers at school all concur that he’s the cat’s pajamas, as does Mr. Nkhukhu, the guy who introduced us.

I get the money from the project and give it directly to the school. Innocence gets himself a degree.

Here’s why it rules:

If it’s done right, it won’t create dependency on foreign money. While there’s a place for food aid, that’s not what this is about. It’s not about meeting day-to-day needs. This is about connecting individual Americans with individual Malawians, making one-time-investments in people so that they can be empowered to do their own thing, while cutting out in-betweener costs. Since my expenses as a volunteer are graciously paid by other sources, I have the time and freedom to divert all of the donated money to the place where it’s needed. There’s very little lag time, so we can meet needs NOW, ensuring that the all-important state of momentum is achieved. It also makes the giving real, almost grassroots. It helps to facilitate change where change always has to begin: with the individual. In small ways it can help to promote friendship and cultural understanding, too.

Here’s some other stuff:

I’m still a ways from my goal of having 40 people sign up. Maybe my e-mail appeals are too wordy. I have that problem, you’ll notice. But there are enough that have said yes that it’s time to start. I’d like to figure out how to make it so people can donate online, but I don’t know where to start with that. For the time being, people will be sending checks to the project’s accountant, who doubles as my mother, Diann. She’s so sweet.

If you, person reading this, are interested, please leave a comment. You won’t have to wait long before I’m saying all sorts of flattering things to get inside your pants-pocket for some dough. Seriously though, the poverty here is pretty extreme--most of my new friends live hand-to-mouth. You won’t regret it if you sign up.

So . . Yep. Here we go!

It almost never fails. The same thing happened while I was in Bangladesh too--all the time. And it’s funny, funny, (mildly annoying) funny. I will be on my bike, maintaining my steady, measured, somewhat brisk pace. I will pass someone who is going significantly slower. Approximately 45 seconds later that person will muscle past, sometimes casting a sidelong glance to make sure I’ve noticed. I will shake my head, and continue my pace. About 50 yards ahead of me, Lance Armstrong will slow his pace. And yes, I’ll pass him again, knowing that somehow, that’s going to be taken as a personal assault on his manhood or something. Again. The next thing that happens usually depends on my mood. If I’m feeling pissy, once I’ve passed him a second time I’ll maintain a rather smug, almost breakneck pace so he can’t pass me again (unless he’s really fast). If I’m feeling sanctimonious, I’ll be the turtle to his hare and let him grunt on by again, and we’ll continue our little cha-cha until one of us finally makes it home. One of these days when someone tries to pass me, I’m going to match his speed exactly and stay neck and neck, for as long as it takes to drive him crazy.

***

On three continents now (ohh, look at me), I’ve played a little game with students. It’s a little rhythm game we used to do in theatre classes. You stand in a circle, and start clapping a slowish, steady beat. One person, holding a pen, and a person standing next to him/her, make the following exchange, to the beat, like a chant:

Person A: This is a pen.

Person B: A what?

A: A pen.

B: A what?

A: A pen.

B: Oh! A pen!

The exchange ends with person A handing the pen over to person B, and without breaking the rhythm, person B must do the exact same exchange with person C, and so on and so forth, around the circle. The game gets more complicated as you add more and more objects (book, ball, wallet, biography of James VanderBeek--which gets tricky to say in one beat . . ), and even have things going in different directions and cross each other. It’s about concentration, listening, and keeping the beat (or if you’re teaching English, it’s about vocab and the articles).

Now, in America, the high school students picked it up in about 20-25 minutes. In Bangladesh, after an hour about 2/3 of the students could do it passably, but only just in individual pairs, coached by me, and only sometimes did we even have time to do it in a circle. In Malawi . . . The sixth graders had gone around the circle twice after 10 minutes. It’s pretty cool. There’s a reason why Jimi Hendrix, Miles Davis, and Jay-Z were/are all African-American. Yes, that’s right. (You can sub in Mos Def or Nas if you’d like.)

***

Things yelled in my direction every day on the street, AKA names I am called:

Jesus (the beard)

Chuck Norris (either the moves or the beard. Probably the moves.)

Azungu (meaning white man)

White man (because I’m a white man)

Adamu (because my name is Adam. There’s not a single syllable in Chichewa that ends in a consonant.)

Adams (because who wants a name that ends in ‘M’?)

