Coifed

Hello!

Greetings from Dar es Salaam. After a lovely sojourn in the developed world, including a week in Maine, a week in Baltimore, two weeks in NYC, and a week in Paris, I found myself on the lovely island of Reunion.

Despite the fact that I enjoy calling Reunion France's Guam, it's actually more like France's Hawaii, inasmuch as it's a proper French Department. Although, given that it is located in the middle of the Indian Ocean (east of Madagascar, near Mauritius), there is a relatively sizable landmass (Africa) between continental France and it's tropical vacation-destination. Still, if you've been to Hawaii and France, you can pretty much imagine what it's like: tropical volcanic island, economically disadvantaged "native" underclass (here not really native, but Creole -- the post-colonial progeny of intermarried African, Indian and Arab slave populations), plus lots of boulangerie's, and ample wine and cheese.

I liked it.

I was staying with my friend Helen. She's been helping me define my hippie tendencies since high school, and is now in Reunion as part of France's Language Assistant Program. This means that she, and a variety of other expats, enjoy the tropical climes while slaving away at a full 12 hours of class time each week, for a salary that we calculated to be 35$ per hour. It's a hard life. Oh--and they were just finishing up 6 weeks paid vacation.

Helen lives with an Aussie (hi Laura), and a Spaniard (hi Anna). Anna's boyfriend Toni was also visiting (Hola Toni). Languages necessary for person to person communication included english, french, spanish, catalan, and wild gesticulation.

We decided to go scuba-diving.

I have vivid memories of tropical family vacations, my bearded father, snorkeling, and the use of copious amounts of Vaseline to prevent mask-leakage. I decided, instead, to shave off my mustache.

This would be about 10pm on January 24th.
and then
This would be about, oh, 1020pm.
I let that style linger for about an hour, and decided the beard was doomed as well.
The following night, having completed our scuba adventure, and having had the day to decide that my hair looked unfortunately long without the aid of the beard for scale, we continued the process.

This was the first haircut I had ever been given simultaneously by two people, one being Helen, and the other being her Austrian friend, Elisabeth.

Tip: Be careful about letting someone you're trying to flirt with give you a haircut.

Still, things turned out well, although I'm not sure the picture does justice to the asymmetry, to which I'm still becoming accustomed. Perhaps I'll just have to develop a crush on a more symmetrically minded individual and let them have a go at it.

So here's The Ben, 2008 model, rolled out slightly late. No more Yesu catcalls for me.

See you in Tabora?

contradiction

it's true: sometimes I dislike Americans. But oddly, I love New Yorkers.

And to me, New York is the subway.

it's white, black, brown, and yellow.
it's the unlikely offspring of all such combinations.
it's the voluntary reading of books.
it's thugs producing lip balm from the sleeve pocket of their poofy jackets.
it's the copious presence of white earphones.
it's a group of 12 girls--and 24 ankle socks--straight from Hachiko Crossing.
it's the hipster who I can forgive being a hipster because of the urgency with which he scribbles in his notebook.
it's no one noticing that my winter clothes consisted of 3 shirts and a raincoat.

the oddest thing about arriving home is that it wasn't odd at all.
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I'm in York, Maine, for Christmas with the family. When I arrived there were about 2 or 3 feet of snow on the ground. I went skiing. I built a snowman.

Things both oddly close and oddly far away from recent tropical evenings.
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It looks like I'll be in Baltimore from December 26th to 31st, then heading to NYC for New Years and early January. Drop me a line.

things to note during a trip home

From gate A52, Frankfurt Airport --

holy crap, there are a lot of white people here. Here being everywhere from Kotoka Airport, Accra, and onwards. Oddly, they don't seem to be staring at me.

I'm now at least Ghanaian enough to role my eyes at the poor baby-wrapping job that the woman sitting in near me on the plane did. In Ghana, babies are carried around (all the time) on their mother's backs using a simple flat sheet. The baby is held onto the back by the middle of the sheet, and the free edges are wrapped around the front and roll-tucked at the top and bottom. The main loadbearing point should be below the baby's butt, which derives its tension from the strength of the anterior inferior tuckage, leaving little baby feet dangling out by each of the mother's hips. Suffice it to say that this woman had it all wrong.

On another note, Americans are immediately identifiable by their ability to embarrass me for being amongst their ranks.

First let it be said that I was told by my single-serving Italian airport friend, Elena, that she though I was German, because I don't speak like an American. Which is to say that she expects Germans to speak better English than Americans. But I've been told similar things several times, always by people without an ear for my obviously American accent.

But anyway, it turns out that the airport in Frankfurt is close enough to America for me to start being annoyed by Americans. This came to pass as the yankee woman behind me in the passport control line droned on about the inferior quality of her recent tour. She and her husband had done some pre-fab tour deal to see the "Christmas Markets" of Europe. What? Sure, whatever. Well -- the couple's Christmas spirit was truly tried by what (I hear) were terrible hotels, with terrible food, and terrible tour guides in Austria, France and various points in between, not to mention a tour group that "was full of morons." I would propose one of two things as regards this comment. First: rarely, if ever, has the person making sweeping derogatory comments about the intelligence of others been an intellectual powerhouse in their own right, in which case (second) she may have been correct, in the inclusive sense.

The man whom she was speaking with was an unoffensive American who had just toured Egypt with his wife.

"Oh! For the Christmas markets?"

Seriously? Egypt? for the Christmas markets? Save me, Baby Jesus.

T-Minus

First let me say, many thanks to everyone who shared some thoughts on the death of Ataa. I'm doing fine, really. As I mentioned to some of you, I didn't really know here that well. She was a friend, but also someone who I had consciously decided not to pursue because (as the books says) I just wasn't that into her. Still.

As my father said: Death makes things permanent that should not be.

So.

I'm leaving Manso Nkwanta--probably forever--tomorrow.

To be honest, I'm pretty damned excited. I'm excited for vegetarian options. Excited for other than an endless-summer. But mostly I'm excited for people.

Before coming to Africa, most concerned conversations centered on the creature comforts, and their lack. And sure: headlamps and bucket showers get tired on the second or third consecutive day, and peanuts become decreasingly appealing as the primary source of protein. But mefloquine works, and the denuded skin over hand-washed knuckles becomes thicker with time. Good friends, however, don't just appear.

My time here, and the accompanying dose of social isolation, haven't made me think twice about my desire to continue to wander the world, or do development related work, but is has made me realize that you need to take a piece of home with you, and not a piece that you can pack. You need company.

Now I just need to find someone as foolhardy as I. Tanzania? Anyone? Anyone?

See you soon.

Another Blog about Death

In some long-ago post I talked about my Ghanaian love life, or lack thereof. I talked about my quasi-date with Ataa, the cocktail waitress. I wrote about how I demured under the insistent cellular pressure of an aspiring girlfriend. I don't think I ever wrote about what happened after that.

The answer is: not much. I decided that our limited ability to communicate couldn't surmount the cultural gap between us. Still, I admit, that I have been guilty of sending mixed messages, as I continued to be flirty when I saw her at the bar, but did nothing to pursue her and consciously took ample time to return her frequent calls.

Once, at the bar, she handed me her phone. On the other end was her twin sister.
"Do you like my sister?"
"Yes. I like her very much. I think she is very nice."
"Do you want my sister to be your girlfriend?"
"Ummmm. In the US we do things a little differently -- you don't just say someone is you girlfriend..."
"Okay."

Note the change of subject, allowing me to avoid providing the real answer to her question: Not really. Also note that the "Okay" is an affirmation that lacks any real understanding of what I just said (or it's evasive implications).

At some point later, Ataa called me herself, and we had essentially the same conversation -- "In America, we do things a little differently. It's more complicated than just deciding that someone is your girlfriend." Which I suppose was my way of saying: actions speak louder than words --- please pay attention to my actions.

Ataa died last night. She drank herself to death. Apparently someone bet her that she could not drink an entire bottle of Pusher (Ghanaian Whiskey). I have never seen her drink more than 2 beers. I think she was 23, but I can't remember.

I was with my friends Bright and Abeca when we heard. They also know her, although they have never interacted with her when she wasn't working, as I have. Abeca had heard a report about the death on the radio this morning, but had assumed it was another Ataa (the casual name given all female twins), as he could never remember seeing her drink.

We drove to her bar. It wasn't open yet, but a woman working in a food stand nearby confirmed the story.

We wandered for a bit.

Bright and Abeca didn't seem to sense the irony in going for a drink in her memory. The irony was not lost on me. Still, I had tried NOT drinking, and that wasn't working, so I figured I'd give it a shot. We had a beer at a grassy outdoor bar boasting, on this particular evening, a live band and a lawn sparsely peppered with dancers, each displaying abandon wholly comparable to that of yesterday and likely to be indistinguishable from that of tomorrow. That wasn't right either. I declined a second round.

We went back to Ataa's bar. It was open now, and boasting a large crowd for the early hour. Someone had a picture of her, dead, on their cellphone. It was thrust into unready faces, including my own. A friend had made the pre-dawn trip to meet her at the hospital. He checked her pulse. He took a picture. I'm told that the she had still not been seen by a doctor.

Prince, the owner of the bar, was vomiting in the gutter when we arrived. I've never seen him drink. I'm not sure whether tonight was an exception or whether he proved sensitive to the thrusting of a picture. He loped through the crowd with a gate that bespoke alcoholic mourning, but visited my table and spoke with sober grief.

I'm unsure what I feel, and as much what I should. I think I feel that I should feel more--that the ambiguity of my feelings is inappropriate.

I'm not religious. I have abstruse philosophical beliefs about the world, that I sometimes express in a way compatible with the spiritual. But if you asked me pointed questions about classic western religion, and kept me from dissembling, my answers would be largely negative.

So what of death? I think death is nothing. Neither good nor bad. Just not. It's not scary. But if you like this whole living thing, then you should avoid it.

So what, then, of mourning? for whom am I mourning? for whom do loss and death still exist?

Had this happened a week from today, as I were on my way to Accra and New York, for me her life would have been bounded only by the dissolution of my memory.

She called me two days ago. I hadn't returned the calls. That was the last thing I ever did to her.

lupe

So, for whatever reason, I've been listening to Lupe Fiasco's album a lot recently, although it's been on my ipod since I got here.

I need to commiserate about it with someone who can understand the lyrics.

Hurt Me Soul - especially the verse that starts at 2 minutes, 45 seconds. how hot is that?

right?

tidbits

here's a few extra things worth noting about my recent travels.

Eight year olds writing songs is awesome.
As I said, I was staying with the family of my father's patients. The kids are 6 and 8 year old boys. It's also worth noting that, when packing lightly, I tend to sacrifice additional clothing for the sake of music, and on this trip I had gone full out and brought both my portable speaker (hooks up to the ipod) and, more importantly, my Martin Backpacker's Guitar.

As soon as I brought out my guitar one night, Abraham (8 years old), gaped and asked - can you help me with my song?

Obviously, the answer was yes. Yes, I can.

He had already written two lines of his song--a song, he noted, about standing up for yourself and not being a wimp. The first lines were as follows:
I'm gonna show you what I got
I'm gonna show you what I can do

Me: "Awesome! It's like a late seventies rock Monster Ballad"
Him, obviously perplexed: "Sure."

Over the next few days we would sit down for as long as he could concentrate (rarely greater than 20 minutes) and try to add lines. We added:

I'm gonna stand up straight and tall
[something something something] you
I've got the strongest will around
I support it with my heart

We had trouble, though, speaking positively about ourselves (and our strong will), without insulting the relative lack of will of others. We also had trouble putting the rhyming word at the END of the line. As soon as we tried to think of a line using Start to rhyme with Heart, the word Start inevitably showed up in the first few words of the phrase.

It was a valiant effort, but we got stuck. If any of you would like to work on the song, the chords are G, C9, G, Em, G, C9, G, D. I figured I'd go simple on his first composition.

Anyway, he eagerly awaits my possible return in January and has promised to work on his lyrics.
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Travel buddies are good people.
One of the things that is uniformly satisfying about traveling to nontraditional destinations (when you're not alone in the bush), is that you can be pretty sure that you'll meet some interesting fellow wanderers there.

Unfortunately, I think, I'm speaking mostly of traveling expats. It's difficult to quickly forge a connection with the native Africans with whom you share essentially no life context. The glancing blow that is the friendship of intercultural exchange, usually severely restricted by the constraints of understood language, quickly becomes unsatisfying. When you run into a fellow obroni, or tubop (in bambara - the prevalent language in Mali), on the other hand, it's likely that you share a comfortable language. It's also likely that you have found yourselves on that particular underdeveloped patch of dirt at that particular time at the behest of some similar interests and values.

So, for the love of immersion and adventure, there are second Thanksgivings and nights out dancing until 5.

I attended a Second Thanksgiving when I was in Bamako. As opposed to the older expat-with-families Thursday event, this was the younger, what-the-hell-else-will-we-do-with-our-saturday type deal. It was an -- everyone show up and bring supplies and we'll cook ourselves the most JV, uncoordinated Thanksgiving inspired spread in the world -- type event. And it was awesome. It occurred at the home of the assistant to the American Military Attache to Mali.

He's a 25 year old named Ben, who enlisted at 18, rode the army program through college to become a linguist, spent years in Hawaii translating mandarin documents, and has now been in Mali for a year or so, doing something military, but more interestingly learning bamabara, french, Mali-an guitar, speaking god knows how many languages, and covering the bathroom walls of his expansive government home (designed to fit a family, in a compound of houses that looks to have been airlifted straight out of SoCal) with dry-erase quotations, proverbs and doodlings. I drooled over his packed bookshelves (they get a several thousand pound shipment allowance). Obviously, I had a man crush.

It was potluck.

I decided there was nothing more American than occupied territories, so I decided to bring a little of Puerto Rico to Mali. I made Ernie (my borriqua ex-roomie)'s concoction of Rum, sugar, lime, ice and rum. Shake shake shake. Drink. Collapse.

Others made mashed potatoes, stuffing, beans, some street-bought rotisserie chickens to serve as turkey, apple fritter and so forth.

In addition to those of my generation, we were joined by the father and eight year old brother of an Indian-American third-year peace-corp-er from the bay area. There was Uno. A good time was had by all. At least I think it was. I had had a few glasses of the stuff I made. But I'm pretty sure others were having fun too.
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As for dancing until 5, I'll only say: when you're in Burkina Faso's linguisticually satisfying capital, Ouagadougou, with Mali and 20+ hours of bus behind you and Ghana and 20+ hours of bus ahead, why rest up when you can go out dancing all night to Burkinabe beats with your Austrian hosts, the Malian guide they picked up on their recent travels (who claims to speak 18 African languages, and who can definitely speak at least French, Bambara, More, and decent English), and the Frenchman on his way home tomorrow? Best that you sleep through the travails ahead of you as much as possible.

Trust me. I'll tell you about them later.