location, location, location

It’s been a strange couple months being back in America.
Having left and returned to Gordon before, that campus very much feels like a neutral zone of ambiguity- of unfamiliar faces but a solid routine of classes, of introverted walks down Phillips Path with coffee clutched in my hand against the streams of people heading to chapel (which I’ve yet to attend).
It’s been an adjustment to fall into other areas of living back on the outskirts of Boston though.
Grocery shopping is still overwhelming. Grocery stores used to be such a relaxing place for me. It was always such a comfort to be able to walk around a warehouse full of comfort foods and being able to see them there, available, but not need to buy them or gain the calories from them. It was nice just to know that your old friends were there- quietly sitting on their respective shelves. It was nice- the organization, the lighting, the availability and variety. Now- every time I walk into a grocery store, I have flashbacks of what the grocery store was like in Mukono- I miss City Shoppers. I miss the deodorant and perfume behind the counter- as if was contraband like cigarettes. I miss the mango ice cream in the freezer and the SPLASH juiceboxes, fresh bread, strange ginger cakes, and Harry Potter wide ruled miniature notebooks. I miss the bars of soap that took up half an aisle and the wall of single rolls of toilet paper, the flamingo print BIC lighters and handwoven baskets of kitchen knives. I miss the stand of fresh fruit that was outside the door, next to the stand for cell phone air time and next to the man who sold meat- which was always bloody and chopped and spilling over the counter edge of his small wooden kiosk.
I was driving through New Hampshire last night and saw the sunset over Portsmouth and the stars sprinkling out above the treeline over I-95. And I thought back to Bemba nights on the roof- sitting on a small stack of cinderblocks on a cement roof, looking at the stars opening up above the Mukono jungle. I thought about sunset over the Kenyan compound and how I can’t remember the striking beauty precisely- but I remember watching the sunset night after night from my stoop and thinking “I will never feel this exact way again- I will never experience this beauty again the way I am experiencing it right now.” So true.
It’s strange to be accessing all these memories alone. To not have anyone around to talk to that can say “mmm, yah! Me too!” No relation and no understanding from a first-had experience. It’s strange to be walking alone and think back to these things and not know how to process, how to share, how to experience this again. It’s strange to sense the presence of these experiences, this past, without context. Without ability to return.


I am starting to sense your location
You are somewhere in the basement
Beating on a makeshift drum kit  Freelance Whales

don't wait for me

don't wait for me- by Josh Garrels

january to march in Beverly:
lightning paced quad of classes.
full dedication/addiction (tomato, tomahtoh) to Atomic Cafe.
painting and experimenting with oils.
turning my dining room into a studio.
moving apartments down one block.
new job as bartender :)
lovely thursday morning study dates with The Gibbons.
beautiful, precious moments with Becks & Co.
living without constant computer access. so nice.
new Canon Rebel
first encounter with high heels and Long Islands...
played my first coffee house performance
curry cookoff in Bangor
shaved hair growing out to stylish rocker/swoosh stage.

life back in America has been strange.
while my one word for my experiences in Africa was "more" (more challenging, more beautiful, more surprising, more relaxed, more comfortable, etc.) my word for re-adjusting to life Stateside is "strange" (strange how easy, strange how difficult, strange how unfamiliar and strange how routine...).
my neutral zone is school- having left and come back there multiple times with transfers and what, it feels like "home plate" to be back there...but everything else has a hint of "odd" to it.
i was at a show in Cambridge about a month and a half ago and as my roommate was showing me where the bathroom was, i swung the stall door open to see a small hole in the ground (where the old plumbing for the toilet had USED to run through...). before seeing the fully funtioning toilet in the corner, my immediate mental reaction was "oh, well alright. no big deal..." (yes, i did see the toilet before assuming the position over the hole in the ground as i did so frequently in Uganda/Rwanda/Kenya). there were no complaints from the establishment that night, however- i realized just how unadjusted to American life i still really was- even at a show, back in Boston, with friends, out for a typical night- i still had to double check myself from falling into "African routines".
i was recently talking to friend who has been touring with a band in Europe, and my roommate called him out on so nonchanantly chatting up his upcoming Australian tour. he pointed out that it was difficult to talk very enthusiastically about upcoming shows/tour dates because it's hard to hype up something until you're in the middle of it. even after the European tour, he just kind of shrugs his shoulders when talking about the sold out Vienna shows. i identify: i have been criticized for not playing up my trip to Uganda. not talking about it much. prior to travelling, i rarely talked about it- mostly out of self preservation to not build up expectations for myself. and since returning, i haven't wanted to be That Girl who is constantly starting conversations with "Well, in Uganda..." and i haven't wanted to compare the two cultures...resulting in a lot of silence. and it's so true: only in the middle of the red dirt and flying grasshoppers in the shower and loose goats on the road to the market and in the living room with my Mukono host family did it hit me that i was LIVING in Africa..that "this was my life!" and now... it just feels so far away. so out of reach. so evasive to my abilities to describe it to others.
and i find myself constantly checking airfare to see how soon i could possibly get back.
but at the same time...i have just moved to a new apartment...began a new job...fallen into new friendships...and picked up old relationships as well...
and i find myself stuck with what Pandora dished me out tonight from Josh Garells:
"Please don't wait for me,
I ain't comin' back again.
I cannot turn around
from the place I'm going to where I've been" (at least not yet...)