David Cassidy (actually I was only called that once)

Sir (just because it’s polite. But with the African accent it’s more like Sah.)

Boss (because I wrote “Born in the USA” and other blue-collar hits)

***

I wish development work got to be more primal. Rock stars, athletes, even stockbrokers . . They get to yell and scream and punch the air when something’s gone well. I had a good day today. I wanted to crush a beer can on my head and shout; and it really felt like I’d just *#!@%ed poverty and injustice in the *#@%$!*%. But you know, not only can you not write that in a blog that anyone can read, you also can’t scream it--or hardly even think it--without feeling stupid, especially when you’re standing just outside the Water Commission office alongside a busy street where you could be called Jesus at any time.

I like Malawi.

Well, it took a lot of time, effort, and a trip halfway across the world (ostensibly to "fight poverty" or some garbage), but I have finally named a child. Her name is Constance.

My buddy Nedson had a baby and hadn't named her yet. I chided him, and he asked for me to give some suggestions. I gave him five: I mentioned my girlfriend's and niece's names (aww . . ) as well as the name of a friend, Corinne. In a way, I'm disappointed, because while I love the way Constance sounds coming out of your mouth, and I dig older, somewhat obscure words, I was secretly pulling for the last one I suggested, Velouria.

Nonetheless, I have a baby credit on my resume now. Pretty sure I'm a godfather now.

This will be the quickest and worst post I have ever made+

I am teaching at an orphanage 2 days a week and working to build my mud shack out in the village other days+

In this internet cafe I am hearing, for the fourth time, the R. Kelly and Celine Dion duet which is entitled, if I'm not mistaken, "I'm your Angel"+

I'm putting a picture of my Chaco tan up because it is cooler than anything, ever+

Little children aged about 2 run crying when they see me. I scare the crap out of them. I am white+

The return of faucet-arse: Something I ate made me make that music again. Feels somehow comforting. Splattery+

There is also another picture. You can see it; it is found below the other picture. It is of me and the homies after the fourth day of construction on the shack. We rule+

I’m going to go for it. The giving thing that I theorized about on The Leather Apron Revival. I’ve been ruminating on the details, and I think it can work. This is gonna be hot. It can work. I need to get the word out to as many of my friends and family as possible. That could be difficult since I don’t think as many people read this anymore (since I fell, somewhat, off the face of the earth upon returning from Bangladesh). But we’ll get there. You or someone you love may soon get a rather lengthy e-mail from me laying out the game plan.

***

I’m a lucky, lucky person. I cannot think of another time in my entire life when this many things have been going splendidly. Observe:

I’m in Africa volunteering, learning a language and absorbing another culture.

I have no diseases.

I am going to help build my own mud house, which I designed. It’s under a mango tree in a village neighboring a forest in mahfuggin’ Malawi. The family who owns the property is cool as Kim Deal (but in a Malawian way).

I have two orphanages wanting my help, perfect spots for an azungu (foreigner) like me to work. Kids really needing the skills that I have, and thinking I’m cool because I play guitar and make funny faces.

Hillary.

I’ll probably be on TV with a drama group soon, which wants me to work with them, playing music and acting and you name it. They do AIDS education, literature awareness, and local Malawian drama. Might even get a chance to adapt a little Shakespeare.

I’m learning to cook Malawian food, making friends, and seeing things I won’t get another chance to see.

I’d just like to freeze this moment and acknowledge that, for anyone keeping tabs on Adam’s seasons--meaning you know well that I’m not only adept at self-flagellation but fully willing to call any glass half-empty--I’m actually digging my life pretty hardcore right now. Just for anyone. You know. Keepin’ tabs.

I may have promised pictures last time. I lied. Don’t rush me, or I will kill you dead.

***

Wolfowitz is out at World Bank! Now we get rid of Gonzalez, then elect Obama, and what has two thumbs and is gonna be pumped?

This guy!! ADAM indicates himself, using both thumbs.

I think I’m going to love Rastafarianism. I get to dance.

The Warehouse is a rather charming indoor/outdoor club in the middle of Blantyre that can pack about 2000 if need be. Lucius Banda was, in my previous estimation, the Michael Bolton of these parts. I’ve heard his songs on the radio, and they’re sort of like Baja Men meet the Balding Mullet himself. Thought I’d get a laugh out of his show.

