Home on Cape Cod from April 26th to May 26th. It’s grey, rainy and cold – a typical Cape Spring and as I sit here listening to NPR, my bone-chewing dog at feet, I am struck by the seeming lack of distance between myself and Africa; as if it’s perched on my shoulder and whispering warm colorful memories into my ear.
But Africa is tricky, don’t get me wrong. There are often times when I yearn for the comforts and profound familiarities of ‘my’ country. I want a washing machine, a bowl of ice cream, the scent of fall, the ability to walk down the street in peace…Yet when this happens, I feel light years from the United States. Unlike my steady stream of African daydreams when home, the US feels distant – almost strangely so – when I am abroad. You would perhaps expect the opposite?
My departure from CAR was abrupt. Leaving Africa is always jarring. The shift in culture, climate and mindset is not to be taken lightly. But this time I know I’m going back, and this time to a job in Rwanda which thrills me. It’s finally an opportunity to explore a more business-oriented approach to life in Africa with a focus on crafts! I am excited by the job, enticed by the country. But being home so fleetingly is hard.
I’ve recognized a fragmentation of my relationships, particularly over the past year. It seems I am developing pockets of friends somewhat strewn across a continent where the culture of instant communication has yet to take hold. I can’t easily call, email, skype, text, blog, gchat or even write to many of these people who have become such a profound part of my life. And my friends at home seem to have experienced a kind of departure fatigue; I’m always coming and going. The intense need to ‘keep in touch’ has been exhausted in many cases, and I can’t blame people for this. We all have our own lives.
But this question of ‘keeping in touch’ becomes ever more fraught as I feel less and less like I have a particular place to call my own. There’s no obvious base on which I can ground my life (or, more practically, store my belongings). What to do about that? Decide, somewhat arbitrarily, to settle in some location? Perhaps if only to cut down on the logistical complications of life? (How many times have I bought a hairdryer? Books? Beds? Kitchen utensils?) What will that voice perched on my shoulder start saying if I do?
I suppose it’s not abnormal to feel somewhat adrift in one’s mid-twenties. It’s kind of an awkward place between college and traditional adult-hood. Still trying to get used to the independence and responsibility yet not yet letting go of certain frivolities, eccentricities, far-fetched travel plans and dreams of greatness. I’m certainly not ready to give way to settled life, and yet it brings up questions of how much one is willing to sacrifice for one’s gallivanting.
For today, I will be enjoying a cup of tea with a side of NPR. Tomorrow I’ll be somewhere in Central/Eastern Africa. Hope you’ll keep in touch.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
One hot Afternoon
I’ve been thinking a lot about winter lately. I suppose that happens when you find yourself in a place where extreme and constant heat is a way of life. It’s just this realization I’ve had that all my comforts have to do with creating warmth in some way or another and I find myself at somewhat of a loss… Here in the CAR I can’t curl up with a blanket and a hot cup of tea – I’d probably pass out. Cooking requires proximity to fire – not ideal. Yoga gets the blood flowing and in heat like this you mostly want it to come to a total standstill, body and soul.
And I’ve missed four consecutive autumns. For four years I haven’t seen the transition between summer and the colorful fade into cold. I haven’t smelled the wood smoke of living room fires or carved a pumpkin. Instead, Africa’s heat has installed itself in my very bones. I write from my logistics office where I sit directly in front of a fan and avoid all unnecessary physical exertions.
But in some strange way, I miss the cold and the space it creates for solitary reflection.
Currently, I’m looking for another job. The fact that I write this while at work hints at my gradual yet definite demotivation. This stems from a number of factors including an ever-increasing sense of futility. No, not in the larger humanitarian sense – but in the here and now of my current job. IRC is not organized. We have no funding, we lack staff, and everyone is tired and frustrated. It’s not exactly an atmosphere that encourages engagement nor creativity.