of Cabot Street

there is a small, third story, two bedroom apartment - with three girls sharing one room, a tiny but functional kitchen, and a linoleum covered "dining room" which has been simply converted into a dance room by the strategic placement of a stereo.
there is an old, crass man named Sunny. he has a snowblower and helps us dig our cars out of our side-street parking.
there are sleeping trees- which stand white with blossoms in the spring, and white with snow right now- and all year long they stand sparkling and whispering with small white "christmas" lights strewn their branches.
there is a circus mural painted on the side of the old-time Cabot Street theater- which only ever plays one film at a time, and is currently hosting a number by Cher.
there is the bicycle repair shop.
the consignment shop.
the organic cafe.
the other organic wrap cafe.
there is the italian-styled, over priced, red chaired coffee shop.
there is Montserrat school of Art- ever quaking with the works of right-brained Beverly residents, with their lip rings and paintbrushes.
and there is Atomic. "The Friendliest Place in Town." Atomic Cafe; where the baristas know my name and invite Heidi and i to such events as welcome-to-your-new-apartment dinners, music nights complete with upright bass and accordian, concerts in Cambridge featuring the band which all the Atomic-guys play in, and Record Night- which marvelously featured a narrated vinyl of heart murmurs. yes, heart murmurs (and that was the one we listened to ALL the way through). Where an old couple starts talking to you just because they overhear the mention of Maine in your conversation, and they end the icy evening by giving you a business card and offering you a job. Where latte/foam art is still practiced. Where local art, Stan Rogers or The Decemberists, and the smell of on-site roasted coffee beans surrounds you.
we are the in crowd. come one. come all.

from Kenya, with love.

Who:
Martin; 21 yr old Volunteer Mentor
Wilfred; 23 yr old Agricultural Development Coordinator
Maureen; hilarious God-send of a cook and washing woman
Pauline; single mother teacher
Lin; 28 yr old Chinese volunteer from Germany
Me; 21 yr old American from Uganda

What:
Volunteer project in community development

When: Dec. 15 to Jan. 5

Where: HAVOCO compound, top of the Hill, Wagusu Village, Bondo District, KENYA

Ready. Set. Go.

12.17.2010
the kids had a blast discovering my tattoos and petting thm- then flapping their arms around mimmicking birds like the ones on my foot.. taught al the kids to make fish faces…then joke of all jokes: Pauline had me ”teach maths” (me, the most numerically challenged person on the planet, teaching addition to the kids that don’t speak English…) also: i have committed to not shaving until I get to Sweden. I haven’t since i left Mukono anyway, i see no point in starting now.
12.18.2010
from The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho: ”No heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.”
Math problem: 3 people need to pay 180Kshs each on a bus to Kisumu. 2 decide to cover the fee for the 3rd…one pays 500Kshs for himself and ½ of the 3rds fee…then changes his mind and pays for 2 people. Needs change. The second pays 200Kshs to cover her fee, gives 90 to the 1st, asks for change. Ticket man is confused. Can’t imagine why.
12.20.2010
Martin took me to town today to see all the gold mines, and i came back to find Maureen washing all my laundry. She even did my delicates…bless her heart. ☺ i feel like i have lost MY language here, living on the compound entrenched in broken English, bits of Chinese and German, KiSwahili and the local language: Dmluo. I feel like i have severed all connection to MY mother tongue…
12.21.2010
thought process today: wake up homesick. Brainstorm finding a way to contact Ben & Sean, borrow a few hundred dollars, say ’screw it’ to Sweden and jump a plane to be home for Christmas. Take stock of fact that it will be ridiculous…that i will waste a paid-for ticket to Sweden, will disappoint Beatrice and let down all the people back home who supported me coming here, and let down this program. Reject thought. Take bucket bath. Dance to phone radio with Maureen and realize: i CAN, in fact, do this.
12.22.2010
this afternoon i drew elementary-style drawings of butterflies and boats and birds for the kids to colour in, since they have no colouring books. The donkey drank my bathwater tonight…furry bastard.
…and from there, sitting at the plain wooden table in the yard (still holding all the ½ eaten remnants of dinner), seeing the white plastic chair across from me just barely lit by what starlight can reach it- i think: maybe i should take a picture of this romantic glow of stars on plastic on a Kenyan night- until i see: a chair is still a chair. Even when there’s no one sitting there. Even when it’s dirt smudged plastic is glowing clean as doll porceline in the gentle light of the stars…but of course, ”starlight” does not have the same kind of maturity and poetic effect as the moon, ergo:

a chair
in the moonlight
is still a chair.

12.23.2010 turning point
today i was in all my glory as i ”taught colouring” to the kids. I was elated as i dispensed handfuls of crayolas to the kids and watched them fill in the pictures i drew. I almost cried seeing the pride in their eyes as they held up their pictures for me to ”grade” with a thumbs-up sign. it was beautiful. A true transformation, of white pages to coloured creations, and of my attitude here in Kenya.
12.25.2010
from Paul Auster’s ”The Locked Room”
…there was a certain pleasure in this, i believe- to experience language as a collection of sounds, to be forced to the surface of words where meanings vanish- but it was also quite wearing, and it had the effect of shutting me up in my thoughts…
12.28.2010 (un)HolyNight
the opened child’s game and the
boss’ neck tie lie discarded
in the same pile under a tree
of glitter and anniversary ornaments

the scent of cinnamon and
stale perfume crawls up the chimney-
blocking Santa’s way with all
of the weight of holiday temptations.

The party’s over. Downstairs the record
Is still spinning beside a bowl
Of tinsel and tangerines…
Silent night. Holy night.

12.29.2010
helped with HAVOCO budgeting plans for 2011 term and started to look into revisions for the diet of the feeding program…
my legs are getting really hairy.
I feel fat from chapati.
My face is breaking out.
My feet look (and smell) like hell.
But God is good.

of mangoes and Nabokov

back in Nairobi. off to istanbul --> stockholm in just a few short hours!

i left behind the lakeside, but dusty, village of wagusu by night bus yesterday. it was a difficult (but in a few hours after treating myself to a real shower and a bar of chocolate, i'm sure i'll also say "rewarding") 19 days of surprises and challenges (including lack of water and cockroaches and latrines). i am sorry to leave behind a wonderful staff at HAVOCO - Home Adventures Volunteer Organization and Community Development Project- and the bright, toothy grins of all the children.
by day, at our little compound overlooking THE most glorious view of Lake Victoria and the surrounding mountains, i "taught colouring" to the 20ish kids at the centre- drawing boats and elephant butts and rocket ships each night by the light of my peppermint candle (thanks Mona & Michael!) for the kids to fill in with crayons the next morning. and by night, Wilfred (the agricultural development manager) and i would enjoy our dinner under the whole sprinkling of stars that the Kenyan sky has to offer.
there were many lonely and awkward moments, ergo my completion of a vast reading list from the cement stoop of my small room:
the alchemist- paulo coelho
the girl who kicked the hornet's nest- stieg larsson
She- Saul Williams (multiple times)
the new york trilogy- paul auster
the talking horse and the sad girl and the village under the sea- mark haddon
and approximately 30 short stories by Vladimir Nabokov

but despite the challenges, God provided many small reprieves, tender moments bursting with simply beauty- like Wilfred returning from the afternoon market on several occasions to set before me a bowl of fresh, juicy sweet mangoes as i lost myself in afternoons with my Russian literature.
i promise to write more, but for now i can't seem to quite step away far enough to properly mold the past 3 weeks into words...and in any case,
"sooner or later i will run out of words, you see.
everyone has just so many words inside him." (Paul Auster, city of glass)

radio silence

Joke of all jokes: someone from the campus maintenance crew decided, just yesterday afternoon, to install a mirror in our bathroom. As if, after this entire semester of checking ourselves out in random windows and shards of broken mirror only big enough to see parts of your face at a time, we really want to see what we look like now after our semester of dirt and greasy foods and sunburns. Very funny, UCU.

I apologize for the silent treatment I've been giving this blog site the past few days… Life has been running at rapid speed these last couple weeks that we have had on campus. Finals are over, I've started a collection box of unwanted clothing under my bed, and our dorm rooms look like the aftermath of a mild hurricane with all our clothes half packed and ziplocks suffocating all free space.

It has been a flurry of activity these past couple weeks around campus with the impending farewell looming over all our heads. I met a sterling group of individuals just about a week ago at a house party. After climbing a mountain to their place later in the week, they showed us around their used-to-be-hotel-now-rented-out-by-students apartments, took us a to a balcony of one of their friends' place to dance, and pointed out the night lights of Kampala and the dark abyss that was Lake Victoria under the moonless night in the distance. It has been a week of new friends, chilling with old friends, watching children throw stones at monkeys, laughing at the frazzled comments of all of USP students going slightly crazy here with the stress of the end of the semester, and eating all the chapati we can get our hands on- now that we realize we'll never be able to eat Rolex properly outside of Uganda. We have fought grasshoppers for showering rights, swapped clothing up and down the hallway of our dorm, said goodbye to host families, done our laundry by hand for the last time (I have decided I will pay someone in Kenya to do mine. I am so over this part of Africa!), and started going camera happy in efforts to capture all the little things we have been taking for granted all semester. There is excitement and heartache and a chaotic "cluster-cuss" (Fantastic Mr. Fox) of other emotions all jumping around our little community as sporadically and unpredictable as the twitching grasshoppers that have invaded our place like the plague of the Old Testament. (those little buggers may taste good, but I've decided that's about all they've got goin' for themselves)

Other events of the past few days:
- Read aloud at Poetry Night- the final one of the semester. We set up desks on the open porch balcony of M-block and under one florescent light at an old wooden podium, surrounded by friends and strangers I've met through the various poetry readings I've attended, I was liberated. Completely.
I read aloud two poems I'd done this semester- one that I've posted, another that I wrote that day. And received the best feedback I could have imagined, and two pieces of candy :)
- The Bemba Boys headed up to Gulu last weekend for an introduction ceremony and gave Mark and I keys to their rooms. While the cats were away, Mark took it upon himself to throw a little house party… then a whole army of us went out dancing and I had two profound thoughts in my "Friday-night-state" of my mind:
1. How many people would have to be on this rooftop club before we got too heavy for the roof to actually hold us up?
2. There is a whole level of solidarity among dancers- this out-of-world connection that is just unique to every other scenario of strangers meeting. Now I've met strangers and had the time of my life in coffee shop conversations with bikers fresh from the road, taking a break for a sip o' Joe…there were the 3 wayward pilgrims I met at the Source of the Nile…and there's the occasional meeting on various forms of public transportation…but meeting other dancing fools at clubs in Uganda- now THAT's interesting. Friday night without our usual defensive line of Bembians watching our backs left us mzungu ladies vulnerable to…well…everyone. Now usually, that's an intimidating factor- being the only mzunugu in a club draws in attention that is generally undesired. However, something must have been in the air last Friday as everyone that approached us seemed to just be chill with dancing and carrying on with the evening respectfully refraining from inappropriate comments or advances. I spent hours having flashbacks to scenes of Save the Last Dance as I kicked it with Innocent and Isaac- two random gents with impeccable moves. We literally drew a circle of onlookers. Pretty cool. But I digress, there is this whole level of understanding and communication with people here that I meet at clubs- you don't need to know anyone's name, you don't need to know their profession, nothing about them is relevant if they can move their feet and keep the beat. Beautiful. Rooftop dancers: UNITE!
- I had a pair of pants made…African style.
- Photo shoot with Lauren
- Girl-bonding night of epic proportions with my crew: Taui, Esther & Lauren. We’re like Sex in the City…or maybe Celibacy in the Jungle is more appropriate…either way, I've been elected Carrie Bradshaw. After a certain Ugandan male tried to play not just one, but two of us (what was he thinking?)- we were brainstorming what sort of vengeance to seek…and Lauren had the brilliant, overly-sweet-chocolate induced revelation: "I know! Let's pour water in his bed!" <--(meredith/heidi: you'll appreciate that all I could think of was the Kate Nash song; "intelligent input darling/why don't you just have another beer then?")…after rejecting that juvenile attempt at a subliminal message prank, I Gossip Girl style texted my sister and Lauren and I headed to town to buy a ridiculous pair of panties which we all four signed and sneakily left on said Ugandan male's pillow..."from the girls!"…an appropriate response to the nature of his douchebaggery. To our surprise, upon visiting his hostel later that evening, we found that the light socket that has been pointedly empty all semester long, of all nights, finally had a light bulb installed in it and was casting a spotlight on the panties we had left which were GLUED TO THE WALL. Ergo the new version of the phrase "Hurry up before the fat lady sings…" becoming "Hurry up, before the panties are glued to the wall." At that point the whole situation just turned a whole corner of ridiculous that nothing could be taken seriously or furiously anymore. At least we got the last laugh.
- I met another prince. That makes four.

I had to do a capstone project this week for my Faith & Action class that was done by the USP staff this semester… it was essentially supposed to be an essay asking about our experience and how we're processing our stay here in Uganda. Big fat joke. I can't even begin. Especially while I'm not even going home yet. I can't quite step back from this big oceanic mess of experiences and cultural lessons and begin to paint a serene picture of a beach sunset because I'm still swimming- I'm here for a few more days and then start my three week solo trek in Kenya. I can't quite walk away from East Africa and begin to process yet, like the staff is practically begging me to do, because I'm still in it. That's a weird feeling.

Sunday morning we leave for Entebbe for a couple days of debriefing. A Ugandan asked me what debriefing was…I just told him, "You know when you get pants-ed? And someone just rips your pants down as a joke? Ya…it's like that. But with your emotions."
Our debrief goes until Tuesday, then some of the Honours Students are coming by to wish us one final farewell before everyone flies out about 2am Wednesday morning. I will be staked out at the airport…all day… (Bea: many thanks for the Swedish Mystery Package at the hotel, I'll be glad that day to have those books you sent!)… until my flight to Kenya @ 3.00pm. Please pray that after all this my program in Kenya is not a scam and there WILL actually be someone waiting to pick me up at the airport that afternoon. It's not the end of the world if things don't work out, but it would be a hell of a lot easier if I don't have to figure something else out. :)

From here until the point that I have access to an internet café or new SIM card for my phone in Kenya, there is no communication available to me. I hereby enter radio silence.

classroom full of poetry

Today was a complete accomplishment.
As the semester is wrapping up, today was our last African Literature class with the beloved and endearing Dr. Mukakanya- gem of a man…oversized clothes, big glasses, a cane, and a voice that makes you want grandchildren just so that he can read them fairytales and short stories. The encouraging and enthusiastic professor and lover of teaching that he is dedicated this afternoon's class to letting us "perform" pieces with the whole class. Poetry was invited, short stories, even plays- though he had little faith that we could accomplish a whole play in a semester's time… the classroom that has been our academic prison all semester (hosting every USP class that we have and thus trapping us time and time again daily in it's four blank, uninspired, white walls and ink splotch under the chalkboard which never quite gets erased) today breathed life for the first time- excited, inspired, intimate LIFE expressed - raw and vulnerable- in our rhymes, our cadences, our lines, our voices. It was fantastic to have "sharing time" with the whole class. And moment of all moments- today I did the unthinkable. At the end of class, when I could no longer remain hidden in the back corner- try as I might- the professor called on me to come share with the class. I frantically whipped out a poem I had jotted down in the middle of my beloved, worn, weathered, leather journal- and I read aloud the piece that was hidden between doodles and prayers and notes which I never thought would emerge to others' ears. I've never read anything I've written (that's that personal or…poetic) aloud. Ever.
Mark Corey- the token writer of our group whom I had confided in about my shyness of my own written words- was proud and beaming like a father should at his child's every recital, sports game, award ceremony, anything.
It was exhilarating.

My heart grows fonder, still, but weak-
weak from the always present
state of caring
observing
feeling.
When this, my heart, was designed
did the Craftsman know
to what aches it would be subjected-
what great cares it would carry?
But carry it must
must carry on, carry on
on to the finale,
on to the finish line (then)
line them up!
All the burdens we've carried
(my heart and i)- all this way…
that was the only way… to carry the loss
carry the pain
carry the cross
carry the shame
carry the joy
joy to the world,
world without end:
You carried my heart, again and again.