Grabbed some brandy from the grocery store with Nedson (Africans can and do drink. DRINK.) and went. And guess what was great? The music. Opening acts played mostly reggae covers, throw in an occasional trumpet and blues guitar, and ‘twas marvelous. Reggae just suits Africa. As does . . .

Got into a conversation about: Rastafarianism. (The following is probably me getting a bit carried away, but) Yes! Now that’s a way of life for Africa! Handed-down Western Christianity around here kind of gives me the willies. And it’s everywhere. Darned near every white person you meet here is on some sort of Christian quest. But instead of seeing African Christian churches, you naturally see Presbyterian, Assembly of God, and even Baptist churches. New friend sharing my beer crate (chair) tells me that the old guy with long dreads dancing onstage is an old, respected Rasta around these parts. Rastafarianism is a way of life, corollary to Christianity. The king of Ethiopia (kin of the queen of Sheba) started it, and adherents do not eat anything that involves blood (uh, meat). They’re about peace and love. Unity. Regardless of race. Since I can get away with it here, I go, “So even a white guy could be a Rasta?” My friend makes the funny sour face that I’ve come to love. It means “Are you kidding? Of course?” and he says “Yeah, of course!” Score! I love peace. I love love. I love unity. I love regardless of race. I might even have a soft spot for that Jesus guy. The point is, shouldn’t the spread of religion share some ideological ground with “development?” That is, if you want to save souls, shouldn’t you start with what they know/believe and go from there? There’s no way you can convince me that, as brilliant as John Calvin or John Knox were, they deserve to form the ideological foundation for religious practice in Africa.

And my dancing works here! Which leads me back to the music. The concert was joyous. Wonderful. Unbelievable to see the difference between cheesy radio Lucius and in-concert Lucius. I can’t explain it, but the music was good, all of a sudden. And everyone was having fun. Real fun. Dance how you want. Dance with your friends, or with strangers. Mostly I just danced around with my new friends, most of whom were male. I’m also newly convinced that dudes should dance with dudes.

As the evening got sloppier/drunker, the ho’s came. Nedson’s married, and Paul said goodbye to his girlfriend about an hour ago. Not that that stopped anyone from a little grinding. (Except me, Hillary. Ten-foot pole.) Interestingly, the whole thing reminded me of a recent trip to a Hollywood club with friend Lo. Similarities: ho’s who use you to get drinks, male friends getting into fights (blood and everything!), overpriced drinks (stressed-out bartenders too), and the half-drunk advice at the end of the night, from the guy with the girlfriend:

“F_____ bitches, man. She wanted 1000 kwacha.”

(me) “Oh.”

“Just dance with them and then go. They want you to buy them drinks.”

“Yeah, the one awhile ago, she wanted a Stout.”

“That one, she wanted 1000 kwacha for five f_____ minutes.”

“ . . . Well, uh, that’s too bad.” (Trying to change the subject, a little) “Gotta wrap that thing, too, eh? Don’t wanna mess around with that.” (Me feebly trying to be a “good influence”.)

(Paul takes out two condoms and shows them to me. The man’s prepared.)

One thousand kwacha is about $7, by the way. Salaries are substantially lower here, though. $300/month is considered a very good salary, and usually supports a lot of family members. Many people with normal jobs make about $35/month.

Visit 1: Pastor Anthony Mainje lives in the village and has a bump on his head the size of a hamster. Wears a big smile and sometimes less-than-immaculate white lab coat. If you’re lucky, a cowboy hat that says USA on it. Last time I visited him, we chatted (and by we, I mean George and Pastor), visited a house he’d apparently found for me to live in, and then ate nsima together. The nsima was good, and the house he’d found looked great. It was on a little homestead with a family. It was really tiny, with mud bricks and a thatched roof, but remote and close to the forest. Nice. The people who lived there weren’t 100% sure that it would be cool for me to live there, but Pastor assured me that it would most definitely be available to me.

Visit 2: Um, right.

Out at the place again, this time w/o Pastor around, we’re talking to an old dude in the living room of the largest home in the homestead. Old dude is 81. Clean shirt. Says What? That house ain’t available! There’s people and bags of corn living in there! (It’s true.)

