Drama, drama, drama- since when do I have a dramatic life? I'll tell you- since never! Oh, I know, I travel a fair bit, but it usually doesn't come with much drama. In fact, in a lot of ways, travel is a great way to AVOID drama. Perhaps in my old age I'm simply more stressed out by the little things? Perhaps.
My sublease with Amy ended last week, and a new location has yet to come through for me. Living out of my car has officially lost it's charm, and I'm ready to NOT be homeless again. Amy's parents have been great about letting me squat in their house, and I've also done guest spots on my friend Emily's couch, and at a friend's place on the Ohio border, but my sense of adventure is wearing thin. I comfort myself with all the cool restaurants I get to try out while I don't have a kitchen. Today it was Ethiopian food, which goes a long way towards reviving the abovementioned sense of adventure.
The bagels send their greetings. They're a little under the weather, because the kettle is malfunctioning, which makes them little more than dense bread with a hole in the middle. I don't say this where they can hear me. The cream cheese is pretty embarrassed. I recently bonded with the raisin-walnut variety- surpisingly delicious.
I do turn to food in times of stress. Sad story. But the other morning, I got a smoothie and took a hike in the park before work, and something about the breeze and the tall trees assured me that I'll have a home soon. It'll be affordable, my roommates will be cool, and the commute will be low-maintenance. Tall trees wouldn't lie, would they?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
In Which I Show Off My Family's Shorter Members
Zoe the Nissan kidnapped me again last Thursday. This time I found myself down in West Virginia, at Capon Springs, where my father's half of the family gathers periodically. The family consists of a grandmother, an aunt and uncle, two cousins plus spouses, and six children from said cousins, aged 2 through 9.
The visit started with a long stare at the six kids, while I dazedly listened to myself exclaim over how tall they had gotten. You know, you hear that all the time as a kid, and you never realize that the speaker really can't help saying it. These revelations were immediately followed by a double-serving of baked fudge pudding. Which I shall never do again, although it was glorious while it was going down. The trouble starts while it's all trying to fit into your stomach at once.
I spen four days swimming, hiking, and indulging in other outdoor pursuits. Also cards- my grandmother has passed her love of competition through many of her descendents, so in the interests of spending time with her, I allowed myself to be forcibly tied down and re-taught the game of Sheephead (I don't know if you'd deduced this, but I am not a card player by nature).
But they tell me a picture is worth a whole bunch of words. Just below is Kiersten, 5, who is supposed to look like myself and Val. She spent the whole of the bonfire in my lap- never met a stranger, and constantly inquisitive. Next down is her sister Caroline, 2, having a grand old time on the swing, as you can see. Shy at first, then dauntless once she's comfortable. Also, I think she might be psychic. After her is their sister Leisel, 4, a bit more daring on the swing. Leisel never stops smiling, and being so good at it, why would she? The boys are next- Andy, 7, who's the brother of the above girls, and has a knack for well-timed, hilarious statements, and Callan, 9, the family's school and sports prodigy. Callan's sister Kylie is posing with yours truly at the end. She's a brilliant ping pong player and a great singer, if only you could convince her of it. They're a cool bunch. Are we not a well-favored family? Modest too. 
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Of Puppies and Pyros
The car is a problem. Or rather, my brain is a problem, and the car is a catalyst. Every time I see her sitting outside by the road, I want to jump in and hit the highway. Fortunately the car is also the solution to another problem- to whit (I finally found a place for this phrase!) my long-overdue visit to Wolf Park.For those who aren't familar, I've done two internships at the Park, totalling five months, and known the people and animals there for five years. For the first time in those five years, Wolf Park has pups again- Dharma, Tilly and Gordon. The fourth little girl, Devra, tragically died a few weeks ago, of a congenital defect.
Dharma, a little black female, will be staying at Wolf Park, with the hope that she will fornicate with Wotan and Wolfgang, thus propagating the Wolf Park line. Tilly and Gordon (the above picture is one of them, courtesy of Tom O'Dowd) have a home set up for them in a zoo. All of them are characters, with their own patterns of greeting. Tilly instantly flops on her back, and being nine weeks old she has a wide range of highly expressive whines to remind you that belly rubs are no less than her due. Dharma's a submissive piddler- you'd better hope she goes before she gets to your lap. She will then nibble politely on your chin. Your nose is also her property. As for Gordon, he prefers you to stay still and provide a barrier against which he can squish one of his sisters. All of them are gifted at stepping in their kiddie pool before charging into your lap. You aren't supposed to enjoy these things, and yet... I do.
Of course, there's more than one reason to visit Wolf Park at 4th of July. Let us not forget that wolf people are mostly closet (some not so closeted) pyros. Yes, even I- just ask my high school chemistry teacher. The fireworks are a massive affair, prefaced by bison burgers, salads that include edible blossoms, and lots of beer. Chief dangers include being hit by a firework and Monty slipping one of the super-hot peppers from his garden under the cheese on your burger. I wasn't caught by the pepper this year.
After fireworks comes the pants-burning. Oh yes. Pants worn all year for work and/or butchering get very grungy, and pass the point where they can be worn in the outside world. These are set aside for the celebration of our country's independence. A bonfire is built, and designated pantsdancers are, one by one, given a pole with the pants on the end. Light the legs, and wave the pants without dropping them. Give us a show. Tom was accredited with the longest and most creative display.I'm back in Pittsburgh now. In a week, I'll be out again, to visit family in West Virginia. It's a little overwhelming, to be honest. For months I traveled in Africa, and I was very lonely most of the time. Sometimes I forgot how many pockets of family I have, scattered around. Some of them are related by blood, but not all, and many aren't even human. Just family.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Blather
Remember when I found out my skull had been in the wrong place for 18 months? That was funny. So funny, we decided to have a reenactment. Courtesy of sleeping in a weird position, I spent most of yesterday moving like an old lady, and wondering whether US chiropractors are as friendly as South African ones. Today I decided on an unorthodox treatment- Jillian Michaels' Yoga Meltdown, free on On Demand. By the end of the 36 minutes, I couldn't decide whether to throttle the little lady or turn lesbian and marry her. Exercise is always such a love/hate deal. To conclude the sordid tale, I feel toned and my neck is more comfortable.
The job search is ongoing. One thing I've learned is never to stop applying, even if you think you've got something in the bag. If you stop sending out applications and watching Craigslist, you'll jinx yourself for sure.
I've recently had an influx of news from friends in my past adventure spots. Some happy, some very sad. It's hard to always be far away when people and animals you care about are being born and/or dying. Despite the fact that I'm constantly leaving places, I am at my core a loyal person, and I become very attached to places and people. Maybe I move so much to avoid attachment and its inherent problems, but in the end I think I do miss out on a lot of pleasure by missing a lot of pain.
It's funny how travel can make you so confident in some ways, and so vulnerable in others. The hardest part of leaving a place is knowing that those people will move on from you, find new friends- people who will stick around. I can't blame them, it's the way the world works. I can visit, but it's a shallow pleasure. But as the years go by, it feels more and more sad to always be the Passer-through, the Unsafe Bet, because "everyone knows she's leaving".
Hm. Well, that was cheerful. For the most part, things are good here, and once I find a job I can take a very queasy weight off my mind.
The job search is ongoing. One thing I've learned is never to stop applying, even if you think you've got something in the bag. If you stop sending out applications and watching Craigslist, you'll jinx yourself for sure.
I've recently had an influx of news from friends in my past adventure spots. Some happy, some very sad. It's hard to always be far away when people and animals you care about are being born and/or dying. Despite the fact that I'm constantly leaving places, I am at my core a loyal person, and I become very attached to places and people. Maybe I move so much to avoid attachment and its inherent problems, but in the end I think I do miss out on a lot of pleasure by missing a lot of pain.
It's funny how travel can make you so confident in some ways, and so vulnerable in others. The hardest part of leaving a place is knowing that those people will move on from you, find new friends- people who will stick around. I can't blame them, it's the way the world works. I can visit, but it's a shallow pleasure. But as the years go by, it feels more and more sad to always be the Passer-through, the Unsafe Bet, because "everyone knows she's leaving".
Hm. Well, that was cheerful. For the most part, things are good here, and once I find a job I can take a very queasy weight off my mind.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Intro to Bub's Place
We've named our summer sublet Bub's Place, which happened all on its own. The door has a weak latch, so that unless bolted, it opens at random moments. But it seeemed to me that a ghost was a better explanation, and I named him Beelzebub. Bub takes the credit for most strange noises or motions.
Bub's Place is equipped with free On Demand, wireless internet, and a small library of classics and history texts stored here by the sublettors. Needless to say, I'm a fan, and wish the sublease didn't expire at the end of the summer. My sister would say we've nested, based mostly on the windowsill plants, Mary Rose the rosemary and Simon the basil. But since these delectable herbs belong to Amy, I still feel that no uncomfortable nesting label applies to me.
My success on the job front has been very much in line with the economy (which is now my least favorite word). Someday I'll need to face up to the fact that although my resume is such that most employers do a doubletake, it isn't the kind that makes them spring for the phone. In hiring an office assistant, do you want the sweet older lady with years of experience, or the cute(?) younger sled dog handler/dog walker/wildlife volunteer who spends no more than 6 months in one place? Admittedly, I look like an unsafe bet.
Over the weekend, my sister arrived from Columbus, I tortured her by walking her around the hills, then the next day we drove to the Massachusetts headquarters of my parents. There was an enthusiastic greeting from Ivanhoe, who was trying to figure out how to climb into two laps at once, and of course we got an update on my mother's recent Peru expedition. I stayed a day for the purposes of family time, then took the drive back. The biggest point of the trip was to transfer Valerie's car, a little Nissan named Zoe, to my tender care. V is busily following her heart to Germany, and I have no objection to taking charge of my adorable four-wheeled niece. That's how selfless I am.
And now I've returned to the various quests of Pittsburgh. Finding a job, staying in shape, catching up with friends, and keeping my sanity. Maybe I should think less.
Bub's Place is equipped with free On Demand, wireless internet, and a small library of classics and history texts stored here by the sublettors. Needless to say, I'm a fan, and wish the sublease didn't expire at the end of the summer. My sister would say we've nested, based mostly on the windowsill plants, Mary Rose the rosemary and Simon the basil. But since these delectable herbs belong to Amy, I still feel that no uncomfortable nesting label applies to me.
My success on the job front has been very much in line with the economy (which is now my least favorite word). Someday I'll need to face up to the fact that although my resume is such that most employers do a doubletake, it isn't the kind that makes them spring for the phone. In hiring an office assistant, do you want the sweet older lady with years of experience, or the cute(?) younger sled dog handler/dog walker/wildlife volunteer who spends no more than 6 months in one place? Admittedly, I look like an unsafe bet.
Over the weekend, my sister arrived from Columbus, I tortured her by walking her around the hills, then the next day we drove to the Massachusetts headquarters of my parents. There was an enthusiastic greeting from Ivanhoe, who was trying to figure out how to climb into two laps at once, and of course we got an update on my mother's recent Peru expedition. I stayed a day for the purposes of family time, then took the drive back. The biggest point of the trip was to transfer Valerie's car, a little Nissan named Zoe, to my tender care. V is busily following her heart to Germany, and I have no objection to taking charge of my adorable four-wheeled niece. That's how selfless I am.
And now I've returned to the various quests of Pittsburgh. Finding a job, staying in shape, catching up with friends, and keeping my sanity. Maybe I should think less.
Friday, May 28, 2010
In Which I Unveil the Next Exotic and Adventurous Phase of My Adventuring
A month ago, it was routine for me to wonder how closely the color of my bath would resemble my morning cup of tea, and whether I would emerge feeling more or less dirty. Life has changed since then. Obviously, it was important that I find myself a new location and start making money (which makes me squirm with displeasure, but what can you do? It's a workaday world.) So I decided on my most exciting, most exotic location yet... Pittsburgh.
Don't think I don't see that expression on your face. Before you settle into much-deserved Irene-mockage, hear me out. In my defense, Pittsburgh is a place I've never lived. It has plenty of job opportunities, especially with the student population shooed away for the summer. It's one of the safer, cleaner cities, and has a youth culture. Plus, it's not such a big city that I'd feel swallowed, like New York. But Pittsburgh's most important asset for me just graduated from law school- a roommate.
Everyone runs out of social juice at some point, don't they? For some people, it's like orange juice, and they always seem to have another bottle stashed away in a back room. For others, it might be more gauva or strawberry juice- in short supply, and quick to run out. After four years of living with strangers and making new friends every six months, I hope anyone's juice fridge would be empty. Not that I refuse to make any new friends in Pittsburgh- quite the opposite, in fact- but I need to spend time with at least one person who already knows all my stories and quirks, and who can tell when I'm indulging my flaws- and won't hesitate to swat me for it. I turned to Amy, my roomie from Kenyon, with whom I lived for three glorious semesters- semesters chockful of giant cookie runs, hot chocolate spiked with Bailey's, and impromptu dorm room dance parties.
Plus, she knows how to conjugate the verb "to defame." I trust you can see all the obvious advantages.
We haven't christened our sublet yet, but we're already very attached to it. The shower water is clear and always hot, all the appliances work, and there are no roosters as far as the ear can hear. The actual renters may return to find themselves barricaded out. My job for the summer shall be to mass allies for support in the inevitable Siege of the Shadyside Sublet. Watch the news in three months. I'll be the one in the dented helmet, shaking a machete.
The job search is officially on. Amy disappears routinely, being married to her Bar Exam preparations, and, being a fiesty wench, having a boy toy on the side. I figure it's good for me, because it forces me to look for jobs. Anything will do, possibly two anythings, depending on the hours and wages offered. If I know the patterns of my life at all, I'll be doing something totally new, for which I feel woefully unprepared. But I'm not too worried, because so far those situations seem to agree with me.
The biggest downfall of the Pittsburgh situation is the lack of a fuzzy critter in my life. At Skunk Hollow there was Ivanhoe, and at Bally Vaughan I could always rely on one of the two cats to park its pointedly-purring self on my chest or the keyboard, and rubbing a donkey's ears was an ever-present possibility as a short break from work. Here I depend on indulgent passers-by with dogs. Then there are those "Well that used to be a squirrel" moments...
More on life in Pittsburgh later. I'll do my best to make my existence here as exciting as it was in Africa. Shouldn't be too hard- it's Pittsburgh, after all..?
Don't think I don't see that expression on your face. Before you settle into much-deserved Irene-mockage, hear me out. In my defense, Pittsburgh is a place I've never lived. It has plenty of job opportunities, especially with the student population shooed away for the summer. It's one of the safer, cleaner cities, and has a youth culture. Plus, it's not such a big city that I'd feel swallowed, like New York. But Pittsburgh's most important asset for me just graduated from law school- a roommate.
Everyone runs out of social juice at some point, don't they? For some people, it's like orange juice, and they always seem to have another bottle stashed away in a back room. For others, it might be more gauva or strawberry juice- in short supply, and quick to run out. After four years of living with strangers and making new friends every six months, I hope anyone's juice fridge would be empty. Not that I refuse to make any new friends in Pittsburgh- quite the opposite, in fact- but I need to spend time with at least one person who already knows all my stories and quirks, and who can tell when I'm indulging my flaws- and won't hesitate to swat me for it. I turned to Amy, my roomie from Kenyon, with whom I lived for three glorious semesters- semesters chockful of giant cookie runs, hot chocolate spiked with Bailey's, and impromptu dorm room dance parties.
Plus, she knows how to conjugate the verb "to defame." I trust you can see all the obvious advantages.
We haven't christened our sublet yet, but we're already very attached to it. The shower water is clear and always hot, all the appliances work, and there are no roosters as far as the ear can hear. The actual renters may return to find themselves barricaded out. My job for the summer shall be to mass allies for support in the inevitable Siege of the Shadyside Sublet. Watch the news in three months. I'll be the one in the dented helmet, shaking a machete.
The job search is officially on. Amy disappears routinely, being married to her Bar Exam preparations, and, being a fiesty wench, having a boy toy on the side. I figure it's good for me, because it forces me to look for jobs. Anything will do, possibly two anythings, depending on the hours and wages offered. If I know the patterns of my life at all, I'll be doing something totally new, for which I feel woefully unprepared. But I'm not too worried, because so far those situations seem to agree with me.
The biggest downfall of the Pittsburgh situation is the lack of a fuzzy critter in my life. At Skunk Hollow there was Ivanhoe, and at Bally Vaughan I could always rely on one of the two cats to park its pointedly-purring self on my chest or the keyboard, and rubbing a donkey's ears was an ever-present possibility as a short break from work. Here I depend on indulgent passers-by with dogs. Then there are those "Well that used to be a squirrel" moments...
More on life in Pittsburgh later. I'll do my best to make my existence here as exciting as it was in Africa. Shouldn't be too hard- it's Pittsburgh, after all..?
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Home is Where the Duffel Is
This morning, during a caffeine-induced fit of kitchen-cleaning, it started to sink in what being back in the US actually means for me. We're in for some soul-searching. But not right now, you'll be grateful to hear! I owe you Part 2 of my final days in Africa, which has the added advantage of keeping my mind away from the real world.
Among the stories from the last entry, this one should have appeared- probably in the "Biting Back" section. Sheila the yellow baboon was hand-raised at Bally Vaughan, and lives with Babu and Lois, two other females. One day, she reached gray, leathery hands through the fence to me. I'd seen her do this once before, to the man who had brought her to the sanctuary years ago. I went to the fence, and after playing with me hands for short while, she reached a little farther. She snatched the neck of my t-shirt and yanked.
Baboons are fucking strong. I'm still amazed that I braced myself fast enough and hard enough that she didn't get me against the fence. Had to be adrenaline. She kept pulling, while Babu and Lois cavorted and shrieked around her. Still bracing myself and struggling, I was staring into her eyes (brown) which plainly and calmly said "Sucker". It was my shirt that gave way in the end, and Sheila darted around the enclosure, loudly celebating her scrap of red cotton/polyester blend.
Don't ever fall for this. She really could have mauled my face if she had pulled me close enough. Mob mentality, you know.
My two projects as I got ready to leave Zimbabwe were redoing the branches in the parrots' enclosure and removing the chicken wire roof of an old owl aviary. The branches I enjoyed, more or less- I get to play with an axe, I get to play with my leatherman, and as long as I dodge the nippy cockatoo, taking out the rotten, parrot-chewed branches and replacing them with new ones is quite satisfying. The owl aviary roof was a different story- I realized early on that it was NOT a one-person job, but I didn't want to take the staff away from building Getty's and Tarzan's extension, so I decided I'd just sing out if I hit a block I couldn't get around. That moment never came. Frustrating moments, for sure, and angry moments (at one point, I pulled off my bandanna and stamped on it, evidently channeling a cartoon... It's not as satisfying as it looks) but I managed the whole thing on my own. Moments that will stick in my head include clambering from the top of the ladder into a tree to reach the highest wire, chopping branches free while ant larvae rained down on my head, and moving carefully onto branches which overhung the stream, so I could disentangle saplings from the wire. My favorite memory, of course, will be when the left half of the ladder sank deep into the mud, causing the ladder to fall over while I was at the top. In order not to land under the heavy metal frame, I had to abandon ship and wrap myself around one of the poles supporting the wire, a fair distance above the ground. In shimmying down, I discovered a number of nails and splinters sticking out.
But this task eventually got done- the wire scratches stopped bleeding, I washed the larvae out of my hair, dusted off the abused bandanna, and packed my bags to go home.
Over the final few days, I took a small revenge for morning after morning of 2am wake-ups. To whit, I granted myself unlimited rooster-chasing privileges. It was glorious. Highly recommended.
The journey was so beautifully set up, when I originally ordered my plane tickets. No long layovers, not too many stops, and the whole thing would only take about 36 hours. The prices weren't even as bad as I had expected. One small complication was that I'd ordered my overseas tickets from Orbitz, which doesn't acknowledge places like Harare, so my first ticket would have to be ordered separately. No problem- I'd found an inexpensive (comparatively) ticket to Johannesburg, arriving seven hours before my first longer-distance flight.
Wrong. Somehow, in checking ticket prices on surrounding days, I'd managed to order my Harare ticket a day early. Instead of seven hours, which would have given me comfortable time to take my bags through customs, chill out, then check back in, my Jo-burg layover was now 32 hours. Oh no? Oh. Yes. At least I didn't order it a day late. I'm dumb enough.
Somehow I got through it without losing my mind. Parked my big backpack in a baggage lock-up to spare my shoulders, slept in the terminal, and entertained myself with reading, writing, some controlled shopping, and people-watching. I was positively giddy when the flight finally boarded. It was much easier to entertain myself on the plane, what with the personalized movie selection that these new-fangled contraptions now supply. I introduced myself to Sherlock Holmes (how unnerving to hear Rachel McAdams hailed by my own name) and to those computer-animated blue people that everyone is so obsessed with nowadays.
The funny thing about those long flights and layovers is that even though at the time they seemed interminable, afterwards you remember nothing about them. Why? Because you were bored. Or your mind was turned off by the glowing screen. None of those moments were worth recording, not in my head, and not in my blog. The only thing I feel obliged to talk about was my impressions of the USA, when I arrived in Washington Dulles Airport.
Well, first of all, SO many of the faces were white. I blended in. How odd. No cries of "Mzungu!" or "Sistah!" (this was actually a relief) Not only this, but everyone was speaking english. Suddenly, I could understand all the conversations around me. Bloody distracting. I wanted them to go back to Swahili and Shona, because I simply couldn't concentrate with my own language going on around me. Other little things kept giving me double-takes: recycling bins! Climate control in common houses! Electronics and wireless internet everywhere you turn, and no thatched mud houses anywhere. Everything is brightly and neatly packaged, and covered in advertising. People working in stores and restaurants are determinedly friendly, and you can control every detail of your food and drink- there's always a fat-free option. And none of it is maize meal.
I've been in my mom's house for several quiet days now, reuniting myself with ice cream, pizza, and Ivanhoe. I believe the feeling is slowly returning to the numb patch of my donkey-nibbled finger. The pictures from my disposable cameras are sad, stunted things. Like those frogs exposed to radiation, who have extra legs? Half of them didn't come out at all. I'll ask my friends to send others.
Congrats to my Aunt Sharie Geiss, now Sharie Kreilein, who was married while I was in Zimbabwe- the dress was gorgeous, she looked great, and I'm so happy that after all she's been through, she and Phil found each other! They deserve fresh cookies and tall glasses of milk. I'm only sorry that I couldn't be there, but hopefully soon I'll be able to visit! There are a number of visits I'm hoping to make soon.
I don't know where Home is. I have a lot of them, and if you read this rag, it's likely that you're connected to one. Stay tuned for my next step, and I'll watch for yours. Go get a cookie. I like oatmeal chocolate chip, but whatever grates your cheese.
Among the stories from the last entry, this one should have appeared- probably in the "Biting Back" section. Sheila the yellow baboon was hand-raised at Bally Vaughan, and lives with Babu and Lois, two other females. One day, she reached gray, leathery hands through the fence to me. I'd seen her do this once before, to the man who had brought her to the sanctuary years ago. I went to the fence, and after playing with me hands for short while, she reached a little farther. She snatched the neck of my t-shirt and yanked.
Baboons are fucking strong. I'm still amazed that I braced myself fast enough and hard enough that she didn't get me against the fence. Had to be adrenaline. She kept pulling, while Babu and Lois cavorted and shrieked around her. Still bracing myself and struggling, I was staring into her eyes (brown) which plainly and calmly said "Sucker". It was my shirt that gave way in the end, and Sheila darted around the enclosure, loudly celebating her scrap of red cotton/polyester blend.
Don't ever fall for this. She really could have mauled my face if she had pulled me close enough. Mob mentality, you know.
My two projects as I got ready to leave Zimbabwe were redoing the branches in the parrots' enclosure and removing the chicken wire roof of an old owl aviary. The branches I enjoyed, more or less- I get to play with an axe, I get to play with my leatherman, and as long as I dodge the nippy cockatoo, taking out the rotten, parrot-chewed branches and replacing them with new ones is quite satisfying. The owl aviary roof was a different story- I realized early on that it was NOT a one-person job, but I didn't want to take the staff away from building Getty's and Tarzan's extension, so I decided I'd just sing out if I hit a block I couldn't get around. That moment never came. Frustrating moments, for sure, and angry moments (at one point, I pulled off my bandanna and stamped on it, evidently channeling a cartoon... It's not as satisfying as it looks) but I managed the whole thing on my own. Moments that will stick in my head include clambering from the top of the ladder into a tree to reach the highest wire, chopping branches free while ant larvae rained down on my head, and moving carefully onto branches which overhung the stream, so I could disentangle saplings from the wire. My favorite memory, of course, will be when the left half of the ladder sank deep into the mud, causing the ladder to fall over while I was at the top. In order not to land under the heavy metal frame, I had to abandon ship and wrap myself around one of the poles supporting the wire, a fair distance above the ground. In shimmying down, I discovered a number of nails and splinters sticking out.
But this task eventually got done- the wire scratches stopped bleeding, I washed the larvae out of my hair, dusted off the abused bandanna, and packed my bags to go home.
Over the final few days, I took a small revenge for morning after morning of 2am wake-ups. To whit, I granted myself unlimited rooster-chasing privileges. It was glorious. Highly recommended.
The journey was so beautifully set up, when I originally ordered my plane tickets. No long layovers, not too many stops, and the whole thing would only take about 36 hours. The prices weren't even as bad as I had expected. One small complication was that I'd ordered my overseas tickets from Orbitz, which doesn't acknowledge places like Harare, so my first ticket would have to be ordered separately. No problem- I'd found an inexpensive (comparatively) ticket to Johannesburg, arriving seven hours before my first longer-distance flight.
Wrong. Somehow, in checking ticket prices on surrounding days, I'd managed to order my Harare ticket a day early. Instead of seven hours, which would have given me comfortable time to take my bags through customs, chill out, then check back in, my Jo-burg layover was now 32 hours. Oh no? Oh. Yes. At least I didn't order it a day late. I'm dumb enough.
Somehow I got through it without losing my mind. Parked my big backpack in a baggage lock-up to spare my shoulders, slept in the terminal, and entertained myself with reading, writing, some controlled shopping, and people-watching. I was positively giddy when the flight finally boarded. It was much easier to entertain myself on the plane, what with the personalized movie selection that these new-fangled contraptions now supply. I introduced myself to Sherlock Holmes (how unnerving to hear Rachel McAdams hailed by my own name) and to those computer-animated blue people that everyone is so obsessed with nowadays.
The funny thing about those long flights and layovers is that even though at the time they seemed interminable, afterwards you remember nothing about them. Why? Because you were bored. Or your mind was turned off by the glowing screen. None of those moments were worth recording, not in my head, and not in my blog. The only thing I feel obliged to talk about was my impressions of the USA, when I arrived in Washington Dulles Airport.
Well, first of all, SO many of the faces were white. I blended in. How odd. No cries of "Mzungu!" or "Sistah!" (this was actually a relief) Not only this, but everyone was speaking english. Suddenly, I could understand all the conversations around me. Bloody distracting. I wanted them to go back to Swahili and Shona, because I simply couldn't concentrate with my own language going on around me. Other little things kept giving me double-takes: recycling bins! Climate control in common houses! Electronics and wireless internet everywhere you turn, and no thatched mud houses anywhere. Everything is brightly and neatly packaged, and covered in advertising. People working in stores and restaurants are determinedly friendly, and you can control every detail of your food and drink- there's always a fat-free option. And none of it is maize meal.
I've been in my mom's house for several quiet days now, reuniting myself with ice cream, pizza, and Ivanhoe. I believe the feeling is slowly returning to the numb patch of my donkey-nibbled finger. The pictures from my disposable cameras are sad, stunted things. Like those frogs exposed to radiation, who have extra legs? Half of them didn't come out at all. I'll ask my friends to send others.
Congrats to my Aunt Sharie Geiss, now Sharie Kreilein, who was married while I was in Zimbabwe- the dress was gorgeous, she looked great, and I'm so happy that after all she's been through, she and Phil found each other! They deserve fresh cookies and tall glasses of milk. I'm only sorry that I couldn't be there, but hopefully soon I'll be able to visit! There are a number of visits I'm hoping to make soon.
I don't know where Home is. I have a lot of them, and if you read this rag, it's likely that you're connected to one. Stay tuned for my next step, and I'll watch for yours. Go get a cookie. I like oatmeal chocolate chip, but whatever grates your cheese.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Better Late Than Never
It's not my fault. I occasionally managed to get online in the last month, but it was with very limited time and a shaky connection that can't handle such complicated websites as Facebook and Blogspot. It's not my fault. Blame the Third World. This time...
I have a large number of stories. I figure the story of my trip home can wait until the next entry, and I'll try to fit the rest of my Bally Vaughan adventures into this entry. They've been separated, mostly for my own benefit.
The Donkey Soaps:
I've mentioned Fred and Crumb before. Fred is our handsome, humble, thinks-he's-a-donkey zebra stallion, with the donkey girlfriend, Crumb. They were devoted to each other. You never saw Fred without Crumb. Crumb, who was looking chubbier and chubbier... One morning I was greeted with the announcement that Crumb had given birth during the night. My head was instantly echoing with delighted cries of "BABY ZONKEY!!!!" and I bounced down to where they were hanging out. The pictures will be available soon. What I saw was a pale bundle at Crumb's feet- the bundle had humongous black-tipped ears, dark eyes, a puffy-fluffy forehead, and four little be-hoofed legs. My heart was instantly won. Naturally, Fred was hovering in the vicinity, wondering exactly what his girlfriend was doing.
The thing about donkey mares is that they don't like other equines- or much of anyone not holding food- near their babies. Our fears were confirmed when, the next day, Fred started looking for a new crowd. But no one else likes him. Crumb was the rebel in this respect. A few times a day, I saw Fred try to approach Crumb and the new baby, but he was repulsed every time.
Fred is a new man since Crumb kicked him out. He was finally accepted as a companion by Charlotte Donkey and her son Angelo, mostly because he will chase other donkeys away from a food source and let Charlotte and Angelo feast. They haven't been good for his frame of mind. Charlotte is from The Block. Charlotte has a crocodile scar on her bum. Fred has become a bitter soul. I still see him trying to follow Crumb and her daughter from time to time, and now that the baby is older, Crumb allows it for a little while, but he must still spend most of his time away.
Another word or two about the baby- for the first few days, we thought Fred must have been cuckolded, because the kid looked all donkey. But as days passed, faint shadows of stripes have become visible around her knees and her hocks. She's also grown into quite the feisty little soul- I watched her buck her dad in the nose the other day, in retaliation for being nudged out of the way. The unfortunate thing in my view is that she was named Cupcake. Cupcake the Zonkey. Poor Darlin'.
The situation has caused me my own share of difficulty. During my morning cleaning, I've acquired a sort of Donkey Breakfast Club around my wheelbarrow, where I deposit the fruit and seeds that the birds and monkeys leave behind. Fred has become a prominent member of the club, and until recently, he merely avoided me when I came out to add rubbish or move the barrow. No longer. Now I get threatened regularly with zebra kicks. I've chosen to deal with the situation in a manner inspired by Wolf Park, which after all this time is still my best source of animal advice. I have created the Rice Sack Monster, of which Fred is mortally afraid. The Rice Sack Monster is easily summoned by the waving of a rice sack in the air, and it promptly quells the zebra threat.
Poor Fred. I hope his troubles ease off soon.
Mongoose Viewing:
Our troop of free-roaming banded mongooses, which started with three rescued animals and is now 35 strong, do not often come into contact with snakes. For the most part, besides the meat set out for them by the center, they fill their bellies with foraged bugs, eggs raided from the various rescued fowl, and the occasional unfortunate chicken. But the other day, while we cleaned a lion enclosure, one of the staff came across a mid-size brown snake who seems to have mistakenly bitten his own coils, and thus killed himself. Not bright. Perhaps it's just as well he's eliminated from the gene pool. Sarah brought the neatly-looped carcass to the mongooses. They approached very cautiously. Huddling together, they formed a chirping and twitching mongoose mass, with one animal at the tip, very delicately stretching his nose out towards the snake. As soon as they ascertained that it wasn't going to fight, the troop erupted with squeals and chirrups, snatched the carcass, and vanished with it, presumably to tear it to pieces and devour.
Biting Back:
For a while, I was starting to wonder if I had somehow offended the animal kingdoms. They had suddenly become almost universally difficult. First, two baby monkeys escaped their enclosure during morning feeding. I must assume that I didn't latch the door closely when I was inside. Lucky, monkeys are social animals and these ones were young, so they didn't want to go far from their home and their companions, and were relatively easy to catch. Sarah and Colin assured me that everyone releases someone eventually. Still...
The next day, I encountered african wasps, and the differences between their venom and that of american wasps. African wasps, in addition to hurting like hell, make you dizzy and spacey for a goodly block of hours. I met them while attacking a group of branches with a cleaver (closest thing I could find to a machete. It was going well enough until the wasps showed up). To be fair, I'd been warned about the wasps living in the tree. I had just figured that I would see one and be able to retreat before they could sting me.
Other mishaps involved narrowly avoiding a kick to the head from the zorse (as soon as I saw her head rise, ears go back, and hindquaters start to spin, I ran for it, and heard her hooves whooshing behind me) and rolling down my cuff one day to find a scorpion cozily nestled inside. A tiny, grey scorpion. The way I understand it, the smaller the scorpion, the better to avoid it, but there it was, sitting on my ankle. I stayed very still until I could, in one quick motion, scrape it off with a rock, and I got away clean.
The final mishap, which looks like the only lasting damage from Africa, properly belongs to a different story. Bear with me- it's another donkey story.
The Tale of Achilles:
African farmers are not always nice to their livestock, and donkeys, because they're such tough creatures, get some of the worst treatment. There are 15 donkeys at Bally Vaughan, and those that weren't born there are all rescues from farms. Farmers call Sarah when their donkeys have been abused to uselessness, and she buys the animals and nurses them back to health. I'll leave my thoughts on paying abusers out of this story.
Achilles's story begins with a man on a bicycle who arrived at the Bally Vaughan gates with news of a donkey to sell. We showed up at the farm, and were led into a pasture, where a grey donkey was curled on his side, tied to a stake, listless and unable to stand. His ribs and hipbones stuck out under his hide. Sarah said he was one of the worst she had seen. He had obviously been sick for a long time- the bald patch that usually adorns the withers of a beast of burden had grown its hair back, and his leg muscles were wasted from lying still so long. In the creases of each leg, I found open sores, again from lying still. The sores were infested with maggots. Raw patches at each ankle told me he had been tightly hobbled.
I named him Achilles. If anyone could beat his condition, I figured Achilles would do it. The name was also in reference to the ankle wounds. As the resident volunteer, Achilles was my charge. I alternated with Colin to bring him food and water, and treated his wounds. He was given large doses of antibiotics and vitamins, and left to sleep as much as possible. He was clearly baffled at being touched and treated so gently, and fed so well. I often sat with him and talked, which at first surprised him, but he seemed to like it. He wasn't averse to music either, and would relax while I sang to him (Sarah's caracals also turn out to be music lovers). It was a strange time for him. He was wild about stock feed- it was plain he had never seen or smelled it before. I saw the farmer who sold him sniffing at the mixture, trying to work it out. Achilles gulped down enough that I started to monitor him, to make sure he wasn't overloading his system. He also got all my kitchen scraps- bananas were a great hit.
The morning after his arrival, he was looking perkier. His expression was more animated, and he was eager for his feed. I was feeling optimistic. But he went downhill that afternoon, following a long struggle to empty his bowels. He couldn't even lift his head afterwards. With a blanket under his belly, we tried to help him stand, but his legs were just too weak. I could hear Maxwell, one of the older staff members, tell Sarah that he probably wouldn't make it. Once he was relaxed again and headed towards sleep, I took an axe across the river and vented my rage on some innocent trees. The aviaries needed re-doing anyway.
I came back before predator feeding that afternoon, to check whether Achilles would drink some water. He still couldn't lift his head, but given his prone position and the accompanying constipation risks, it was important that he stay hydrated. Sarah and Colin mixed some bread and grain with water, sugar, and salt, and I hand-fed the mixture to Achilles. His lips were cut up and tender, and with his head sideways, he wasn't having an easy time of it, but he was obviously hungry again. That was how my finger wound up between his teeth. And in an instant, he was biting down. Hard. It was lucky that Sarah and Colin were there. They realized something was wrong when I requested in a tense voice that they get his teeth off of me NOW. Hard as I pulled, I couldn't get my finger loose, and I didn't want to strike Achilles. Sarah and Colin pulled on the donkey's jaw... and pulled... and pulled. I had lost feeling in my finger, and honestly, I'd given up on keeping the top segment of my middle finger. Donkeys are strong, famous for it, and after a while of struggling, I was just wishing that he'd get it over with, so I could bandage it and start healing.
But Achilles, confused, finally gave up the struggle, and I stumbled back. Sarah dressed my finger and sent me home for the last hour of the day's work. She and Colin would look after Achilles for that evening. There were deep gouges on either side of that top knuckle, and I couldn't feel half of the finger pad. On the upside, it wasn't in as much pain as it should have been.
The burst of adrenaline left a hole in my defense system- I woke up that night fevered and vomiting, neither of which were related to the finger. Mid-morning the next day, while I was still tossing with fever dreams and unable to eat or walk a straight line, Achilles died.
The next day, my fever subsided but I was still weak and woozy. My finger was healing very quickly, though even now, two weeks later, half of the finger pas remains numb. That second day of gut-recovery was a good time to cry over my donkey and generally gather strength again. The next day, I discovered that a woman with a sturdily-dressed finger wound can still use an axe to vent her tougher emotions.
I comfort myself that for the last few days of his life, Achilles had comfort, company, and dignity. But I do wish I been there for him those last few hours.
The Vervet Saga:
It's school holiday season, which means that Zimbabwean families who have the means are flooding into Mozambique for the beaches and the diving. Those of them who go into pet shops, or probably to markets, will see young vervet monkeys for sale, and not in friendly conditions. Some of them will buy these monkeys simply to remove them from their sellers (Note: this is not a recommended practice, since it just ends up funding cruelty), and as soon as they're home in Zimbabwe, they bring these cherubs straight to Bally Vaughan.
And when I say "cherubs," that isn't exactly what I mean. I think you know that.
Moe is our latest arrival. He's our first monkey in a number of weeks, so he can't go in with the other baby monkeys, because they would attack him. As for the adult troupe (who have their own babies), they should adopt him without trouble, but there is a delaying factor.
I talked about Tarzan in my last entry, the former leader of the troupe. Tarzan was finally re-captured, after many near-bite incidents, a raid on the volunteer house, and other dastardly capers. Rather than put him back with the others, where he'll clearly just escape again, we evacuated an enclosure of birds and guinea pigs, and moved Tarzan in by himself. He was miserable. No monkey likes to be by himself.
That's where Getty comes in. Getty is an adult female, missing the fingers on her left hand. For this reason, she's the only other member of the troupe who can't be released. She also exhibits great fondness for Tarzan, to the point of trying to defend him when the new leader, BigEars, bullied him. There's one hitch: Getty is extremely aggressive, and even more so in combination with Tarzan the Renegade. Unless we were willing to let them live in utter squalor, we had to devise a separate half to the enclosure, where they could be put for cleaning.
Moe doesn't know that he's waiting for an enclosure to be built. With no place to put him where he wouldn't be miserable, he runs free during the day. He usually joins me for morning cleaning rounds, turns up at herbivore-feeding time to steal tidbits, and then entertains himself for the rest of the daylight hours. He's been seen schmoozing with the wild troupe, but hasn't been adopted as we hoped. We don't have to worry about Moe disappearing, because he was clearly a pet for some time- he likes to play with dogs, and loves to cuddle with people. At the end of each day, Moe can be found at the visitor's carpark, waiting for someone to carry him back to the cafe. Monkeys do not like the dark. As the sun sets, he clings to either me or Sarah, until we roll an apple into his bed-crate.
Cuddling with Moe makes it clear what the appeal of owning a baby monkey feels like- however, in just a few weeks Moe will start to be a real monkey, with aggessive tendencies. And even at this age, he's old enough to be destructive in his curiosity. Sigh. But he's a sweet l'il duffer.
The enclosure had just been finished when I left, so Getty and Moe should be finding new accomodations soon.
I feel like this extremely long entry should be wrapping up soon, but there must be other things to share... For example, the baby marmosets, who were steadfastly clinging to their family's various backs when I first arrived, are two months old now and starting to be really good at running around on their own. Their faces are still grey instead of black. Kadiki the lioness killed a pair of geese who were stupid enough to fly into her enclosure and land right in front of her. The mongooses and the dogs continue their campaign against one another. We had some interesting meat donated lately, as well, which the larger predators got to enjoy. You see, when a wild animal seriously harms a human, it's usually shot, and the meat is parcelled out. Crocodile Man, the game control asshat who, nevertheless was kind enough to release our crocodiles, has recently brought us meat from both an elephant and a hippo. I might not like the policy of shooting animals that people should NOT have been near in the first place, but I do appreciate the expressions on our lions, hyenas, and leopard's faces when they bite into that kind of meat.
I'll write more in a day or two, just detailing the final day or two at Bally Vaughan and some of my thoughts on leaving Africa. This entry is already to long for the average attention span. I will say only that being back in the United States feels very odd.
I have a large number of stories. I figure the story of my trip home can wait until the next entry, and I'll try to fit the rest of my Bally Vaughan adventures into this entry. They've been separated, mostly for my own benefit.
The Donkey Soaps:
I've mentioned Fred and Crumb before. Fred is our handsome, humble, thinks-he's-a-donkey zebra stallion, with the donkey girlfriend, Crumb. They were devoted to each other. You never saw Fred without Crumb. Crumb, who was looking chubbier and chubbier... One morning I was greeted with the announcement that Crumb had given birth during the night. My head was instantly echoing with delighted cries of "BABY ZONKEY!!!!" and I bounced down to where they were hanging out. The pictures will be available soon. What I saw was a pale bundle at Crumb's feet- the bundle had humongous black-tipped ears, dark eyes, a puffy-fluffy forehead, and four little be-hoofed legs. My heart was instantly won. Naturally, Fred was hovering in the vicinity, wondering exactly what his girlfriend was doing.
The thing about donkey mares is that they don't like other equines- or much of anyone not holding food- near their babies. Our fears were confirmed when, the next day, Fred started looking for a new crowd. But no one else likes him. Crumb was the rebel in this respect. A few times a day, I saw Fred try to approach Crumb and the new baby, but he was repulsed every time.
Fred is a new man since Crumb kicked him out. He was finally accepted as a companion by Charlotte Donkey and her son Angelo, mostly because he will chase other donkeys away from a food source and let Charlotte and Angelo feast. They haven't been good for his frame of mind. Charlotte is from The Block. Charlotte has a crocodile scar on her bum. Fred has become a bitter soul. I still see him trying to follow Crumb and her daughter from time to time, and now that the baby is older, Crumb allows it for a little while, but he must still spend most of his time away.
Another word or two about the baby- for the first few days, we thought Fred must have been cuckolded, because the kid looked all donkey. But as days passed, faint shadows of stripes have become visible around her knees and her hocks. She's also grown into quite the feisty little soul- I watched her buck her dad in the nose the other day, in retaliation for being nudged out of the way. The unfortunate thing in my view is that she was named Cupcake. Cupcake the Zonkey. Poor Darlin'.
The situation has caused me my own share of difficulty. During my morning cleaning, I've acquired a sort of Donkey Breakfast Club around my wheelbarrow, where I deposit the fruit and seeds that the birds and monkeys leave behind. Fred has become a prominent member of the club, and until recently, he merely avoided me when I came out to add rubbish or move the barrow. No longer. Now I get threatened regularly with zebra kicks. I've chosen to deal with the situation in a manner inspired by Wolf Park, which after all this time is still my best source of animal advice. I have created the Rice Sack Monster, of which Fred is mortally afraid. The Rice Sack Monster is easily summoned by the waving of a rice sack in the air, and it promptly quells the zebra threat.
Poor Fred. I hope his troubles ease off soon.
Mongoose Viewing:
Our troop of free-roaming banded mongooses, which started with three rescued animals and is now 35 strong, do not often come into contact with snakes. For the most part, besides the meat set out for them by the center, they fill their bellies with foraged bugs, eggs raided from the various rescued fowl, and the occasional unfortunate chicken. But the other day, while we cleaned a lion enclosure, one of the staff came across a mid-size brown snake who seems to have mistakenly bitten his own coils, and thus killed himself. Not bright. Perhaps it's just as well he's eliminated from the gene pool. Sarah brought the neatly-looped carcass to the mongooses. They approached very cautiously. Huddling together, they formed a chirping and twitching mongoose mass, with one animal at the tip, very delicately stretching his nose out towards the snake. As soon as they ascertained that it wasn't going to fight, the troop erupted with squeals and chirrups, snatched the carcass, and vanished with it, presumably to tear it to pieces and devour.
Biting Back:
For a while, I was starting to wonder if I had somehow offended the animal kingdoms. They had suddenly become almost universally difficult. First, two baby monkeys escaped their enclosure during morning feeding. I must assume that I didn't latch the door closely when I was inside. Lucky, monkeys are social animals and these ones were young, so they didn't want to go far from their home and their companions, and were relatively easy to catch. Sarah and Colin assured me that everyone releases someone eventually. Still...
The next day, I encountered african wasps, and the differences between their venom and that of american wasps. African wasps, in addition to hurting like hell, make you dizzy and spacey for a goodly block of hours. I met them while attacking a group of branches with a cleaver (closest thing I could find to a machete. It was going well enough until the wasps showed up). To be fair, I'd been warned about the wasps living in the tree. I had just figured that I would see one and be able to retreat before they could sting me.
Other mishaps involved narrowly avoiding a kick to the head from the zorse (as soon as I saw her head rise, ears go back, and hindquaters start to spin, I ran for it, and heard her hooves whooshing behind me) and rolling down my cuff one day to find a scorpion cozily nestled inside. A tiny, grey scorpion. The way I understand it, the smaller the scorpion, the better to avoid it, but there it was, sitting on my ankle. I stayed very still until I could, in one quick motion, scrape it off with a rock, and I got away clean.
The final mishap, which looks like the only lasting damage from Africa, properly belongs to a different story. Bear with me- it's another donkey story.
The Tale of Achilles:
African farmers are not always nice to their livestock, and donkeys, because they're such tough creatures, get some of the worst treatment. There are 15 donkeys at Bally Vaughan, and those that weren't born there are all rescues from farms. Farmers call Sarah when their donkeys have been abused to uselessness, and she buys the animals and nurses them back to health. I'll leave my thoughts on paying abusers out of this story.
Achilles's story begins with a man on a bicycle who arrived at the Bally Vaughan gates with news of a donkey to sell. We showed up at the farm, and were led into a pasture, where a grey donkey was curled on his side, tied to a stake, listless and unable to stand. His ribs and hipbones stuck out under his hide. Sarah said he was one of the worst she had seen. He had obviously been sick for a long time- the bald patch that usually adorns the withers of a beast of burden had grown its hair back, and his leg muscles were wasted from lying still so long. In the creases of each leg, I found open sores, again from lying still. The sores were infested with maggots. Raw patches at each ankle told me he had been tightly hobbled.
I named him Achilles. If anyone could beat his condition, I figured Achilles would do it. The name was also in reference to the ankle wounds. As the resident volunteer, Achilles was my charge. I alternated with Colin to bring him food and water, and treated his wounds. He was given large doses of antibiotics and vitamins, and left to sleep as much as possible. He was clearly baffled at being touched and treated so gently, and fed so well. I often sat with him and talked, which at first surprised him, but he seemed to like it. He wasn't averse to music either, and would relax while I sang to him (Sarah's caracals also turn out to be music lovers). It was a strange time for him. He was wild about stock feed- it was plain he had never seen or smelled it before. I saw the farmer who sold him sniffing at the mixture, trying to work it out. Achilles gulped down enough that I started to monitor him, to make sure he wasn't overloading his system. He also got all my kitchen scraps- bananas were a great hit.
The morning after his arrival, he was looking perkier. His expression was more animated, and he was eager for his feed. I was feeling optimistic. But he went downhill that afternoon, following a long struggle to empty his bowels. He couldn't even lift his head afterwards. With a blanket under his belly, we tried to help him stand, but his legs were just too weak. I could hear Maxwell, one of the older staff members, tell Sarah that he probably wouldn't make it. Once he was relaxed again and headed towards sleep, I took an axe across the river and vented my rage on some innocent trees. The aviaries needed re-doing anyway.
I came back before predator feeding that afternoon, to check whether Achilles would drink some water. He still couldn't lift his head, but given his prone position and the accompanying constipation risks, it was important that he stay hydrated. Sarah and Colin mixed some bread and grain with water, sugar, and salt, and I hand-fed the mixture to Achilles. His lips were cut up and tender, and with his head sideways, he wasn't having an easy time of it, but he was obviously hungry again. That was how my finger wound up between his teeth. And in an instant, he was biting down. Hard. It was lucky that Sarah and Colin were there. They realized something was wrong when I requested in a tense voice that they get his teeth off of me NOW. Hard as I pulled, I couldn't get my finger loose, and I didn't want to strike Achilles. Sarah and Colin pulled on the donkey's jaw... and pulled... and pulled. I had lost feeling in my finger, and honestly, I'd given up on keeping the top segment of my middle finger. Donkeys are strong, famous for it, and after a while of struggling, I was just wishing that he'd get it over with, so I could bandage it and start healing.
But Achilles, confused, finally gave up the struggle, and I stumbled back. Sarah dressed my finger and sent me home for the last hour of the day's work. She and Colin would look after Achilles for that evening. There were deep gouges on either side of that top knuckle, and I couldn't feel half of the finger pad. On the upside, it wasn't in as much pain as it should have been.
The burst of adrenaline left a hole in my defense system- I woke up that night fevered and vomiting, neither of which were related to the finger. Mid-morning the next day, while I was still tossing with fever dreams and unable to eat or walk a straight line, Achilles died.
The next day, my fever subsided but I was still weak and woozy. My finger was healing very quickly, though even now, two weeks later, half of the finger pas remains numb. That second day of gut-recovery was a good time to cry over my donkey and generally gather strength again. The next day, I discovered that a woman with a sturdily-dressed finger wound can still use an axe to vent her tougher emotions.
I comfort myself that for the last few days of his life, Achilles had comfort, company, and dignity. But I do wish I been there for him those last few hours.
The Vervet Saga:
It's school holiday season, which means that Zimbabwean families who have the means are flooding into Mozambique for the beaches and the diving. Those of them who go into pet shops, or probably to markets, will see young vervet monkeys for sale, and not in friendly conditions. Some of them will buy these monkeys simply to remove them from their sellers (Note: this is not a recommended practice, since it just ends up funding cruelty), and as soon as they're home in Zimbabwe, they bring these cherubs straight to Bally Vaughan.
And when I say "cherubs," that isn't exactly what I mean. I think you know that.
Moe is our latest arrival. He's our first monkey in a number of weeks, so he can't go in with the other baby monkeys, because they would attack him. As for the adult troupe (who have their own babies), they should adopt him without trouble, but there is a delaying factor.
I talked about Tarzan in my last entry, the former leader of the troupe. Tarzan was finally re-captured, after many near-bite incidents, a raid on the volunteer house, and other dastardly capers. Rather than put him back with the others, where he'll clearly just escape again, we evacuated an enclosure of birds and guinea pigs, and moved Tarzan in by himself. He was miserable. No monkey likes to be by himself.
That's where Getty comes in. Getty is an adult female, missing the fingers on her left hand. For this reason, she's the only other member of the troupe who can't be released. She also exhibits great fondness for Tarzan, to the point of trying to defend him when the new leader, BigEars, bullied him. There's one hitch: Getty is extremely aggressive, and even more so in combination with Tarzan the Renegade. Unless we were willing to let them live in utter squalor, we had to devise a separate half to the enclosure, where they could be put for cleaning.
Moe doesn't know that he's waiting for an enclosure to be built. With no place to put him where he wouldn't be miserable, he runs free during the day. He usually joins me for morning cleaning rounds, turns up at herbivore-feeding time to steal tidbits, and then entertains himself for the rest of the daylight hours. He's been seen schmoozing with the wild troupe, but hasn't been adopted as we hoped. We don't have to worry about Moe disappearing, because he was clearly a pet for some time- he likes to play with dogs, and loves to cuddle with people. At the end of each day, Moe can be found at the visitor's carpark, waiting for someone to carry him back to the cafe. Monkeys do not like the dark. As the sun sets, he clings to either me or Sarah, until we roll an apple into his bed-crate.
Cuddling with Moe makes it clear what the appeal of owning a baby monkey feels like- however, in just a few weeks Moe will start to be a real monkey, with aggessive tendencies. And even at this age, he's old enough to be destructive in his curiosity. Sigh. But he's a sweet l'il duffer.
The enclosure had just been finished when I left, so Getty and Moe should be finding new accomodations soon.
I feel like this extremely long entry should be wrapping up soon, but there must be other things to share... For example, the baby marmosets, who were steadfastly clinging to their family's various backs when I first arrived, are two months old now and starting to be really good at running around on their own. Their faces are still grey instead of black. Kadiki the lioness killed a pair of geese who were stupid enough to fly into her enclosure and land right in front of her. The mongooses and the dogs continue their campaign against one another. We had some interesting meat donated lately, as well, which the larger predators got to enjoy. You see, when a wild animal seriously harms a human, it's usually shot, and the meat is parcelled out. Crocodile Man, the game control asshat who, nevertheless was kind enough to release our crocodiles, has recently brought us meat from both an elephant and a hippo. I might not like the policy of shooting animals that people should NOT have been near in the first place, but I do appreciate the expressions on our lions, hyenas, and leopard's faces when they bite into that kind of meat.
I'll write more in a day or two, just detailing the final day or two at Bally Vaughan and some of my thoughts on leaving Africa. This entry is already to long for the average attention span. I will say only that being back in the United States feels very odd.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Will crocodile stories convince you I'm not dead?
I'm alive. Thought you should know, because I'm aware that at least two people were worried enough that they managed to contact Zimbabwe, which isn't easy. Then again, I did report myself as alone in Harare before disappearing for two and a half weeks, so I guess I can't be too surprised. But I'm not dead, just far away from the internet.
Even if we had internet at Bally Vaughan, the power cuts would severely limit my time online. Now, let me stress this- ZIMBABWE IS NOT NEARLY AS UNSTABLE AS THE MEDIA CLAIMS. Several years ago, it was legitimately bad, but the real trouble is over, and Zimbabwe is trying to get back to the strong economy they used to have. Unfortunately, terror sells, so instead of trying to encourage tourism back to the country, the media prefers to speak as though the trouble was still going on. That's the truth. Spread it around, please: Zimbabwe is a fluffy, cuddly bunny.
That said, it's currently a solid third world country, and out of its previous five power centers, only about one and a half are functioning today. The defecit of power is so severe that the company will simply shut down the power to various sectors, usually during the busiest parts of the day, to ensure maximum power save-age. Mind you, the president's house always has power. I never said the government wasn't corrupt. That's the way of governments, especially in Africa.
I'm learning the art of speed-bathing, cold water being the incentive. Also, point of interest, the water is frequently quite brown. And I mean "quite" in the British sense, where it secretly translates to "REALLY FREAKIN'".
My current home is Bally Vaughan Wildlife Sanctuary, where I share the grounds with lions, hyenas, a leopard, blue duikers, a klipspringer, servals, a civet, caracals, a jackal, crocodiles, parrots, zebras, baboons, monkeys, mongooses, marmosets, and owls. Now, Bally Vaughan never turns an animal refugee away, and as I mentioned, several years ago the proverbial shit was hitting the proverbial fan. White farmers fleeing the country dropped off many of their animals here, which means we also house cows, donkeys, a horse, sheep, pigs, goats, geese, ducks, chickens, rabbits, guinea pigs, and white rats. One fleeing family brought a zore! Yes, a genuine horse-zebra cross, sterile as a mule, whose temperment is so foul that she's called simply Zorse, and they're considering mounting Beware of Zorse signs for the public. See, all the equines are free-roaming, and Zorse has been known to charge for no apparent reason. A word to the wise: this behavior is apparently typical of zorses. It's the zebra heritage showing through.
Along that train of thought, we've also got an accidental zonkey (Muffin) and another on the way, courtesy of Fred. Fred is a gorgeous zebra stallion. Fred was found in a tiny paddock, up to his belly in filth, with no company besides an eldlery donkey. We suspect that Fred is unaware that he's a zebra at all. Thank whatever gods you pray too. Male zebra have been known to kill other equines by ripping their jaws off, they are that fierce and territorial. Our Zorse's father was a serial offender. Fred doesn't do that. We like Fred. Fred just wants to hang out with Crumb, the love of his life, a very homely donkey mare.
Moving away from our free-floating equine population. My morning usually starts several hours before it's supposed to, when the rescued roosters start crowing. So. Many. Roosters. Damn them. If ever there was a time to turn down an animal... They've also got a knack for knowing when your temper is fraying, which they see as an ideal opportunity to follow you around, testing the volume and timbre of their voices. The roosters get the dogs going in the morning, who in turn get the lions going, and occasionally the donkeys. It's an interesting wake-up.
If I ever express to you a desire to keep chickens, and if you are a true friend to me, you will refer me back to this passage.
Besides a pair of goats, we've had no new rescues since I arrived, but that doesn't mean there's been no excitement. I've witnessed 3 (count 'em!) crocodile captures, and one monkey netting.
Crocs: To begin with, Bally Vaughan is right on a river, full of plump fish. Recently, a crocodile moved into this river, approximately two and a half meters long, which killed my desire to go swimming, and made us very nervous about the donkeys and sheep going to drink, not to mention the dogs going to play. The wild animal control guy was summoned (he was a pompous ass, and a total disappointment from the desccription, but that's a story for another day). He "supervised" the setting of the trap in the river (a trap built by our staff and carried by our staff while he showed us pictures of animals he'd shot). But he also offered to remove two of the three crocs we were keeping, and to release them in a reserve. Our biggest croc (about 4 meters) is a registered "problem animal," meaning that he was attacking stock and people, so he can't be released- I tried to explain this to the two baby rabbits who recently escaped their cage and took up residence in his enclosure, but perhaps Shona is their first language.
Crocodile restraining is fairly straightforward. First, get something around it's neck and pull ittight against any barrier. Next, coming from behind, sit on it and clamp it's mouth shut. Crocodiles can close their jaws with amazing force (and a horrifying sound) but in opening them again, they're much weaker. One the mouth is held, tie it shut (tightly, please), then tie the wrists behind its back and the ankles behind its tail.
Fascinating to watch. Next time, I wonder if they'll let me help sit on it at least. Point of interest- crocodiles have enthralling green eyes.
As for the monkey, Tarzan is a one-armed vervet, who continuously escapes the enclousre with the other monkeys. This might be all right, except that he's a biting risk, and has been known to raid the volunteer house. Our best strategy is to feed him a jam-and-tranquilizer sandwich, then wait for him to get drowsy enough to net. We managed this beautifully the other day... but I believe he stayed inside about 24 hours. He remains at large.
We have had one death since I came- Paddington the serval was found dead one morning, and the vet says it was a snakebite. So we make a point of making a lot of noise in the tall grass.
I am the only volunteer just now. A lot of the work is familiar- cleaning, some feeding, and fixing anything I notice that needs it. When I first arrived, I worked with a New Zealand vet nurse, but she's been gone a week now, and I rely on Alice and Strauss, the cats, for company. Oh well. At least Alice catches rats. There's some sort of humane society in town that might drop off a litter of kittens for care as well.
I realized the other day that I've passed the One Month Left milestone. It's scary, because I don't know where I'm going next. I wrote a list of all the things I'll require from my next location, the topmost being monetary gain. So that limits me to the States, if I want to be legal.
Oh, it's worth mentioning- the marmosets (which are south american, and were brought over here to be pets) have an obsession with climbing inside my work shirts. Maybe it's because they're so loose? It was already all I could manage to get them all off me before I leave the cage, now they've muliplied the problem, by being inside my clothing. Jen took some pictures, and perhaps she'll post them.
Right. My online time is limited, and I don't know when I'll be back. Hopefully soon. Missing everyone.
Even if we had internet at Bally Vaughan, the power cuts would severely limit my time online. Now, let me stress this- ZIMBABWE IS NOT NEARLY AS UNSTABLE AS THE MEDIA CLAIMS. Several years ago, it was legitimately bad, but the real trouble is over, and Zimbabwe is trying to get back to the strong economy they used to have. Unfortunately, terror sells, so instead of trying to encourage tourism back to the country, the media prefers to speak as though the trouble was still going on. That's the truth. Spread it around, please: Zimbabwe is a fluffy, cuddly bunny.
That said, it's currently a solid third world country, and out of its previous five power centers, only about one and a half are functioning today. The defecit of power is so severe that the company will simply shut down the power to various sectors, usually during the busiest parts of the day, to ensure maximum power save-age. Mind you, the president's house always has power. I never said the government wasn't corrupt. That's the way of governments, especially in Africa.
I'm learning the art of speed-bathing, cold water being the incentive. Also, point of interest, the water is frequently quite brown. And I mean "quite" in the British sense, where it secretly translates to "REALLY FREAKIN'".
My current home is Bally Vaughan Wildlife Sanctuary, where I share the grounds with lions, hyenas, a leopard, blue duikers, a klipspringer, servals, a civet, caracals, a jackal, crocodiles, parrots, zebras, baboons, monkeys, mongooses, marmosets, and owls. Now, Bally Vaughan never turns an animal refugee away, and as I mentioned, several years ago the proverbial shit was hitting the proverbial fan. White farmers fleeing the country dropped off many of their animals here, which means we also house cows, donkeys, a horse, sheep, pigs, goats, geese, ducks, chickens, rabbits, guinea pigs, and white rats. One fleeing family brought a zore! Yes, a genuine horse-zebra cross, sterile as a mule, whose temperment is so foul that she's called simply Zorse, and they're considering mounting Beware of Zorse signs for the public. See, all the equines are free-roaming, and Zorse has been known to charge for no apparent reason. A word to the wise: this behavior is apparently typical of zorses. It's the zebra heritage showing through.
Along that train of thought, we've also got an accidental zonkey (Muffin) and another on the way, courtesy of Fred. Fred is a gorgeous zebra stallion. Fred was found in a tiny paddock, up to his belly in filth, with no company besides an eldlery donkey. We suspect that Fred is unaware that he's a zebra at all. Thank whatever gods you pray too. Male zebra have been known to kill other equines by ripping their jaws off, they are that fierce and territorial. Our Zorse's father was a serial offender. Fred doesn't do that. We like Fred. Fred just wants to hang out with Crumb, the love of his life, a very homely donkey mare.
Moving away from our free-floating equine population. My morning usually starts several hours before it's supposed to, when the rescued roosters start crowing. So. Many. Roosters. Damn them. If ever there was a time to turn down an animal... They've also got a knack for knowing when your temper is fraying, which they see as an ideal opportunity to follow you around, testing the volume and timbre of their voices. The roosters get the dogs going in the morning, who in turn get the lions going, and occasionally the donkeys. It's an interesting wake-up.
If I ever express to you a desire to keep chickens, and if you are a true friend to me, you will refer me back to this passage.
Besides a pair of goats, we've had no new rescues since I arrived, but that doesn't mean there's been no excitement. I've witnessed 3 (count 'em!) crocodile captures, and one monkey netting.
Crocs: To begin with, Bally Vaughan is right on a river, full of plump fish. Recently, a crocodile moved into this river, approximately two and a half meters long, which killed my desire to go swimming, and made us very nervous about the donkeys and sheep going to drink, not to mention the dogs going to play. The wild animal control guy was summoned (he was a pompous ass, and a total disappointment from the desccription, but that's a story for another day). He "supervised" the setting of the trap in the river (a trap built by our staff and carried by our staff while he showed us pictures of animals he'd shot). But he also offered to remove two of the three crocs we were keeping, and to release them in a reserve. Our biggest croc (about 4 meters) is a registered "problem animal," meaning that he was attacking stock and people, so he can't be released- I tried to explain this to the two baby rabbits who recently escaped their cage and took up residence in his enclosure, but perhaps Shona is their first language.
Crocodile restraining is fairly straightforward. First, get something around it's neck and pull ittight against any barrier. Next, coming from behind, sit on it and clamp it's mouth shut. Crocodiles can close their jaws with amazing force (and a horrifying sound) but in opening them again, they're much weaker. One the mouth is held, tie it shut (tightly, please), then tie the wrists behind its back and the ankles behind its tail.
Fascinating to watch. Next time, I wonder if they'll let me help sit on it at least. Point of interest- crocodiles have enthralling green eyes.
As for the monkey, Tarzan is a one-armed vervet, who continuously escapes the enclousre with the other monkeys. This might be all right, except that he's a biting risk, and has been known to raid the volunteer house. Our best strategy is to feed him a jam-and-tranquilizer sandwich, then wait for him to get drowsy enough to net. We managed this beautifully the other day... but I believe he stayed inside about 24 hours. He remains at large.
We have had one death since I came- Paddington the serval was found dead one morning, and the vet says it was a snakebite. So we make a point of making a lot of noise in the tall grass.
I am the only volunteer just now. A lot of the work is familiar- cleaning, some feeding, and fixing anything I notice that needs it. When I first arrived, I worked with a New Zealand vet nurse, but she's been gone a week now, and I rely on Alice and Strauss, the cats, for company. Oh well. At least Alice catches rats. There's some sort of humane society in town that might drop off a litter of kittens for care as well.
I realized the other day that I've passed the One Month Left milestone. It's scary, because I don't know where I'm going next. I wrote a list of all the things I'll require from my next location, the topmost being monetary gain. So that limits me to the States, if I want to be legal.
Oh, it's worth mentioning- the marmosets (which are south american, and were brought over here to be pets) have an obsession with climbing inside my work shirts. Maybe it's because they're so loose? It was already all I could manage to get them all off me before I leave the cage, now they've muliplied the problem, by being inside my clothing. Jen took some pictures, and perhaps she'll post them.
Right. My online time is limited, and I don't know when I'll be back. Hopefully soon. Missing everyone.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Baby Steps
Well, I am in Harare, capital of Zimbabwe, and so far my impressions are limited. The first one went much like this: "Oh my god, there's no one here to meet me. Again."
Haven't we had enough of this shit? Really. I had thought my luck was finally looking upwards, but apparently it's a process. Baby steps. They had warned me that they wouldn't have email for a while, I just hadn't realized that they meant right away, as in "don't bother emailing us back". Me and my spur-of-the-moment plane tickets. And I hadn't thought to warn them that I don't have a phone, so contacting them outside of the internet would be a problem.
So once again, I spent the night in a hotel. I am coming to loathe hotels and continental breakfasts. But I'll join my friend Sydney in her attempts at positive thinking. I've got about six contact numbers written down now, so assuming I can find a willing phone, and the other line picks up, I should be more or less all right. Also, there's an information office in the city, so if all else fails, I could lay siege.
Right. I'll get to it, then.
Haven't we had enough of this shit? Really. I had thought my luck was finally looking upwards, but apparently it's a process. Baby steps. They had warned me that they wouldn't have email for a while, I just hadn't realized that they meant right away, as in "don't bother emailing us back". Me and my spur-of-the-moment plane tickets. And I hadn't thought to warn them that I don't have a phone, so contacting them outside of the internet would be a problem.
So once again, I spent the night in a hotel. I am coming to loathe hotels and continental breakfasts. But I'll join my friend Sydney in her attempts at positive thinking. I've got about six contact numbers written down now, so assuming I can find a willing phone, and the other line picks up, I should be more or less all right. Also, there's an information office in the city, so if all else fails, I could lay siege.
Right. I'll get to it, then.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Someday this will all be very funny...
I feel it's only fair to warn you- this is not going to be a peppy entry. This entry is coming from frustration, discouragement, and now a dollop of severe disillusionment coming from a blow to my faith in humankind and my trust in my own instincts that arrived yesterday.
I'm back in Lilongwe now, having found a clean place offering cheap dorm accomodation. The quest for a new plan is ongoing. A few options include a sanctuary in Lilongwe, a sanctuary and research place in Namibia, and what seems most likely, going to my Zimbabwe location a week or so early. The sanctuary in Lilongwe tells me that they do have space, and they have the benefit of being right here, but they are seriously expensive, so I'm not sure about that. We'll see what unfolds.
In going online yesterday, I learned that about half the people I knew in Capetown are not who I thought they were. I've always known my instincts about people were off, but in this case it seems as though my first impressions were actually the accurate ones for a change. It's amazing sometimes just how wrong I can be. About just about anything. So I'm struggling with myself. I'm in a hostel situation here, so there are people to meet, and I've more or less been on my own for two weeks, so I could use the company. But my bruised-up trust impulses want nothing to do with anyone new, I'm over people right now, and have no trust for male people in particular.
Someday this will be funny?
To pull my head out of my own mopey ass for a moment, I need to send a shout-out to my musher Karin, who started her second Iditarod run this past Saturday, and was let down by a sled. You can do everything right sometimes, and circumstances still find a way to stomp down. Karin, my heart is making a kennel visit, to give you and the dogs much-needed hugs (so if they start randomly yelling and squiggling out there, that's why). I'm sorry, I know all of you were in great shape and ready to go.
I'm back in Lilongwe now, having found a clean place offering cheap dorm accomodation. The quest for a new plan is ongoing. A few options include a sanctuary in Lilongwe, a sanctuary and research place in Namibia, and what seems most likely, going to my Zimbabwe location a week or so early. The sanctuary in Lilongwe tells me that they do have space, and they have the benefit of being right here, but they are seriously expensive, so I'm not sure about that. We'll see what unfolds.
In going online yesterday, I learned that about half the people I knew in Capetown are not who I thought they were. I've always known my instincts about people were off, but in this case it seems as though my first impressions were actually the accurate ones for a change. It's amazing sometimes just how wrong I can be. About just about anything. So I'm struggling with myself. I'm in a hostel situation here, so there are people to meet, and I've more or less been on my own for two weeks, so I could use the company. But my bruised-up trust impulses want nothing to do with anyone new, I'm over people right now, and have no trust for male people in particular.
Someday this will be funny?
To pull my head out of my own mopey ass for a moment, I need to send a shout-out to my musher Karin, who started her second Iditarod run this past Saturday, and was let down by a sled. You can do everything right sometimes, and circumstances still find a way to stomp down. Karin, my heart is making a kennel visit, to give you and the dogs much-needed hugs (so if they start randomly yelling and squiggling out there, that's why). I'm sorry, I know all of you were in great shape and ready to go.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
And After All That...
And here's the next chapter in the adventure, and I'll warn you that by no means is it the last, as you'll find out in the course of the entry. I waited in Lilongwe for almost two days, with no sign of life from the project manager at Thuma, although I sent him almost daily emails telling him about my hotel changes. Lilongwe is quite expensive, especially the modernized section I was in, so I was telling myself that if I spent a second night and didn't hear from my contact, then I would try to make it to Thuma on my own.
On the afternoon following my first night in Lilongwe, my hotel was entered by my friend Helen from the Dar es Salaam bus and her friend Kenneth, both of whom seemed to have adopted my problem as their own and had decided to check on me. Kenneth is a diplomat working in youth counselling, and seemed to have pull over all manner of things. He declared that my hotel was too expensive, and he brought me to a different place and negotiated my room. The next day, when the internet at the hotel wasn't functioning, his driver took me to his workplace, and after establishing that my contact was still MIA, we worked out a way of getting there.
Okay, to be fair, HE worked out a way to get there, and I argued. The plan which to him seemed incredibly easy and simple, seemed much less so to me. He had me taking a mini-bus towards Salima (he hadn't told me yet that the driver would take me to the bus station, so this was my first concern, knowing where to go), then disembarking at the last police checkpoint before the city. The police, he said, had the most efficient phones and should be able to reach my contact, or at least would be able to tell me how to act next. Now, I was raised on the principle that police in South America and Africa are largely corrupt, and the last thing I wanted to do was place myself in their hands. Moreover, it seemed to me there was a great difference between HIM, as a diplomat, asking people to do favors for him, and ME, as an ignorant foreigner, asking them. But he assured me that at least during the day, Malawian police are friendly and helpful.
This turned out to be true. The policemen at the checkpoint took up my cause enthusiastically, but their phones had no better luck than anyone else's. In the end, they called over a bicycle taxi- yes, you read that correctly. You sit on the back of a bicycle, and pay the barefooted man with no brakes to pedal.
I stared at the bike and gulped. You need to understand, I haven't sat on a bike since I was thirteen, and crashed painfully in the woods. At the end of the day, I'd be much more willing to jump on the back of a strange horse, or stand on a dogsled's second set of runners, than to climb on a bike. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that the old dread had actually lingered. Silly me.
The thought that decided the point went like this "You've come all the way here, just to balk at riding a bike? You call yourself an adventurer?"
The police were all for strapping my big hiker's backpack onto the bike as well, but at this I put my burned and bug-bitten foot down. No bike-taxier deserved that fate, hauling both me and that bag on a hot day. I left the big bag with the police, making sure to get a name and number in case it disappeared, took the small bag with me, and zoomed off with my biker, Girlium George.
It was fun, once I relaxed. The trail was lovely, Girlium George was a truly charming person, and the villagers nearly swallowed their tongues at the sight of a mzungu on the back of a bike. We covered 8 kilometers, mostly of dirt trail through villages surrounded by corn and tobacco crops, with goats running amuck everywhere you looked. After two hours, we arrived at the Thuma gate, where two men live. Here we found yet more complications. No one could be spared that evening to guide me the extra 10km to the camp, which would need to be done on foot. With elephants and cape buffalo along the way, both cranky with visitors, I could not go alone. In addition, the manager, who was the only mzungu at the camp, had been gone since last Sunday (incidentally, the same day I left Arusha) and no one knew when he would be back. Come back tomorrow.
Back on the bike, back to the police, and we had to go VERY fast, because night was falling, and a mzungu wasn't safe, even with a Malawian escort. Somehow Girlium managed it, and the police brought me to a nearby resthouse. This was the sort of place where farmers and tradespeople would stay, so it wasn't fancy- a bed, a small table, and a mosquito net that wasn't quite large enough. As I entered, I saw a tiny lizard the length of a quarter squiggle across the wall. I'm not picky.
At six the next morning, Girlium picked me up and took me back to the gate. The men at the gate had by then gotten in touch with the base camp. They told me that no one there had known anything about my coming. They weren't prepared for me, had no food for me, and didn't know if they had work. They asked me to wait while everyone tried to figure out what was going on. I was starting to feel a lot of antipathy for the absent manager. As I sat by the gate, it occurred to me how strange it was that any manager should take the only car without telling anyone where he was going or when he would return, and for such a long time. Something fishy was going on, and the idea of marching out there was starting to feel very dubious.
Meanwhile, Girlium George brought me my bag to the gate, and upon hearing the situation, swore that he wouldn't leave me until the situation was sorted. On discussing it with the gatemen, he decided to call one of the trustees in Salima. What's more, he brought two fish, impaled on stakes and cooked whole, which he presented to me for my lunch.
Well, first of all, I confessed that I had no idea how to go about eating them (which inspired gales of laughter), and second, I refused flatly not to share with the others. Girlium warmed the fish up over the gatemen's fire, stripped the meat into a bowl, and then he, myself, and the two men all shared it. The gatemen contributed salt and a large bowl of sima, essentially maize mush, about the consistency of play-doh. Not half bad, as lunch goes.
We wasted time by teaching me some chichewa words (chule=frog). Girlium had been trying to teach me greetings. In the afternoon, the gatemen called again, and informed me that the scouts were on their way to collect me. As it happened, the scouts and the trustee in Salima, an englishman, arrived at the same time, the scouts on foot and the trustee in a land rover. Tony lost no time in telling me that the manager had stolen not only the project's car, but both laptops, and that nobody could find him. He apologized profusely for the situation I was in. He drove me and the scouts up to the camp, where they showed me around, and the jist of what he had to tell me was that I couldn't stay.
In rainy season, Thuma forest is covered in deep, high grass. It hides all manner of beasties that shouldn't be surprised, including elephants and cape buffalo, both of which can and have willingly killed people there. In addition, the tall grass makes it essentially impossible to work on the most prevalent volunteer project, the mammal survey. And without a manager to find alternative work for me, there wasn't much I could do. The scouts were also dubious that they could protect me in the tall grass while doing my work.
I have handled myself with dangerous situations before, but if a scout got hurt because I didn't climb a tree fast enough, I would never forgive myself...
I was sad. I was already half in love with the forest- it's beautiful, it's dangerous, I looked over a cliff and saw a troupe of baboons.... I wanted so much to get to know it. Also, I liked the scouts. They laughed easily, they were competent, they seemed easy-going. It didn't hurt that they were also truly beautiful examples of Malawian men- I wouldn't have lacked for eye candy at Thuma. And they were going to teach me to play bau. But with no work, and the possibility of putting others in danger?
Tony took me back to his house, and I'm trying to reverse engines and find a new plan, and not trespass on his hospitality too long. Right now, everything's looking a bit hopeless, and I've had my share of despairing moments. Remember when the first job in Skagway didn't work out? This isn't as bad as that, because there's no way to blame it on myself. I just hope I bounce back as thoroughly this time.
I should close with a happy thought: I've had bad luck these past two weeks, no one can deny it. But I've been consistently and extremely lucky in the people I've met along the way who have given me help. David and Helen, Kenneth, Girlium George (whom I've promised to write) and now Tony and his wife and friends. Where would we be without kind people?
On the afternoon following my first night in Lilongwe, my hotel was entered by my friend Helen from the Dar es Salaam bus and her friend Kenneth, both of whom seemed to have adopted my problem as their own and had decided to check on me. Kenneth is a diplomat working in youth counselling, and seemed to have pull over all manner of things. He declared that my hotel was too expensive, and he brought me to a different place and negotiated my room. The next day, when the internet at the hotel wasn't functioning, his driver took me to his workplace, and after establishing that my contact was still MIA, we worked out a way of getting there.
Okay, to be fair, HE worked out a way to get there, and I argued. The plan which to him seemed incredibly easy and simple, seemed much less so to me. He had me taking a mini-bus towards Salima (he hadn't told me yet that the driver would take me to the bus station, so this was my first concern, knowing where to go), then disembarking at the last police checkpoint before the city. The police, he said, had the most efficient phones and should be able to reach my contact, or at least would be able to tell me how to act next. Now, I was raised on the principle that police in South America and Africa are largely corrupt, and the last thing I wanted to do was place myself in their hands. Moreover, it seemed to me there was a great difference between HIM, as a diplomat, asking people to do favors for him, and ME, as an ignorant foreigner, asking them. But he assured me that at least during the day, Malawian police are friendly and helpful.
This turned out to be true. The policemen at the checkpoint took up my cause enthusiastically, but their phones had no better luck than anyone else's. In the end, they called over a bicycle taxi- yes, you read that correctly. You sit on the back of a bicycle, and pay the barefooted man with no brakes to pedal.
I stared at the bike and gulped. You need to understand, I haven't sat on a bike since I was thirteen, and crashed painfully in the woods. At the end of the day, I'd be much more willing to jump on the back of a strange horse, or stand on a dogsled's second set of runners, than to climb on a bike. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that the old dread had actually lingered. Silly me.
The thought that decided the point went like this "You've come all the way here, just to balk at riding a bike? You call yourself an adventurer?"
The police were all for strapping my big hiker's backpack onto the bike as well, but at this I put my burned and bug-bitten foot down. No bike-taxier deserved that fate, hauling both me and that bag on a hot day. I left the big bag with the police, making sure to get a name and number in case it disappeared, took the small bag with me, and zoomed off with my biker, Girlium George.
It was fun, once I relaxed. The trail was lovely, Girlium George was a truly charming person, and the villagers nearly swallowed their tongues at the sight of a mzungu on the back of a bike. We covered 8 kilometers, mostly of dirt trail through villages surrounded by corn and tobacco crops, with goats running amuck everywhere you looked. After two hours, we arrived at the Thuma gate, where two men live. Here we found yet more complications. No one could be spared that evening to guide me the extra 10km to the camp, which would need to be done on foot. With elephants and cape buffalo along the way, both cranky with visitors, I could not go alone. In addition, the manager, who was the only mzungu at the camp, had been gone since last Sunday (incidentally, the same day I left Arusha) and no one knew when he would be back. Come back tomorrow.
Back on the bike, back to the police, and we had to go VERY fast, because night was falling, and a mzungu wasn't safe, even with a Malawian escort. Somehow Girlium managed it, and the police brought me to a nearby resthouse. This was the sort of place where farmers and tradespeople would stay, so it wasn't fancy- a bed, a small table, and a mosquito net that wasn't quite large enough. As I entered, I saw a tiny lizard the length of a quarter squiggle across the wall. I'm not picky.
At six the next morning, Girlium picked me up and took me back to the gate. The men at the gate had by then gotten in touch with the base camp. They told me that no one there had known anything about my coming. They weren't prepared for me, had no food for me, and didn't know if they had work. They asked me to wait while everyone tried to figure out what was going on. I was starting to feel a lot of antipathy for the absent manager. As I sat by the gate, it occurred to me how strange it was that any manager should take the only car without telling anyone where he was going or when he would return, and for such a long time. Something fishy was going on, and the idea of marching out there was starting to feel very dubious.
Meanwhile, Girlium George brought me my bag to the gate, and upon hearing the situation, swore that he wouldn't leave me until the situation was sorted. On discussing it with the gatemen, he decided to call one of the trustees in Salima. What's more, he brought two fish, impaled on stakes and cooked whole, which he presented to me for my lunch.
Well, first of all, I confessed that I had no idea how to go about eating them (which inspired gales of laughter), and second, I refused flatly not to share with the others. