Macon-Dr. Richard Daniel Fehlenberg passed away Monday, November 30, 2009 at his home after an extended illness. He was the son of Hugo and Helen Fehlenberg. Funeral Services will be held at 2:00PM on Sunday, December 6, 2009 at Mulberry Street United Methodist Church with the Reverend Tommy Martin officiating. Burial will be private in Riverside Cemetery. Visitation will be between 4:00-6:00PM on Saturday, December 5, 2009 in the Chapel of Hart’s at the Cupola, 6324 Peake Road.
Dr. Fehlenberg was born March 29, 1927 in St. Louis, MO. He attended St. Louis University before joining the U.S. Army during WWII. Following his discharge, he graduated from Union College in Lincoln, NE. Dr. Fehlenberg graduated from Loma Linda University School of Medicine in 1957. He completed his internship at Glendale Adventist Hospital in Los Angeles, CA. Dr. Fehlenberg maintained a private practice in Los Angeles for over twenty years. He served as chief of staff at two Los Angeles hospitals and was a Charter Diplomat of the American Academy of Family Physicians. In 1983, Dr. Fehlenberg moved to Macon GA and joined the faculty at Mercer University School of Medicine. He served as a full-time faculty member until 1999 and continued as a part-time member until 2007. Along with maintaining a family practice at Mercer Health Systems and directing the Community Office Practice and Clinical Skills Programs, Dr. Fehlenberg tutored in Biomedical Problems. He was most proud, however, of his work recruiting the network of sponsoring physicians for the University’s Community Science program. This program sent students out to observe doctors in rural parts of the state, thereby developing graduates more likely to respond to the need for physicians in rural Georgia. Dr. Fehlenberg visited every county in the state recruiting doctors to participate in the program. He deeply believed in the mission of Mercer’s School of Medicine: to supply physicians in rural and underserved parts of Georgia. Earlier this year, Dr. Fehlenberg was named Associate Professor Emeritus of Community Medicine, Mercer University School of Medicine. Dr. Fehlenberg was a Life Member of the Loma Linda University School of Medicine Alumni Association. He was a member of the Mulberry Street United Methodist Church and the Joy Sunday School Class. Richard was a loving and devoted husband, a wonderful father and friend to many. He was known to always greet you with a huge smile and handshake, and sometimes a corny joke. Throughout his life, he enjoyed classical music, playing the piano, sailing, travel and baseball. Dr. Fehlenberg was predeceased by his parents Hugo and Helen Fehlenberg and his son Michael Anthony Fahey. He is survived by his wife Jane Fehlenberg, his five children: Steven Fehlenberg, Judy Johnson, Lisa Havell, Stacy Fehlenberg and Kevin Fehlenberg. He is also survived by his seven grandchildren: Amanda Fehlenberg, Brooke Fehlenberg, Amy Johnson, Amber Andersen, Alise Johnson, Hannah Havell and Cole Havell. The family asks that in lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be sent to Macon Outreach at Mulberry. Online register is located at www.hartsmort.com. Hart’s Mortuary and Crematory at the Cupola has charge of arrangements. 
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Some of you may know I had to rush home from Uganda for family reasons. I won't go into those details here, but here's what I would want to say to the world about the long journey home:
This journey had me on my knees for many reasons, but one of the greatest is that I am humbled with gratitude for my friends. This is not to be sappy, but what I've learned is not jut that I have incredible friends--I've known that for years--but how rare they are, how many people go through life without them, or just one or two-- I have a great cloud of them around me, and cannot believe my luck to have so many. They literally carried me home, from Curly, who drove 3 hours in the night to take me all the way to Entebbe; Louise and Steve, who drove 3 hours to meet me in a hospital, and who gave me all they had on hand, let me call home and arranged my taxi to Heathrow the next day (you know it's a good friend who gives you knickers, tampons and her best chocolate); to Palmer, mon chou, who came to my house, fed me, did my freakin dishes, put me to bed, and woke at 4am to drive me to the airport; to Kristine, my Frog, who left a husband and baby at home to pick me up early on a sunday morning and drive me 80 miles all the home-- and held my hand the whole way. the whole way. They all formed a bridge and carried me home. i hope i get to thank them properly when this is all over, but for now, just want to say-- I thank my God every time I remember you.
Morning After
The Halloween party was like most events for me overseas—a nice surprise: completely not what I expected at all, but more fun than I thought. Halim’s same white fan picked me and a new comrade-in-arms UNICEF contractor guy up at the hotel; we then picked up a bouquet of jeunes at the same dive bar, loaded them up in the back like smugglers, and headed out. We drove for half an hour in the dark, past two check points manned by sleeping tennagers in dirty “military” shirts, and arrived at what I can only describe as Alice Woke Up in Ouagaland. It was a compound called “Labila Beach” (beach because it was on the edge of a reservoir), and was surrounded by a thick concrete wall, kind of half resort, half bunker. Inside was a landscape of cabanas around a pool, lounge chairs, but also giant-sized toys/rides. They had swing sets scattered about, but these where huge things the size of a caravan: two-steps up to mount, 3-people to a side, metal canopy, swings. Then to our left are the huts with swirly chairs. They also had chwarma stands scattered about and plus de jeunes in white to serve the guests. There was a dance floor and a DJ playing all kinds of old-school disco and funk, and of course, Michael Jackson. He even played “YMCA”—the Japanese girls loved that. As usual, I ended up in the pool in my skivvies and then crashed out by the pool asleep under my sarong before getting a ride home with the some SNV and CRS chicks. One should not underestimate the networking value of such bizaare events: not only are you likely to meet the head of Disaster Relief for the Red Cross and the head of the Lions Club/Burkina (yes, they have a Lions Club here), but after seeing them attempting the Moonwalk while three sheets to the wind, formalities fall away and you can visit them on Sunday and talk about supporting primary schools for girls while getting a pedicure together. The Red Cross/ UNICEF contingent was staying at my hotel (did I mention that before-?) and these mostly Belgians ended up being a tax on my health. They congregated every day after work by the pool for a drink, by which I had to walk to get to my room, and this ended up contributing the cleanse I now need after so much beer and bread. I think I’ve put on 5 pounds, between the baguettes and pain chocolates and endless $2 beers and lack of exercise. Oi vey. But I now have local partners for 2 of our projects in 3 different program areas. Gaoua My field visit to Gaoua was classic field time: the heat, the filth, the hard-working staff, the bizaare ex-pats. Gaoua was hot and dusty but greener and cooler at night than Ouaga. We stopped at a bus stop about half-way into the 4.5 hour drive to get some lunch. The choices were rice or rice with sauce. “Sauce” in BF is a greasy meat stew with usually only one piece of mystery meat floating in it, but is greasy and salty and makes the rice go down right. The bathroom was also classic “field”: a space in the corner of an empty lot behind a half-broken wall and a hole. The flies and the smell are universal and transport you right back to every shithole you’ve ever known (pardon my French). Soap and water are fairy tales; you dig in your purse for that ancient half-empty pack on wet wipes you’ve had since Nam and call it a fait accompli. At the table the rice and sauce come in metal Chinese bowls covered by plastic Chinese bowls to keep the flies off. Big plates of tough chicken are also brought out by the disheveled 14-yr-olds working the bar, covered only in red spice powder, which the flies immediately flock to. You figure the pepper spice will kill most anything and eat it anyway, your left hand swinging a constant horizontal motion to lower your chances of inhaling a fly while you eat. Local kids sit on the edge of the concrete slab of the restaurant and watch you eat. The driver begins to throw chick bones to a dog that clearly has a litter to feed somewhere, and a mentally disturbed street girl begs for food in the universal motion of hand to mouth, bowl extended. You give her half the mountain of rice you know you cant finish and the floating mystery meat of your sauce, and hope your hosts aren’t offended. I was pleased to see the rest of our team give her a little bit each (you never know how locals will react to this kind of thing—doesn’t matter who you work for; these politics are always local). You then show the video of the grizzly bears still on your camera to the kids and make them gaps and laugh, then offer them the leftover food on the table. They grab it like they haven’t eaten in weeks, and in nanoseconds clean chick bones are thrown on the ground. The field sites are the typical concrete buildings stuffed with ratty furniture and filled to the brim with yellowing paper files, and bathrooms have toilets sat over those holes but no paper, lights or soap, even if they’re the Health Center staffed by medical doctors. The staff are modest and hard-working and never cease to amaze you with how ingenious and dedicated they are—you’d give them a check for $1M and fire all your headquarter staff if you could. These are the folks who walk for hours (bike, if they’re lucky) in the hot sun or rain to visit 100 houses each month to offer basic health services, carrying supplies on their backs. Most NGO programs call them “volunteers” or “community workers” and pay them pennies, if anything at all—even staff live on a salary barely above average for their area—while I’m on $75/day food stipend. “Perspective,” anyone--? We visited a couple of (pre-selected) houses, so I (the visitor) could get a sense of how the mosquito net distribution was going. These houses were simple mud brick complexes in fields of mangoes, cotton and peanuts. The first house was manned by a short husband of 3 wives and 7 children. We talked to him for a while but didn’t see inside. He guessed there were 5-6 nets in his home (men often have their own rooms separate from the women and children), and I got the sense only his favorite wife got any medical care. The second house was one of the humblest and most beautiful places I’d ever seen. Inside the crumbling compound was a cooking area to the left, and the rooms were small, dark, and spotlessly clean. The man showed us the net over his bed, and the net over the floor space where his wife and baby slept. His two pre-teen girls had a net in their room too. There were gourds and vases on the floor for storing food and water, and one big log/barrel—too big to take out of the doorway easily, and stopped with cloth and wax; a “cloche”—where the family kept its valuables. When leaving the compound, the man in his tattered shorts and ladies dress jacket that was too small and looked 20 years old (no shirt or shoes), ran to the cookfire where his smiling wife was cooking, and grabbed the only parting gift he could muster: handful of his peanut crop, freshly roasted. I gasped as I love peanuts (peanuts and bananas sustain me in most of my field travels) as he gave us each a handful, so proud. I almost wept. I’m in the Paris airport now and wondering if my ATM card can handle a little Duty Free xmas shopping. We shall see. I had a café au lait which was average, but finally had a proper pain chocolate—light and flakey with soft chocolate inside that melted in my mouth. I should be writing my trip report, so I’ll sign off now. Uganda is next so stay tuned….
Ouagadougou
Mom-- this one's for you. Friday night in Ouaga: the friend of a friend got in touch with me and invited me to a "cocktail party." I told him I didn’t have any cocktail party clothes—would pants and a shirt be OK-? He said yeah, don’t worry—he’s coming straight from work. OK. Liar. This tall French-Canadian-Algerian guy picks me up at the hotel and takes me to a big unmarked white van with no windows. I ask if I’m being kidnapped and he says no, he’s in the expert business and this is his work car. Hmmm. OK. So we chat and he’s pleasant enough as he drives to mini-ouaga (or “ouaga II” or “ouaga nouvuea” or whatever they’re calling the new section of this town that holds a full half of Burkina’s 13M population). We pull up to the hotel. “Biggest hotel in Ouaga,’ he tells me, and it is. We go through the opulent lobby and he leads me through double doors off the lobby to a reception room. There’s a nicely-dressed middle-aged couple greeting people at the door. People are kind of chatting/greeting, talking over each other a bit. Halim (that’s his name, this friend of a friend) goes in before me and shakes the man’s hand and kisses the lady ‘bonsoir’. I walk in behind him and prepare to greet the man when someone behind me calls to him and begins to chat with him. Feeling stupid just standing there while he’s talking to someone else, I slowly step over to the lady (“bonsoir, bienvenue..”); we kiss hello. Then Halim is suddenly attentive and steps me back to the man—“oh no—this is the Ambassador-!”—as he leads me to a belated kiss bonsoir. Did he just say “Ambassador”--? Oh yes—the Ambassador the BF from Algeria: this is a reception to celebrate Algeria’s independence day. Ah. Well, I’m so glad I threw on my Guatemalan hand-stiched peasant shirt over my green khakis before walking out the door—I was this close to wearing the crumpled blue t-shirt I’d been wearing for days—at least it has sleeves and was clean. I gave him a good punch in the arm for not telling me anything about this. He laughed and went to get us drinks, leaving me alone in a room full of diplomats and heads of agencies. I ended up chatting to 3 Ambassadors (Algeria; Brasil, even Sudan), their wives, the Director of Algerian Embassy (a sassy lady in pink and purple—Dominique)—anyone brave enough to chat with the American with her accented French and her cargo pants—all in my $3 sandals I’d just bought in the local market that day. I think I was a curiosity for them—the anomaly in a room full of big wigs. One couple I ended up talking to was the Brasilian Ambassador and his wife because they were new to Ouaga and spoke better English than French—misery loves company. Everyone was very gracious, telling me I looked fine, don’t worry, but I’m sure most people there thought I was a guest at the hotel skyving their free drinks. But mom you’d be proud—I talked to the Ambassador from Sudan for almost an hour without hammering him in the genocide in Darfur once. He was a tiny little North African—smaller than me—with no wife yet, working his way through the diplomatic posts till he could get to Europe. Ah. The night got better after that. Halim then took me to a real bar—a total dive with a French barkeep that had been there 30 years and looked it: in his sweaty wife-beater, greasy pony-tail and reading glasses balancing on his nose—working girls in fishnets bringing us drinks before we order them, cats running around on the bar and a dartboard—this is more like it. This is what I was expecting earlier. We got in a few rounds of darts and a slow game of pool (he’s just as bad as me) while 5-6 friends of his (Halim is one of those people who knows everyone—the Jennifer of Ouaga, if you will) came in. It was a nice mix of couples: Moroccan; French; Belgian; Burkinabe. We all ended up going to another bar, a music place, with the same kind of owner/bartender (but not as far gone). This place was also an art gallery, so it was actually a delicious setting of open space divided organically with stone booths with inlaid tiles (think Barcelona, but more rustic), seated with once-lush, now-shabby Moroccan pillows and rough wooden tables. The bar was at the far end, and to the left was a local band playing on the dirt in front of the shed. There was art everywhere—mixed media pieces of wood and metal: roosters; figures playing the drums; sepia photos of the Tuareg of the Sahel; paintings. I loved all of it. I would be such a great rich person—I’d have bought half of it and commissioned the artists for another year. The band was incredible. Three guys that looked like a perfect reflection of the ethnic mix here of coastal, Sahel and central Africans that is Burkina. The signer played an acoustic guitar; one played a big round wooden drum between his knees; the third alternated between rhythm acoustic guitar and various local percussion instruments—mostly gourds with shells and the like. They sounded amazing—light, funny, lively, all with a distinct African groove that has “roots of salsa and reggae” written all over it. I kept thinking I wish I had my camera to record some of this stuff, as the stoned white teenager with a Dandy Warhols t-shirt doing their sound told me they had no CD’s yet, but rummaging through my purse, couldn’t find it. Until after I got home, of course—buried in the bottom of my bag. Dammit. Just as stupid as me buying a phone credit card the day they had a 2-for-1 minutes promotion and forgot to charge my phone till the next day. Hey Mick and Summer—when the band was on break, guess who Dandy-boy played-? Yep—Rodrigo y Gabriela. Well, tonight is a Halloween party Hamir is throwing to support a school he’s decided to build. He throws one a month in a different venue for a year—this is the third—to raise money for the construction. Now that’s my kind of development—can we start fundraising like that-? And no oversight or monitoring—just imagine. I’ll keep ya posted.
Ouagadougou
Mom-- this one's for you. Friday night in Ouaga: the friend of a friend got in touch with me and invited me to a "cocktail party." I told him I didn’t have any cocktail party clothes—would pants and a shirt be OK-? He said yeah, don’t worry—he’s coming straight from work. OK. Liar. This tall French-Canadian-Algerian guy picks me up at the hotel and takes me to a big unmarked white van with no windows. I ask if I’m being kidnapped and he says no, he’s in the export business and this is his work car. Hmmm. OK. So we chat and he’s pleasant enough as he drives to mini-ouaga (or “ouaga II” or “ouaga nouvuea” or whatever they’re calling the new section of this town that holds a full half of Burkina’s 13M population). We pull up to the hotel. “Biggest hotel in Ouaga,’ he tells me, and it is. We go through the opulent lobby and he leads me through double doors off the lobby to a reception room. There’s a nicely-dressed middle-aged couple greeting people at the door. People are kind of chatting/greeting, talking over each other a bit. Halim (that’s his name, this friend of a friend) goes in before me and shakes the man’s hand and kisses the lady ‘bonsoir’. I walk in behind him and prepared to greet the man when someone behind me calls to him and begins to chat with him. Feeling stupid just standing there while he’s talking to someone else, I slowly step over to the lady (“bonsoir, bienvenue..”); we kiss hello. Then Halim is suddenly attentive and steps me back to the man—“oh no—this is the Ambassador-!”—as he leads me to a belated kiss bonsoir. Did he just say “Ambassador”--? Oh yes—the Ambassador to BF from Algeria: this is a reception to celebrate Algeria’s independence day. Ah. Well, I’m so glad I threw on my Guatemalan hand-stitched peasant shirt over my green khakis before walking out the door—I was this close to wearing the crumpled blue t-shirt I’d been wearing for days—at least it has sleeves and was clean. I gave him a good punch in the arm for not telling me anything about this. He laughed and went to get us drinks, leaving me alone in a room full of diplomats and heads of agencies. I ended up chatting to 3 Ambassadors (Algeria; Brasil, even Sudan), their wives, the Director of Algerian Embassy (a sassy lady in pink and purple—Dominique)—anyone brave enough to chat with the American with her accented French and her cargo pants—all in my $3 sandals I’d just bought in the local market that day. I think I was a curiosity for them—the anomaly in a room full of big wigs. One couple I ended up talking to was the Brasilian Ambassador and his wife because they were new to Ouaga and spoke better English than French—misery loves company. Everyone was very gracious, telling me I looked fine, don’t worry, but I’m sure most people there thought I was a guest at the hotel skyving their free drinks. But mom you’d be proud—I talked to the Ambassador from Sudan for almost an hour without hammering him in the genocide in Darfur once. He was a tiny little North African—smaller than me—with no wife yet, working his way through the diplomatic posts till he could get to Europe. Ah. The night got better after that. Halim then took me to a real bar—a total dive with a French barkeep that had been there 30 years and looked it: in his sweaty wife-beater, greasy pony-tail and reading glasses balancing on his nose—working girls in fishnets bringing us drinks before we order them, cats running around on the bar and a dartboard—this is more like it. This is what I was expecting earlier. We got in a few rounds of darts and a slow game of pool (he’s just as bad as me) while 5-6 friends of his (Halim is one of those people who knows everyone—the Jennifer of Ouaga, if you will) came in. It was a nice mix of couples: Moroccan; French; Belgian; Burkinabe. We all ended up going to another bar, a music place, with the same kind of owner/bartender (but not as far gone). This place was also an art gallery, so it was actually a delicious setting of open space divided organically with stone booths with inlaid tiles (think Barcelona, but more rustic), seated with once-lush, now-shabby Moroccan pillows and rough wooden tables. The bar was at the far end, and to the left was a local band playing on the dirt in front of the shed. There was art everywhere—mixed media pieces of wood and metal: roosters; figures playing the drums; sepia photos of the Tuareg of the Sahel; paintings. I loved all of it. I would be such a great rich person—I’d have bought half of it and commissioned the artists for another year. The band was incredible. Three guys that looked like a perfect reflection of the ethnic mix here of coastal, Sahel and central Africans that is Burkina. The signer played an acoustic guitar; one played a big round wooden drum between his knees; the third alternated between rhythm acoustic guitar and various local percussion instruments—mostly gourds with shells and the like. They sounded amazing—light, funny, lively, all with a distinct African groove that has “roots of salsa and reggae” written all over it. I kept thinking I wish I had my camera to record some of this stuff, as the stoned white teenager with a Dandy Warhols t-shirt doing their sound told me they had no CD’s yet, but rummaging through my purse, couldn’t find it. Until after I got home, of course—buried in the bottom of my bag. Dammit. Just as stupid as me buying a phone credit card the day they had a 2-for-1 minutes promotion and forgot to charge my phone till the next day. Hey Mick and Summer—when the band was on break, guess who Dandy-boy played-? Yep—Rodrigo y Gabriela. Well, tonight is a Halloween party Hamir is throwing to support a school he’s decided to build. He throws one a month in a different venue for a year—this is the third—to raise money for the construction. Now that’s my kind of development—can we start fundraising like that-? Cocktails and no oversight or monitoring—just imagine. I’ll keep ya posted.
Itinerary: Dakar, Senegal, Oct 24-28; Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, Oct 28- Nov 10 2009
Oct 24: Paris Airport So you would think that just to change planes, just to make a connection in an international airport, where you’re shepherded through security corridors from one gate to the next, you wouldn’t have to go through Security again. And you think that following the signs to a big blue neon banner that says “E2” would mean you’ve arrived at gate E2. Do I need to even finish this story-? Spent 4 hours at a shitty café drinking an overpriced latte in a plastic cup watching a movie on my laptop before realizing “E2” should’ve read “You Are Now About to Enter the Labrynth that will Eventually Lead You to the Ends of the Earth, Otherwise Known as Gate E2.” Went through Passport control (again), where 3 of 4 (and really, the 4th too) agents were busy fumbling over some poor Nigerians passport photo, taking the thing apart as he stood there humiliated; blitzed past all the Duty Free shops I’d lamented the lack of the other side of the world known as Not E2 Yet; back through a second security (goodbye Bordeaux); ran 1.5kms, was the last person on the plane. That’s the second time that’s happened to me (Roma, Nov 2006). Lesson learned: never underestimate the royal pain in the ass 9/11 has made international travel. Pack a compass and a lunch. Oct 24: First impression of Dakar Warm. At night it barely breaks the upper 70’s, and with the humidity, feels like the tropics. But you can hear the surf. The hotel is better than I’d hoped, for a place called “Airport Hotel.” I was expecting some skanky, pimp-infested dump near the airport, but no—it’s one of the nicer mid-range hotels in Dakar, and it’s painted all my colors. Everything is a shade of deep orange: terra cotta tiles; deep orange walls; ochre patios, and red bedspreads. And they f*ing have my rug—the red one that hangs behind my bed, that I bought in Morocco-? (I don’t know if the Senegalese bought it from the Arabs of if the Morrocans stole the style from West Africa/the Gambia, but after centuries of criss-crossing the Sahel, who can tell anymore?) And it’s not just in the first room I had, which I switched, because the A/C didn’t work—it’s in all the rooms. Apparently I bought the Wal-Mart of rugs. Christ. Well, at least I like it. And the frogs—this place is hoppin with frogs—cute little white ones with brown spots. And of course, stray cats that I pet no matter what anyone says. Word for the Day: grenuelle (“frog” in French. I have no idea if that’s how it’s spelled, but that’s what it sounds like). Oct 25: Sunday with nothing to do in Dakar I managed to check email and found that none of the staff I’d hoped to meet to maximize my time could meet on Sunday (and fair enough—who wants to work on a Sunday-?). So I wandered down to breakfast and back, savoring the pains chocolates I missed in Paris, and sat on the patio outside my room, contemplating a swim. An over-tanned French women on the porch next to time struck up a conversation, forcing me to get my French into gear, and invited me to the beach. Why not-? Her name was Jennifer and she was Parisian. The nicest Parisian I’ve ever met, I must say—I put this down to the fact that she hasn’t lived in Paris for 30 years. I joined Jennifer (who, another Frenchman I work with here guessed, probably got her American name from her GI father, if you do the math on her age; must admit, it’s the best theory I’ve heard) at the beach behind the hotel. “Beach” is a strong word as it was really a lagoon surrounded by volcanic rock, possibly manmade. While I missed the crashing surf of the open ocean, the sea on this coast looked quite deep and fierce, so I didn’t mind the calm, warm waters of this little pool. It was a private beach, I learned, but if you buy the lunch buffet at the open-air café you get beach access “free.” The assured me it was the best lunch in town, as did Jennifer—after 30 years coming here + her French taste, I figured she’d know. I mentioned Jennifer’s name to the barmaid, and ah oui, tout le monde connait Jennifer—apparently she’s a local fixture, if not celebrity. I wandered down the beach to the last umbrella, where “she always is”, and sure enough, there she was—all of her. I had to brace myself for the site of a 65-year old grandmonther stripped down to a black thong, leathery skin all exposed and oiled up, lying in the sun, her bright pink lips and nails the only distraction from the rest of her. I was not prepared for this. Just a few meters away were other Europeans but also Muslim families with their kids, women in Burkinis (I finally saw one-!) and all. No one was throwing stones at her, so after I caught my breath, I laid down under the umbrella next to her. She was right: the lunch was excellent. It was the Sunday buffet and the had all kinds of hors d’ourves, including ceviche which I love, and I got my first taste of the national dish (something that starts with a “T” that I can’t begin to spell). The dish was basically fish on dirty rice with seafood and spices, and was so like jumbalaya that, with the jazz they were playing and hot humid breeze, I had to laugh out loud at how easily this could’ve been New Orleans. It was incredible—it even had okra and crawfish in it. It was one of those moments where you know that you know this, but an intellectual understanding suddenly becomes viscerally real: the connection between west Africa and creole food was uncanny. It wasn’t even modified a little bit—just straight transplantation. They must’ve arrived on the shores of the gulf of Mexico, teeming with seafood and the shores bursting with native wild rice, they must’ve thought “I’m home!” (being kidnapped thousands of miles notwithstanding). They even have hurricanes and everything. OK there is a BIG fucking bat swooping over the pool right in front of me. I’ve moved up to the 2nd floor and am out on the balcony so when I say “right in front of me,” I mean 5 feet from my face. I’m just sayin’. My last night in Dakar I had dinner with the Frenchman who works a local youth NGO. He told me he and his wife have lived here for seven years and had a sail boat, and sailed to a local island off Dakar on Sunday for a beach BBQ and to listen to some reggae. Now he tells me. I could’ve killed him. He said he left a message on my phone but didn’t check email until after they got back to see that my phone wasn’t working. He also tells me Dakar has the best music scene in Africa, that salsa started here before moving west to the Caribbean. OK yeah so I’ll come back in the spring before it’s too hot.
"I spoke with her yesterday while I was with Erin at a store called Forever 21. Lisa said there were no stores called Forever 42. I said the store's actually called When the F did I Turn 42?"
From my cousin Tim, about my sister Lisa, both in their 40's.
Finally did it. Finally finally. Saw Fleetwood Mac in concert.
After four failed attempts over the years (count them--four), had given up, doubted they'd ever tour again. But they did. And I was in town. And I even had a friend up for it. Scalped a nosebleed (face value; not bad) and the seats even had a side view, straight down to the stage, no obstruction (except when they lowered the light reflectors, but i didn't mind-- my eyes were closed most of the time anyway). They opened right at 8:00 (they're getting old too, I guess) blasting away with Monday Morning and trucked right through with Rhiannon and the Chain. Jason, just want you to know I got up and danced my ass off to Second Hand News and laughed out loud, thinking of you dancing on that knoll in Ghorka the whole time. And I got my wish: signing "Go Your Own Way" at the top of my lungs with 50,000 voices reverberating all around me. The sound was incredible and Meck and I had a great time (don't laugh just because she dances like a Dr. Seuss character--when she feels the Spirit, she goes with it.) I of course, dance like a Solid Gold Dancer, especially in my work clothes and turtleneck. The onyl think that could have made it better would have been to have my Uncle Richard there. Meck-- tuko bomba, man. [Swahili for "rock on, whitesnake"]
Heard an interview with Bruce Springsteen on NPR this morning. He voiced something I've long perceived but couldn't articulate: “You can build your own kingdom in your head, and it's real cozy in there. Only problem is, you’re only the one there.”
What better way is there spend a Saturday afternoon than at a roller derby-? Yes, they still exist (who knew?), and what's more, they rock and roll.
Yesterday morning, Chou (my roommate) told me he'd been given a couple tickets to the derby for saturday night. It took a minute for this to sink in. I jumped at the chance immediately, the way a kid snatches an offer of chocolate cake at a neighbor's house before his mum finds out. Could it be possible? That grown women, professionals working the White House, the Hill, and the law offices of this great nation's capitol by day, would strap on outrageous outfits and roller skates (old-school style, 4-wheels-- none of this "in-line" crap), and beat the snot out of each other to 80's music for the joy of a rowdy crowd of spectators? I was all over that like white on rice. Lucky for us, not only could Chou's friend (a derby girl herself--Dr. SKabs) get us free tickets, but we live only 2 blocks from the DC Armory, where the event was being held. (Yes, the armory, where they [used to] keep guns for the militia. This lovely part of town is also home to the public hospital, the federal prison, and the STD clinic. It's a friendly place to live. Really!). I got out my zippy-hoodie and psyched myself up for an afternoon of white trash-esque debauchery. I was not disappointed. We got there a bit early, which turned out a good thing, as by 5:00, they had to delay the game 15 minutes because the line to get in literally stretched around the block. This sport had apparently achieved something of a cult status in the short span of a couple years. As we walked in (after we went through our friendly neighborhood metal detector), a girl in tight black and roller skates asked if we wanted "thunder sticks." I had no idea what she was talking about, but who wouldn't want a pair of thunder sticks? I grabbed whatever she was holding. Turned out these were tube balloon things you bang together to make noise (safer than glass beer bottles, I guess). This was already exceeding my expectations. This was a true carnival on wheels. It had team competition, violence as entertainment, $8 beer, deep-fried, frozen $10 food, a "merchandise" table, seats on bleachers, and every one-hit wonder you've ever yelled at the top of your lungs in your car to blaring on the speakers (Lil, you would've loved it: Quiet Riot, Devo, and of course the "Oh Mickey" cheerleader song). There was even an expo game, where co-ed teams could play (I don't know much about roller derby, but it seems to be a female-dominated sport. Only guys with really skinny legs that can do the splits can play). The teams were introduced and the names of the players were great. I think I would join for the privilege of hearing such a chosen name boasted over a loud speaker (as if the costumes and violence weren't enough). The teams were the Scare Force One and the Cherry Blossom Bombs. The player names were better: the typical girl-bruiser names like Triple-D-Struction, Hawaii Five-Ho, Kimono Dragon, etc.-- and some with a political twist: Condolezza Slice, and a skinny little black guy with a long cape named Justice Feelgood Marshall. He was a fine jammer; very crafty. Half-time brought out the Afro-Samba all-women drum brigade. It just kept getting better. Twp dozen women in home-made rasta-colored loose pants and tops came out with drums you could smuggle whole families of immigrants in, beating away, swaying their hips, twirling their mallets, getting their groove on-- it was incredible. I still have no idea how the game is officially played, but apparently big hips serve you well to block skaters and knock them right into the suicide seats; being skinny only works if you're stealthy and can get slung by one of your larger teammates up to the front of the pack. The costumes were a site to see: the Scare Force had basic black and aqua sequins, but they had a "flight attendant" who looked like a cast member from Dallas lost in a Quaalude haze, joyfully skating the crowd, hurling goodies into the stands, and a secret service agent who arrested the refs on bad calls. The Cherry Blossoms were in hot pink and home-made yellow kimono-material short skirts. They looked like Pinky from Happy Days going to a hoe-down. Behind us we had little Diego, 4 years old, and his dads, having a good time. Diego kept asking if the boys were winning, and I tried to tell him those big people out there were girls ("see the yellow flower skirts?"), but it didn't seem to compute. We had fun with our thunder sticks, though. One dad was a bit scary uncle jack', and kept winding him up: "oh no-! they're trying to ride broken bicycles!" "watch out! that pyramid's gonna fall!". But our team won and all ended well. It was the best 4-hours I'd spent in a long time.
Hi Everyone.
It's been quite a while. Much less to write about in the U.S. Except this past weekend, of course. I've been thinking of starting the blog up again pending upcoming work travels, but this seems a good time to dust of my writing skills, since there was such an occassion worthy of writing about. Where to start-? Like every great event, the days and weeks building up to Inauguration Day (the spelling of which demands sobriety itself) saw the air in DC become electric with excitement and dread of crowds and traffic. It was the topic of every morning news show, prices soared and rumours flew. Reminded me of the Atlanta Olympics, the Millennium's New Year's Eve, all big global events. Every office in DC closed for Monday and Tuesday for reality purposes more than honor of the occassion (Metro and street closings), but we took it. And thank God. Everybody was having an Inauguration Party and I went to 3 of them. I don't know when coming home at 4 seemed to routine, especially for this old lightweight, but it was for that weekend. The joy of this doubled when coupled with getting up at 7 for breakfast, either the one you have to get to by 9 across town or the one you're making for your roommate, his ex, his parents, siblings and their 10 best friends before walking (key word here: walking) down to the Capitol for that day's events. It was awesome. Really. I was exhausted and pumped and everyone wa so excited, I was running on adrenaline. A friend of mine who broke both bones in her left leg last week getting hit by an SUV on her bike insisted on still having her party, and she did (thank God for percocet). And the emotional exhaustion. We all walked around in a dream-like haze, asking each other if it was real, so happy to Be One (big amoeba of a crowd). I've never seen so many people in my life. And everyone infected: wide-eyed, friendly, exuberant as kids on Christmas morning. Everyone had a story and everybody belonged. A woman from South Carolina trying to use her cell phone after the concert was getting nervous-- "I can't find my people!" "Don't worry; we're all your people today." The words just fell out of my mouth. The cold and no food or water and using latrines were immaterial-- no lines b/c no one wanted to eat or drink or pee-- we were rapt to the spectacle, hanging on ever word, singing every song out loud, laughing with tears running down our face. I was surrounded by Irish and French and Rwandan and Japanese-- and we were One. I'm about to vomit as I read this, it's so sappy, but it's true; it really is. I always marvelled at the reels of the March on Washington and the Kennedy speeches, and wondered if it really was so inspiring in the moment, or if the romance of time and tragedy had heightened those moments, and now I feel like I know: it is electric, in every sense of the word. All that energy-- physical, emotional, intellectual, multiplied by 500,000 or 1.4M-- is palpable, irreplaceable. You couldn't have paid me to trade that for a wide-screen tv if Brad Pitt were serving cocktails of Angie's bare bum. There's such a power to solidarity, to knowing it's not just in your head or your life-- thousands, millions, feel the same-- it's intoxicating, the potential of what that collective power can do. I guess we'll see. I feel like a great weight has been lifted. I feel safe to travel as an American in world again for the first time in years. I feel for the first time like somebody in DC gets it. I feel like I got my country back. And of course I wept like a baby when she sang "At Last" for their first dance. Of course I did. The buzz is slow to wear off, as the improbability of it all sinks in. A skinny kid, child of a foreign exchange student (an African, at that), who bounced around a lot and never really fit in anywhere, put himself through an overpriced Ivy League school who absolutely refused to buy the line "that's just the way it is; get used to it," took an incredible leap of faith in our darkest hour-- and made it to the other side. It blows me away every time. He's the first one I feel reflects even parts of my generation--rootless, restless, ambitous yet not wanting to play the game: we all have that nagging in the back of our minds: there's got to be a better way. He figured it out: don't play the game, re-write the rules. Don't look outside for your home, look inside: we are each other's home (and yes, as the Hopi say, we are the ones we've been waiting for. I love that and I'm not apologizing). It's been too long since cynacism and sarcasm held sway-- since the 70's, I believe, when the Age of Aquarius came crashing down. I don't think it crashed-- we'll never be the same, and thank God for that--it's just evolving. But enough of the snide sneers: "fear is easier becasue it's surrender." Sarcasm's easier because it requires no imagination. Cynacism's easy because it requires no effort. These umbrellas are no longer a haven of those frontin' uber-intelligence; they are the bastion of the lazy. Well screw that. If that's your gig, stay home and count the days till retirement. The rest of us got better things to do than survive. It's amazing what you can accomplish when stop worrying what others think and whether things wil succeed: success is trying anyway, when no one thinks it will work. And hey-- 2009 is the Year of Light (just ask Kristine), so here we go. As my "America 2008" t-shirt says: Fuck Yeah. OK. Getting of soapbox now. (But that felt good.) And inauguration weekend was incredible. I'm so glad I was here. I feel like I finally connceted with DC. Good night, all.
I’m currently reading Geoff Dyer’s book “Yoga for People who Can’t be Bothered to do It”: most of it is that stoner, non-sensical rambling of post-hippie/post-Hunter S. Thompson-style of trying to make their opaque meanderings seem worth reading (it goes on a long list of shite I can’t believe gets published, even for comic relief), but his chapter Leptis Magna, if not unique or thought-provoking, was funny as shit. Again, this will hit home far more with people who traveled extensively (or at least in places very unlike home), but here are some gems:
• Offices in the West aspire to paperlessness. In Libya—as most parts of the developing world—the opposite holds true. The idea is to generate paperwork. ... Pity the archeologists of the future who unearth a stash of millions of receipts...years of painstaking research will reveal—what? That on January 20, 1997 someone in room 217 ordered a club soda...I had filled out immigration forms and customs forms—of a complexity usually associated with a mortgage application—and for changing money. Having done this, I was at last ready to get a taxi—but no, oh wait, there’s more forms...[Damn the Brits or the Germans or whomever started this colonial cancer of bureaucracy—bribery and nepotism are at least efficient.] • I shared a companionable silence with my taxi driver that results when strangers only share two or three words... One of these words was “hotel,” which I soon discovered meant something like ‘sensation of heart-sinking disappointment on arrival, often accompanied by bitter regret at ever having left home.’ I checked in. Ah, how deceptively simple that sounds. To do so I had to fill out a couple hectares of paperwork... • In most parts of the world, locals discovering a tourist will tell you that their country, however wretched, is ‘very beautiful.’ In Libya, the only reaction was astonishment that anyone would be there by choice. It simply didn’t make sense.... • I went for dinner. The place was devoid of everything except a guy—the maitre d’—who had his head in his hands. I was not surprised by this. Jobs in some parts of the world [and here’s the salient part] involve no more than turning up and doing nothing for eight or nine hours, then going home only to do nothing there [this should be caveated with ‘if you are male’.] If you work outdoors, then work becomes indistinguishable from loitering. If it is indoors, it is often indistinguishable from abject despair. • I called the front desk to see if they could fix the air conditioner. The guy’s approach was nothing if not direct. He stared at it for a few moments, then tore it out of the wall. After he left, the AC continued to churn away, mocking us both. [OK, I paraphrased that one, but that’s the gist and it’s funnier.] • [This is one of my favourits, and I expect to be the one most recognizable to my fellow travellers: the taxi driver.] My driver was of the eastern, honking school. He liked to let people know he was there. He used his horn to greet, indicate, berate, acknowledge, urge, and warn. Had it been physically possible he probably would have steered with it too.i was struck by the subtle range of expression he was able to emote with this single instrument, from single-note blasts to delicately inflected modules of intent. With his horn he expressed his relation to the world and his views on that world. It was how he communicated. I was laughing so hard out loud that Asha, who was mopping and had last seen me asleep on the couch (as she has so many of these last days), moved her mop into the den to covertly see if I was having some kind of attack. Of course, much of the book wouldn’t/couldn’t translate (half due to my illustrious Swahili, half due to the subject matter of how funny things are to Westerns in developing/often Muslim countries, ahem), but I did at least try to explain the humour of taxi drivers and their horns, as I figured it was a common experience and relatively benign. Of course I pantomimed the driver wailing on his horn, and Asha, laughing genteelly, patiently explained that the horn in a car in Kiswahili is called “hone,” since I was obviously too stupid to know this simple word. Yes, “hone.” She then duly asked what it is in English, and I patiently replied, “horn.” She was surprised that the wazungu had chosen to adopt a Swahili word for this. She was similarly surprised that we adopted “bicycle” (although clearly we butchered its proper name, “bisikeli”).
I played hooky this week and jumped on the Liemba to Mahale. Mark and AM skipped town with me (AM at the last minute—literally—but we made it). Kathryn picked us up in the Frankfurt Zoological Society (who she works for, in Mahale park) car and we went to the docks. Immediately we were surrounded by porters who (aptly enough) just about ripped the doors of the car to carry our bags. Then we waited under the banda for an hour while Mark and AM went to buy their tickets. This was fun: when AM got to the window, they charged her not only tourist rates (she’s waiting on her new Resident Permit since hers got stolen, and of course Mark is without one), but in dollars. So instead of the 10,000 TZS (about $8.50), they had to pay $30. So we get on the boat and Kathryn’s haggling with the porters who, instead of the usual 500-1,000 TZS a bag want 10,000—oh no, now 20,000!—from us wazungu chicks. They obviously didn’t recognize Kathryn although she takes the boat all the time, but the good news is some Italian tourists (who snagged our family suite for only the two of them) were filming the whole thing. What I love most about haggling is that after all the shouting and hand gestures and comments about one’s mother, they always end affectionately—lots of bowing, hand shaking and “nashukurus.”
So then to the bar. We spent the next 3 hours waiting for the bags of whatever to be loaded drinking in the bar and eating samosas. We watched the sun go down and then pushed off. The moon was not only full, but was a heavy golden harvest moon. We went upstairs after dinner and laid out on the stacks of life jackets and watched the stars and moon over the lake, black as pitch. I could’ve fallen asleep (and almost did). Went back to the cabin (first class, baby—two bunks and a corner table) and slept on the corner bench, Mark and AM in the lower bunk, Kathryn on top. Ten hours later, we arrived at our stop. Now this is an amazing thing. The Liemba is one of two German steamers on the lake brought over and constructed a hundred years ago when these parts were (briefly) German East Africa. The Liemba itself has been scuttled twice—once to hide it from the British, once to hide it from the Germans) and resurrected. So we’re on this huge steamer, pulling to a stop in the dead of night (5 a.m.) on a mile deep on black water, and these boats, these wooden fishing boats (big ones, 30’ long), swarm into the light out of nowhere like ghosts. People and cargo are hurled off the sides and more people and cargo thrown on. This is no exaggeration—there are no planks or docks, as this is being down in the middle of the lake over a mile of water—burlap sacks of corn, buckets of dried fish, children and mamas all lowered down and hoisted up with hands and ropes across 15’feet of empty space from one boat to another. If anything (or one) were dropped, there’d be no saving it from the bottomless ink below. So we jumped off the boat. Then it was an hour by moonlight , gliding and bumping on the cool night towards the park (I highly recommend this to Hans Zimmer’s music). We landed just before dawn. We pulled up on the beach and walked the 50m to Kathryn’s house on the beach. Today AM and I went for our hike (thank God for resident’s rate—don’t ask, don’t tell). It was amazing. After wandering around the forest, we came upon a small family—dad, mom and baby—on the path. We watched them for a while, grooming and scratching and playing with their feet. Then it was chimpalooza after that—we saw eating (15 mins), playing (hours), mating (5 secs), and even a rather frightening Alpha male greeting (easily confused with male turf wars)---way too up close (had to jump into the bamboo). But it was just them making a big fuss over a bwana kubwa (so much like humans). AM and Mark stayed last night in the village 100m away from Kathryn’s (and technically outside the park—read: no fees). The “banda” was a thatch hut with mud floor about 8’ in diameter, but what it lacks in space it more than makes up for in chickens and kids who can do hand-springs on the beach). We’re going there tonight for dinner, so I’ll wrap this up.... more later...
Spent the weekend in Kasulu—two of the kids, Bernie and Patrick, are ending their contracts so there was a going-away party. It was a good time, hanging out at the Bishop’s compound and its beautiful gardens and the cool weather (I was actually cold at night—must’ve been 65 degrees). Kids came in from Kibondo and Kigoma, and some new Belgians and the new RTP were there, as well as a random Irish doctor doing a 6-week stint in Kahinga I’ll call Colin. The highlight had to be the ride back from the farewell dinner. We all took 2 cabs and a Land Rover there, and coming back—yep, that’s right—all in the one Land Rover. All 22 of us. Yes, twenty-two. Ten in the back alone, which is designed for six. I got to put in last, layered horizontally on top of the others. I think we invented four new yoga poses. I had to be exhumed out the back door when we arrived.
Came back from a successful trip to Dar (rare), but no bacon. I picked some up the day I left but Precision (or Imprecision, as we’re calling them now) changed the Monday flight without notice and I was stuck for an extra day in the Muslim part of town where no one would let me put it in their hotel fridge, so $25 worth of bacon rotted in my hotel room. Very sad day. Last night Ellinor and John came over for a nightcap and I learned many things. There’s a GIS working group listserve for western—western- TZ. Ellinor got passage on Maggie’s boat (I mean, “ship”) to the other side of the lake: she hitched a ride on the refugee repatriation ship so she could collect samples from the other side of the lake (this is the Snail Lady). She told me she had exactly 12 minutes to get into gear, submerge, collect samples and re-board the ship, and she did it. Amazing. Me, I’m passing up a golden opprtunity to go to Mahale Park this weekend with friends of friends b/c it’s bad timing (as always) and I can’t afford it: $250 for the charter flight and $100/day for 3 days. I just can’t do it. But it’s killing me. I may just skip work one of my last weeks and take the Liemba down there on a Wed night for $30. I have other travel priorities (Masai Mara), but not sure I can pull any of this off. The office owes me $500, Anthon owes me as much, KLM owes me $400, and I haven’t collected anything yet and will soon be unemployed. Aiya. Saw John and Karen’s new baby at 48 hours. She’s small and pink and perfect. 7.5 pounds, Karen’s Dad’s big feet and John’s furrowed brow. Karen’s doing great after the c-section and they plan to be back in Kigoma next week. Ella Nuru. Man, I gots to get me one of those... As for work, I’m still plowing away trying to get things done, but not sure when things will wrap up here: either end of August or end of September. New contract begins Sept 2 (not Aug 2, after old one ends Aug 1), so that may get sticky. I’ll let you know when I know. Still poking around for something in SFO or Seattle, but no word yet—have a terrible feeling only half my emails are getting through. Yeesh. That’s all for now, folks. Hope you all are well, and to see you SOON....
Below is the first run at a list I made during a 5-hour staff meeting today (oh-- add that to "THINGS I WONT MISS" List). Just for the hell of it....I'm sure it'll be updated a few times over the next few weeks...
THINGS I WILL MISS • View of the lake • Great sunsets • The whole cast of characters: Anthon, Eegs, Meck, the Kids... • Nemo (my cat-- no, i didn't name him) • My garden • My kitchen back door • My big mango tree • Nightly view of the stars • Simplicity of life: few choices, slow ebb and flow of a gentle routine, and the peace of mind that comes with it • Meeting interesting cadres of people every few months • Buying produce out of a bucket on a woman’s head at my back door • Naps on my couch • Good mishkaki (kabobs) • Volleyball • Mango trees • Mangoes • The “mpira! mpira!” kids • The beach • All-night BBQ parties at the beach • Sailing with Andy • Pizza nights • Irena (“little zoo”) • Mama Asha and Bakari • Having the walenzi to welcome me home every day • Shopping as such an inter-personal, bargaining event • Yelling “Mzungu! Mzungu!” at white people on the road for fun • THINGS I WILL NOT MISS • First 2 hours of forced happy-happy smile-smile greetings at the office • Bad internet and phone connections • Lack of anonymity (constant stares and remarks on the street) • Lack of queues • Painfully slow speaking styles • The DUST • Lack of good meat/cheese/wine • TBA’s bullshit • My office’s sad charade • Working on a laptop with a broken screen • Long waits for food • Mosquito nets (they are not as romantic as they look—they are a pain in the ass) • Anthon’s minions • The horribly boring conservative field clothes i wear (half muslim, half could-survive-a-rain-or-dust-storm clothes) • Chasing the chickens out of my yard • Loud movies and disco music all night • People yelling outside my windows at the crack of dawn •
Book Review: “Pathologies of Power,” by Paul Farmer
This is a great book, one of those that changes your perspective. Paul Farmer is an American medical doctor and anthropologist who’s worked in Haiti, Peru, Mexico and Russia over the last 20 years. I’ve read several of his articles in grad school, but this is the first of his books I’ve read. It’s an incredibly well-researched exploration of (basically), the widening gap between rich and poor and how the processes that produce that gap amount to systematic violations of human rights for the billions of poor; particularly the denial of health. I was very much drawn to it because he goes beyond listing the ills that plague “globalization” and the “new world order” and produce these systems of violence, and takes a stand and lists specific things that can be done to address these issues. He often addresses the common responses he gets (from colleagues, funders and others), which usually run along two lines: it’s either “too expensive” or “too complicated” to deal with causes of poverty; “it’s overwhelming so let’s just give up.” I’ll quote just a bit from the Afterword that addresses this, which I found particularly striking: “Pathologies of power are also symptoms of surfeit [‘overabundance to the point of being sickening’—I had to look this word up]—of the excess that I like as much as the next guy. How do we ‘process’ [the fact that our comfortable lifestyles come directly at the cost of such destitution and violence against the poor]? Our best hope, it sometimes seems, is oblivion. Let the world’s endless jeremiad [‘long recitation of mournful complaints’; I had to look this one up too] be blotted out by action films and other entertainment, SUVs, high irony, identity politics that erase the world’s poor, or struggles for advancement within this or that institution. Choose your poison; choose your anesthesia.” (p.255) I hope this doesn’t come off as preachy—this quote struck me b/c I saw myself in it as much as anything else. But it’s a great book because he offers concrete examples, facts and well-researched analyses that lead to the conclusion that the world’s inequality is not inevitable—it’s just that the Powers that Be would have us think so. I highly recommend it.
Hey everyone.
So yeah, it looks like I'll be out of here something like end of August. Just a note to my peeps to not send any more mail-- will likely not make it. Other than that, just trying to get through donor reports and meetings with the DC office while high on malaria medicine (yes, I got it again). It's not bad, just feels like being hungover for 4 days...
It's July 12, right? In case I can't get through to call, happy birthday, sweetie....
Hiya. Small bit of news before the snake story: my Fellowship may be over August 1, not September 30. I'll find out more what this means this week, but it's throwing me for a bit of a loop....will keep you posted.
[Conversation with Bakari, my gardener] “I keed da snak.” “You killed a snake?” “Ya. He want go in yo hous.” “He wants to go in my house! No going in my house for the snake!” “Ya, I keed heem.” “Wow. How big was he?” “Hee waas...49 eenches.” “49 inches, wow. Theo [neighbor’s 6-yr-old son] measured it?” “Ya. It steel theyare, een da fridge.” “They put it in the fridge?” “Ya. Bwana, he come home tonite, they goona look at eet.” “Strange people.” My neighbors are Mike and Becky. Mike is our chief chimp researcher in Gombe, and hence, a zoologist. He and his kids love inspecting dead animals.
FYI, here's the blog of a friend of mine here in Tanzania who gets to lead a far more exciting life than I do (ah, the difference between Arusha and Kigoma...). But it gives a fuller view of Tanzania than my narrow scope at the western edge over here. Enjoy..http://guhle.typepad.com/jespintanzania/
Safari
Well, I’m back from Safari. I spent a couple weeks out of Kigoma and went to the Serengeti, Ngorogoro Crater and Zanzibar with Bada—I mean, Barbara. Spent almost a week in Arusha and it was nice to be in the land of cool weather and good food, despite the fact that my hopes to climb Meru this trip were dashed (damn you, Jesper). The Amazing Barbara conquered kali in 4 days (not 6), then saw the gorillas of Rwanda (and learned a lot about tourism in Rwanda: be prepared), then we hit the safari trail. And yes, we saw lions and tigers and bears (oh my), and somehow managed not to be eaten, Kevin. We started in Manyara Park and saw more elephants so close than I’d ever have expected. Whole families of them just a few meters from the jeep. The next day we went deeper into Masai country (“Serengeti” means “wide open space” in Masai), passing them and their herds as we rounded the Crater and drove across the plains. It was just like Idaho in summer, only bigger. ;-) We saw loads and loads of animals, including lions. Our driver had a preternatural sense to find them: we would be speeding down the track and he’d slam it in reverse and back up to a small thorn bush and sure enough, a lioness would be sleeping underneath it. We must have seen dozens of them. Lone lionesses, male/female pairs, whole prides. And lots of giraffes (“males don’t have fur on top of the horns, so you can know and don’t have to look at the bottom”) and zebras and flamingoes and wildebeests and birds I can’t name. We even saw the elusive hippos and leopard. The second night we camped in the middle of the Serengeti, which is not as decadent as the gorgeous lodges they have all over the tourist route, but is much more fun because you can hear the animals at night. (Zebras, by the way, sound like squeaky horns on amplifiers.) We could hear the low rumble of the lions all night (and then the squeaky zebra noise suddenly stopped—hmm). Our last night was at a cozy place called the Octagon with an Irish bar and great pork chops. We then flew to Zanzibar and spent a day and a night in Stone Town, wandering the winding alleyways and eating yummy food and meeting freakish locals (So a Czech named Tony, the son of Znz’s President and a Dutch PGA player walk into a bar...). Then back to Dar (travel tip: take the ferry TO Zanzibar; never FROM—many sick bags later...). We splurged and stayed at the new Kilimanjaro hotel which has an incredible spa and sushi restaurant (sold). Travel tip #2: the sushi restaurant is closed on Mondays (sorry, Barbara ;-(). So I stayed an extra day ;-). Came back to Kigoma to find Anthon gone to Uganda for the Great Ape conference, but Ellinor (lake researcher who comes every year) and the Kids all descending upon K-town. Oh, and a new intern, Steve, had come to stay a few months. So it was a packed weekend, what with Canada Day and Anne Marie’s boy finally in town (we’ve been anticipating this for weeks, Mark). I told myself I’d de-tox off so much meat and beer once I got back but how foolish that was, especially with the FIFA games on and the only tv’s in bars. We had a beach day, a disco night (which I missed b/c I passed out), brunch and all the makings of a great Kigoma weekend (lost keys and cell phones notwithstanding). Today another of our little ex-pat family left: Diana. Diana is a Spanish UN Volunteer who’d been working in Lugufu refugee camp for the last 2 and a half (3?) years. Next month the boys (Bernie and Patrick) go, then in October it’s me and Anne Marie. It’s the nature of the beast—every six months, old people go, new people come—but I’ve never quite gotten used to it. It gets familiar but not easier. So at the moment I’m trying to focus on getting things done here in the next 90 days and then heading home. I may take a couple weeks to see bits of East Africa I don’t want to miss—rafting in Uganda and Ethiopia—then home in the fall. In my dreams I get an amazing job with Partners in Health in Latin America that starts in the new year, but we’ll see what Life has in store.... I’ll leave you with another gem of a conversation with Irena, the neighbor’s 4-year-old daughter. Hope all are well, and hey, if any of you were harboring latent ideas to see East Africa before I go, October is a PERFECT (low season) time. Signing off for now.... Snipets from conversation with Irena (now 4 years old): [Irena:] “Are you old?” [Me:] “Yes, I’m old. Old like mommie.” “No, you not old. You’re a kid, but a all-grown-up kid. You can have a glass bowl [to eat out of, instead of a plastic one].” “Hmm. Thanks. What about you? What you gonna do when you get old?” “Um, maybe color a little bit. And then get married.” “Who you gonna marry?” “Kai [missionary kid, about 7]. He’s nice. I’m gonna name a kid Kai. But if I don’t wanna have kids I’m not gonna. Like you!” Wow. Didn’t know what to say to that.
I'm sitting in a conservation workshop listening to eight chimp pHDs argue about the finer points of critical numbers of reproducing females needed for a viable chimp community, % miombo forest needed for dry season foraging, etc.... if you could see the heated debates...it's nerd olympics...
For those of you who know my mother and know the story of the 96 Olympic bombing in Atlanta, know the story of my mom's delayed reaction to the news. It went something like this: "Hi mom. Just calling to let you know I'm ok and wasn't hit by the bomb last night." "That's nice dear. See you for dinner later." And only after my aunt called to tell her the news did it register. Then the call back: "a BOMB??? What do you mean, 'a bomb'??? Are you OK? Get home right now so I can kill you..!"
Well, we had a little replay of that this week with malaria. After mentioning it on both this blog and an email home, it was only after my brother called my mom that it registered, and I got a call after midnight in TZ with the same reaction. Sorry, Mom, it was funny....
Post Office
Get a slip that you have a package waiting from the Post Office. Go to post office; get told you must go to the TRA (TZ Revenue Authority) office next day. Go to TRA, wait to see official. Official tells you to follow other official down to the Port Authority. Go to Port Authority with official and wait to see another official. Other official tells you you must go to the Customs Office. Go with official to Cutoms Office which is in, yes, the Post Office. When you mention this in a laughing manner to the official, he laughs with you and explains that yes, it was here the whole time, but a TRA official from the Port Authority has to clear your customs, and they are short staffed, so each office had to send someone to cover for the previous office to accompany you to the Post Office to inspect your parcel. So thanks, Rebecca, for the lovely package; it has arrived. (For future notice to all my lovely gift-senders, any CD's should be labelled "data files" instead of "music", as music CD's carry an import tax. Dont' worry-- I bribed him with some sunflower seeds "for his mother"...;-) Doctor's Office This is a test: 1. What do you need to go to the clinic in Kigoma? a) Medical insurance card b) Co-payment c) Blank notebook and passport photo 2. How do you give a stool sample in a Kigoma clinc? a) In a medical supply container clearly labelled in a sterile toilet with flush toilet, running water and soap b) In a 1"x1.5" matchbox in a latrine with no lights, toilet paper, water or soap. I don't really have to tell you which are the correct answers, do I? Oh-- and I finally got (tested for) malaria. It's a week in and I took Coartem and am fine, as far as I can tell; just sleepy/dizzy (I know-- how can I tell whether I'm sick..?) So, there, finally got it, and got over it. But dry season is almost here... Other than that, I just found out my fellowship changes admin at the end of the FY and am applying for jobs like mad.... hope you all are well, and hope to see you sooner rather than later....
I would just like to report that there are 1,000 dead bees outside the door of the Forestry office (who knows how many inside). Bee-keeping gone awry....
Just wanted to share with everyone out there that I've taken to playing my music on my laptop speakers (not headphones) lately, and it's a trip to see Mama Sania and Mama Bertha shakin it to Aretha Franklin in a way only African women can. Oh, my kingdom for live video feed....
It's one of those gorgeous days where the sun is bright, the winds are strong and the lake is a dazzling blue; it could be Lake Tahoe. Days like this always raise my spirits and make me homesick at the same time...
There's a flurry of activity in the office today: they're getting ready to finally go and do the biological transects we were supposed to start last week, so there's buckets of gear, drivers running around, cars being loaded.... I wish I was going. I was supposed to, but being four days late, it messed up my schedule and now I have to stay and help Mary with the FP baseline and figure out a Child Survival/Nurtition intervention we can start in, uh, June. I'm bummed though-- was looking forward to getting out into the village/countryside, camping and walking and taking pictures. Ah well. I never get the fun stuff... Saw Bonji's new baby today-- Victoria. She's gorgeous. 2 months old and looks healthy and strong, as does Bonji. Course, the baby's wrapped up like it's 20 below-- I swear this is where African's get their affinity for the heat. I accidentally gave away my big purple Nalgene to a new mother the other day in the car. As the truck was leaving the office, there were a few people waiting for a ride, as always (the "lifties"), and they were all women, one mother with a new (5 days) baby. As they climbed in the back with me, one woman handed the baby inside, and I grabbed it, but was holding my bottle, so quickly passed the bottle to the mother, sitting opposite me, so I could take the baby. Well, that was a gift. As she descended the car at the train station, she took the bottle with a big smile and said "asante ya zawadi, ya chupa, mama!" and that was that. While it always pains me to be parted from my beloved Nalgenes, I figured, if anyone deserved it or could use it, it was a new mother. Oh-- and after 15 months, they are FINALLY painting the floors of my house. I'll get that place just the way I like it right before I leave....;-) We still don't have internet at the house but Carol was kind enough to leave her satellite radio, which brings me untold volumes of joy-- NPR, BBC World, BBC Africa, World Grove, Flava, all the good stuff. Feel like a real person, being able to wake up and put on the news... man, this weather makes me miss No California...!
This is a short and old story; I just never got around to posting it...
In Masaai culture, a sign of goodwill/respect is to spit on someone; if they're really important, in the face. I know this because a friend of mine who volunteers as a nurse in the Masaai steppe (Beebs, for those of you who know her) goes out to mobile clinics there, and has been spat on many times by grateful tribe members after tending to their relatives (TB, anyone..?). So next time you're making friends with a Masaai, just be ready.... Also, have gotten various pieces of bad news from home lately, and just want to send my love and support as best I can from here. This is THE hardest part of being away-- I can't be there to help, can't even call. So those of you involved, keep me posted and know that you're in my thoughts and heart....
Imagine this: 11 brightly-colored white people trudging through the rain, over muddy roads, through fishing villages, through farms, then up the crest of a hill, only to sit on a pile of rocks and a nasty variety of stale bread assortments while gettng soaked. What do you call that: a hike and a picnic, Kigoma-style.
Personally, I loved it, cause it was cool and rainy. The clouds broke once in a while and we had a great time. The best was coming back. Being adventurous, of course we couldn't take the same route back, so we decided to go around the hills and drop back down through the west villages. Only, there is no way AROUND the hills. So we ended up in a 30-minute scramble up the face of a cliff so steep that 3 steps and the dozen people around suddenly vanished into the tall grass and your only guide was the grunting noises all around you. You had to grab the tall grass in clumps to pull yourself up, and don't look down-- it was a straight 500-foot drop into the world's deepest lake. The funny part was the parade. We did descend into the west villages, and of course, all the kids and people ran screaming from their huts to see the parade. In the lead was Team Long-Legs, headed by Meck and Eegs. Next was Team Jamaica (the 3 dreadlocked ladies: 1 Canadian, 1 Danish, 1 Ugandan). Pulling up the rear was Team Princess, with those who prefer to wear brightly-colored long tight skirts or better, all white embossed floral outfits, for rainy-day hiking, complete with parasols (not ponchos-- i'm not kidding). I got some footage-- hopefully you'll see it one day...
OK, so yahoo seems to be up and running again; let's go back to that address. Sorry-- believe me, this is the least fun for me. Still no net at home, either.
Spent Easter holidays in Zanzibar and I can’t believe in the year I’ve been here I’ve only been twice. If I had my way (and about $500 extra), I’d go every month. It’s amazing. Must be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Every beach is sugary white sand, turquise and lapis waters so blue they almost hurt your eyes, amazing seafood and some of the best snorkelling I’ve ever done. The beach resorts are amazing too—cabanas on the beach, sipping cocktails watching the sunset as dhows sail by, the whole thing.... so decadent. I took some B/W photos of Stone Town (real film, not digital), but have no idea where to develop it—wonder how they came out. Stone Town reminded me off Havanna and Kathmandu--crumbling buildings and winding alleys. They have a fish market in town on Friday nights, and you wander the lantern-lit tables laden with skewers—beef, squid, octopus, lobster, prawns, all kinds of fish—pick what you want and they grill it. You can get stuffed for about $3.
The kids of Znz are also amazing—the only kids I’ve ever seen anywhere in the world who want you to take their picture—they actually chase you down, shouting “piga pikcha! piga pikcha!” Shopping is actually fun too—things aren’t expensive there (yet). I bought a bedspread, curtains, a few clothes and some Zanzibar scarves—nice to be able to shop (in Kigoma, all the clothes are either way too big or way to African—the tailors only know how to make those big flourishing katenges). The island is also overrun with cats—and this time of year, the Danes. Only 5M Danes in the world and I think half of them were in Zanzibar last week. (Nice people—they forget they’re white and roast in the sun, but just don’t feed the cats at dinner; they don’t like that ;-). Will definately be going back as soon as is humanly possible. So now it’s back to the grind in K-town—still too much work to be done in too little time, but at least it’s cool and green and rainy now. Oh—and I’ve been adopted by a neighbor’s cat (this happened about a week after the neighbor stopped feeding him). There are three cat-loving women in the house now, so he’s living large and I swear he’s already put on weight. His name is Nemo (obviously, the neighbor’s kids named him), but he’s definately a ladies’ man. Got to ride in Carol’s super-fly sea kayak last weekend too—sooooo cool. We paddled around, went swimming at a nearby beach, and got caught in a storm. Man, I gotta get one of those things. If Aqua Lodge were to open kayak rentals, they’d make a fortune. So if any of you want to send me an inflatable kayak by airmail, I wouldn’t get mad or anything..... That’s all the news for now...oh-! Just found out Bongi, one of our staff, just had a baby girl.....right on.
Hey guys,
Just a note to let everyone know I have no Skype capabilities to call overseas now, as my home internet connection is down. The business is changing providers, and it looks like that may take a few weeks-- :-( But feel free to call my mobile, if you like...;-)
So Revo, our Roots and Shoots guy, comes by my office and I notice his new beard he's sporting. He tells me "yeah, it's ok, but it takes a lot of water." Huh..? "Yeah, for washing, you have to use a lot of water. And you have to care for it, keep it short, or it will be like this [he pantomimes a long beard], and you will be like Osama, and then George Bush will get you and say 'hey! you are Osama!' and you will say 'no! I am not Osama!' but he will [he claps his hands, like handcuffs or quick death....]. Who knew facial hair had become so political...
This is a special shout out to my sister Lil and my dad Richard: happy birthday, you two! I wish I could be there to celebrate with you, but next year at the big bash for sure....
(Before I left for the airport, I texted friends in Kigoma and asked them all to cross their fingers so I’d get on the plane, and lo, it worked!)
Actually made it on the flight back to Kigoma, despite the dire warnings from all the travel agents about the Bishop’s funeral in Tabora overloading all the flights till Monday—they even let me throw on all my extrememly excess baggage, no charge (last minute miracles). Came home, and the local missionary doctor and his wife found me and gave me a lift home. Their youngest of three girls sat between the front seats, facing backwards, talking to me while stuffing peanuts in her face (when I’d day “dont’ eat the plastic” from the bag she was chewing through, she’d just open her mouth, as clearly it was my job to pick the pieces off her tongue. She’s two and was bouncing along on the console thing, so seat belt, nothing, as we bumped and swayed along the unpaved roads—I could just see all my sisters/family/friends with babies having a stroke at so unrestrained a child in so unsafe a car and trecherous roads...I admit I had to fight the urge to grab her and hold her down in the seat.) We argued over who was funny and who was silly; I was crushed when she insisted she was “the funniest” and I was silly “because Carla told me” (those who know me know what a blow this was for me). I came home to a new tenant—an American grad student (long-term female tenant #4), showered and put on my white Ethipoian shift dress, wandered my garden brimming with mchicha and new lettuces, watched the kids playing on the trampoline out back while I cut onions and garlic for dinner (“hey Pooh!”), the sun set blazing in gold and fuschia over the lake, the Be Good Tanyas on the stereo, and I am home....
So it is pronounced “suh-BOO,” which of course pleases me. Funny things: my office booked me on Cebu Pacific, like my itinerary says, but only on the return flight from Cebu—it’s Philippine Air going (good thing these airports—yes, two domestic airports—are only 10 minutes apart. And Filipino men are flirty—every security guard, every taxi driver, every cop at the airport: “you are travelling today?” “Yes.” “You are alone?” “Um, yes.” “Your husband waiting you in Cebu?” “Uh... YES.” “Boyfriend?” “Yes, they’re both waiting for me.” It’s nice to be in a tropical place of little brown people (and I mean little) who don’t point/gawk/gasp/stare as you walk down the street. And who knew the Spanish were here for like, 300 years? So much Spanish in the language, down to the Santa Marias everywhere and the ‘pisos’ (money). “Como esta-ko,” “pero,” “que es” and “hola” pepper the speach, “Kilithe” means “tickle” (learned during massage—had two already), and REO Speedwagon never had it so good. Every cab driver, every spa/massage girl, every clerk can sing the words...”the night’s so lonely withooooout you...” And my favorite so far: “I love the sing, but the sing don’t love me.” And I’m now half-way through Me Talk Pretty One Day—holy shit, has anybody read this-???? I don’t know where it’s been all my life, but it’s been splitting my sides for days, it’s so funny..... must get his book Naked next....
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