I go, “Riiiiight. I’ve heard this crap before. Someone’s got a reason why they don’t want me to live there, and they’re not coughing up the real reason, but some bullshit.” I’m mad. That house looked golden to me. Visions of Sugar Plums. Dancing. So much for that. I press the issue. Old dude says, “Yeah? You think I’m lying? You wanna see the bags of corn and the place where they sleep?” Oh. Okay. He’s serious. So why the heck did Pastor “find” this house for me to stay in? Is he really a Pastor, by the way?

Old dude has the answer: Pastor has two wives. And he doesn’t want us to know that he does. When he first “found” a house for me, he was forgetting that it was located on the same property as where his second wife lives. So in a pinch, he just took us to see some other house that he figured might work. See, this is what ya do in Malawi. When we’d visited it the first time, only the women were around, and they didn’t have decision-making power. So they just served us vomit-flavored drinks (not kidding) and nodded and smiled. Hence, here we are.

Can’t we just tell Pastor we don’t mind that he has two wives, and check out the house he really wanted us to see?

Oh, Adam. Silly boy. Have you learned nothing about Malawian culture?

See, if there’s something embarrassing afoot, the last thing you’d do is actually talk about it. Just make stuff up! Telling Pastor would be completely faux-pas. So when we visit Pastor later that afternoon, we smile, shake hands, and change the subject. In Malawi, so it seems, when the faucet’s leakin’, one should paint the ceilin’. It does SO rhyme.

Anyway, crap. That all stinks. We leave and start walking back towards town, old dude with us for a stretch. Then he goes, “Oh, I have a lot of land, by the way, d’ya wanna just build a new hut?”

Uh, yes.

“Okay. Where do you want it to go?” He shows me about 12 different options. So now, it looks as if I will be helping to build a new house/hut from the ground up. It’ll be really small, but I chose a nice spot under a mango tree overlooking the forest. HAH! Y’all wanna be me but you can’t because you’re FAT. And, after I leave, the house will be put to use by one of old dude's sons. Yes and yes.

Stay tuned for more. Pastor Anthony likely has some more shiznit he’s going to try and pull. I have photos I’m gonna try and post soon. I also hiked up Mulanje Mountain over the weekend. Y’know.

So I went to Malawi. Yes.

I’m living in Blantyre, a city in the South, in support of an orphanage project started by Tracy Hills, a woman that my dad introduced me to. I’m here on an volunteer basis to help train their hired man, George (a Malawian who’s worked with other NGO’s), and generally to fill in the gaps as an all-purpose helper, since Tracy herself will be living in the States except for visits every 3-4 months or so. I’m living in a sort of dormitory right now, on the Feed the Children (an NGO) complex, with a number of Malawian staff and disabled children that are being helped by their program. The village where the orphanage is to be built is a few kilometers outside of town, and that’s where I’ll be living for the bulk of my time here, if things go as planned. I’m here largely due to a nice donation from my Grandmother, who recently sold the farm and contributed to my expense debits as a sort of charitable offering/tithe/tax deduction. My plan is to be here for about 9 months, give or take--possibly until the money runs out.

Up to speed? Yes.

And . . . you know, what about the girl? Is she going to . . . you know, wait around?

Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. She’s got a burgeoning acting career to attend to, a psychotic boss to ditch, and my car to babysit while I’m gone. I have, in fact, also put her on my savings account, so if I screw up, she can skip town with all of the $700 stored there. I mean, you could live on that for like, a month. I am worth more than a month. I just know it. But, in a sense, yes. She’s going to wait. How awesome is that? Did I hit the jackpot? Yes, I hit the jackpot. Beautiful, talented, smart (er than me), and patient? I win. Hey, friends: Don’t let me screw this one up, okay?

Had a talk the other day with the villagers. See, they’re looking for a place for me to live. I’m learning Chichewa, but don’t really speak it yet. So through a translator, they said,

“So here’s the problem. There isn’t any place around here with electricity.”

And I said: “Oh, no no no. I don’t need electricity! I don’t even want it!”

“Uhh, right. Whatever. The other problem is, we don’t have anyone to cook American meals for you.”

“No no no no no no no. I don’t want American meals. I’ve been eating nsima. I just want to live like you guys. No special stuff!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha let’s kill him and cast lots for his clothing. No, seriously though. You’re lying to us, right?”

“NO!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Let’s laugh!”

This could be an uphill battle. Fun though.

Oh, and no diarrhea yet. Which is pretty great. I feel like someone from a Pepcid AC commercial.