So I’ve been daydreaming…about winter and the ocean and the inevitable question of what I want to do- I mean really want do. It’s quite clear to me that the aid industry is ‘not my thing’. It’s been a long time figuring out exactly why and I’ve finally boiled it down to this: I really like Africa. I mean, I honestly do. And the thing I’ve realized about Aid Workers is the majority…do not. It’s a fault endemic to a field which focuses on this generalized idea of ‘helping people’. Superficially this seems like a good idea. But when you get right down to it, if you don’t feel some sort of connection to the people you’re supposed to be helping it becomes something of a farce.
But I can’t rely on pure love of place to carry me through. I need a job – a source of funds, a means to an end. Currently, this entails applying to every hint of an opportunity to which I might be qualified and offered a penny for my troubles. As so many know these days, it’s a rather unpleasant task, this job search thing.
And therefore I prefer a return to my daydreams. I’d like to start my own business. My head is filled with patterns and designs for a simple yet striking collection of clothing made uniquely with African fabric. I’ve been toying with the idea of opening a small eco-tourism hotel like Ghana’s Green Turtle Lodge somewhere on the shores of East Africa. I picture a remote beach accessible only with run-down African bush taxis. There will be no electricity or running water but I’ll build small thatched bandas with large comfy beds and luxurious pillows. There will be omelets and fresh fruit served on the beach each morning and a Rasta bar tender who stirs up refreshing concoctions for the after-swim beverage.
The hotel will be small, simple, tasteful and inexpensive. It will be a destination for the adventurous – those who wish to explore. Next door, or perhaps somewhere in the back next to the garden I’ll build an open-air studio where I will make my designs and teach local women to sew my patterns from the fabric I’ll buy in the market on Saturdays or from my trips to the capitol city each month. Once I develop a rhythm, a base of successful patterns, I’d like to learn the art of batiking. Perhaps I’ll vacation in Ghana for a month where I’ll take a course and bring back a supply of colored dyes and photos to share with the girls who help me sew.
These things I’ve made will then be sold. Small-time at first. A display beside the bar – things for the beach. But as the quality improves I’ll look towards other hotels in the area and perhaps a small shop in the town. Maybe, if things go really well, I’ll begin to bring my creations to the states where they’ll be sold in a teeny corner shop in Provincetown – beach to beach.
~ ~ ~
Back here in Kaga Bandoro, I’m working on a quilt. I’ve finished about 12 of the 70 or so squares I’ll need before its completion. Each square consists of four tinier squares which, in turn, each consist of four strips of colored fabric hand-stitched together as I sit in front of the TV watching France 24 each night. I take my bucket bath at the end of each hot hot day and think of my eco-hotel out somewhere on some hidden beach in East Africa. I wake up each morning and go to work and apply to jobs hoping that someday I’ll wake up realizing I don’t have to apply to jobs any more because whatever it is I’m doing – I’m doing what I love. Now if only I could find THAT advertised on ReliefWeb.
And I’ve missed four consecutive autumns. For four years I haven’t seen the transition between summer and the colorful fade into cold. I haven’t smelled the wood smoke of living room fires or carved a pumpkin. Instead, Africa’s heat has installed itself in my very bones. I write from my logistics office where I sit directly in front of a fan and avoid all unnecessary physical exertions.
But in some strange way, I miss the cold and the space it creates for solitary reflection.
Currently, I’m looking for another job. The fact that I write this while at work hints at my gradual yet definite demotivation. This stems from a number of factors including an ever-increasing sense of futility. No, not in the larger humanitarian sense – but in the here and now of my current job. IRC is not organized. We have no funding, we lack staff, and everyone is tired and frustrated. It’s not exactly an atmosphere that encourages engagement nor creativity.
So I’ve been daydreaming…about winter and the ocean and the inevitable question of what I want to do- I mean really want do. It’s quite clear to me that the aid industry is ‘not my thing’. It’s been a long time figuring out exactly why and I’ve finally boiled it down to this: I really like Africa. I mean, I honestly do. And the thing I’ve realized about Aid Workers is the majority…do not. It’s a fault endemic to a field which focuses on this generalized idea of ‘helping people’. Superficially this seems like a good idea. But when you get right down to it, if you don’t feel some sort of connection to the people you’re supposed to be helping it becomes something of a farce.
But I can’t rely on pure love of place to carry me through. I need a job – a source of funds, a means to an end. Currently, this entails applying to every hint of an opportunity to which I might be qualified and offered a penny for my troubles. As so many know these days, it’s a rather unpleasant task, this job search thing.
And therefore I prefer a return to my daydreams. I’d like to start my own business. My head is filled with patterns and designs for a simple yet striking collection of clothing made uniquely with African fabric. I’ve been toying with the idea of opening a small eco-tourism hotel like Ghana’s Green Turtle Lodge somewhere on the shores of East Africa. I picture a remote beach accessible only with run-down African bush taxis. There will be no electricity or running water but I’ll build small thatched bandas with large comfy beds and luxurious pillows. There will be omelets and fresh fruit served on the beach each morning and a Rasta bar tender who stirs up refreshing concoctions for the after-swim beverage.
The hotel will be small, simple, tasteful and inexpensive. It will be a destination for the adventurous – those who wish to explore. Next door, or perhaps somewhere in the back next to the garden I’ll build an open-air studio where I will make my designs and teach local women to sew my patterns from the fabric I’ll buy in the market on Saturdays or from my trips to the capitol city each month. Once I develop a rhythm, a base of successful patterns, I’d like to learn the art of batiking. Perhaps I’ll vacation in Ghana for a month where I’ll take a course and bring back a supply of colored dyes and photos to share with the girls who help me sew.
These things I’ve made will then be sold. Small-time at first. A display beside the bar – things for the beach. But as the quality improves I’ll look towards other hotels in the area and perhaps a small shop in the town. Maybe, if things go really well, I’ll begin to bring my creations to the states where they’ll be sold in a teeny corner shop in Provincetown – beach to beach.
~ ~ ~
Back here in Kaga Bandoro, I’m working on a quilt. I’ve finished about 12 of the 70 or so squares I’ll need before its completion. Each square consists of four tinier squares which, in turn, each consist of four strips of colored fabric hand-stitched together as I sit in front of the TV watching France 24 each night. I take my bucket bath at the end of each hot hot day and think of my eco-hotel out somewhere on some hidden beach in East Africa. I wake up each morning and go to work and apply to jobs hoping that someday I’ll wake up realizing I don’t have to apply to jobs any more because whatever it is I’m doing – I’m doing what I love. Now if only I could find THAT advertised on ReliefWeb.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
A Short Story of Flight in Africa
There’s nothing quite like the nonchalant, we’ve-seen-it-all-before attitude of white South Africans. Especially when they’re piloting a 12-seater UN plane which, mid takeoff, has ‘technical difficulties.”
I was on my way to Bocaranga, IRC’s second field site quite near the Cameroonian border. This was to be my first experience with UNHAS (United Nations Humanitarian Air Service) and I was quite excited about the whole thing…well, until my two South African pilot friends decided at the (very) last minute to return to the airport after an unsuccessful trip down the runway. One pilot popped a window and stuck his head out to better chat with the Central African technician on the tarmac. “Hey,” he called out in his South African English accent, “Do you guys have an air compressor or something?” The technician knit his brows in concentration and said, “No, we don’t have any compressors here. But maybe you could just try to turn that knob there? Yeah, that one.” At which time the pilot glanced at his passengers and told us we’d better get off the plane. Half an hour later, we tried to take off again without success (which is kind of a scary thing btw!) and the flight was eventually rescheduled.
But the best part was the next day when we were boarding the plane and our country director asked the pilot, “So, everything ok this time?” He says, “Yeah, if we’re lucky.” Great. Fantastic even.
Picture this UN puddle-jumper, with a random selection of humanitarian aid workers from a smattering of NGOs. The plane wasn’t full, and the pilots moved some people around to adjust the weight distribution. A pretty white girl boarded and an African guy, apparently her colleague, asked the pilot, “Can she sit next to me?” The South African looked at him, then looked at her and said, “No, that wont work.” Then he stopped, as if reconsidering and asked, “Wait, you want to sit next to her, eh?” “Yes!” replied the passenger. “Ah. No.” Said the pilot adding, “You can hold her hand later.” And with that, we were off!
In fact, this was my first time in a plane that landed in the middle of nowhere. I learned a lot about planes during my short 1.5 hour flight. First off – planes have horns! We in fact made use of this function as we landed hard on a strip of bumpy dirt to encourage the villagers to get the hell out of the way. Secondly, I apparently get air-sick as I found out in our 20-minute circling descent. At least I got some great pictures! Check them out on Facebook…
But there’s nothing like a good UN plane to make you feel like a true aid worker. Especially with the gaggle of children who crowded the makeshift airstrip, coming to see the bizarre plane-landing spectacle. And actually, if my flying experience didn’t do it for me, maybe my 10-hour car trip home will do the trick! That, or it will convince me to consider a career change. Ideas anyone??
(Note: That 10-hour plane trip was actually 12 hours and I don’t know if I’d say it allowed me to cultivate my aid-worker image so much as it made me want to beg the Chinese to please please please pave the roads in this country!)
I was on my way to Bocaranga, IRC’s second field site quite near the Cameroonian border. This was to be my first experience with UNHAS (United Nations Humanitarian Air Service) and I was quite excited about the whole thing…well, until my two South African pilot friends decided at the (very) last minute to return to the airport after an unsuccessful trip down the runway. One pilot popped a window and stuck his head out to better chat with the Central African technician on the tarmac. “Hey,” he called out in his South African English accent, “Do you guys have an air compressor or something?” The technician knit his brows in concentration and said, “No, we don’t have any compressors here. But maybe you could just try to turn that knob there? Yeah, that one.” At which time the pilot glanced at his passengers and told us we’d better get off the plane. Half an hour later, we tried to take off again without success (which is kind of a scary thing btw!) and the flight was eventually rescheduled.
But the best part was the next day when we were boarding the plane and our country director asked the pilot, “So, everything ok this time?” He says, “Yeah, if we’re lucky.” Great. Fantastic even.
Picture this UN puddle-jumper, with a random selection of humanitarian aid workers from a smattering of NGOs. The plane wasn’t full, and the pilots moved some people around to adjust the weight distribution. A pretty white girl boarded and an African guy, apparently her colleague, asked the pilot, “Can she sit next to me?” The South African looked at him, then looked at her and said, “No, that wont work.” Then he stopped, as if reconsidering and asked, “Wait, you want to sit next to her, eh?” “Yes!” replied the passenger. “Ah. No.” Said the pilot adding, “You can hold her hand later.” And with that, we were off!
In fact, this was my first time in a plane that landed in the middle of nowhere. I learned a lot about planes during my short 1.5 hour flight. First off – planes have horns! We in fact made use of this function as we landed hard on a strip of bumpy dirt to encourage the villagers to get the hell out of the way. Secondly, I apparently get air-sick as I found out in our 20-minute circling descent. At least I got some great pictures! Check them out on Facebook…
But there’s nothing like a good UN plane to make you feel like a true aid worker. Especially with the gaggle of children who crowded the makeshift airstrip, coming to see the bizarre plane-landing spectacle. And actually, if my flying experience didn’t do it for me, maybe my 10-hour car trip home will do the trick! That, or it will convince me to consider a career change. Ideas anyone??
(Note: That 10-hour plane trip was actually 12 hours and I don’t know if I’d say it allowed me to cultivate my aid-worker image so much as it made me want to beg the Chinese to please please please pave the roads in this country!)
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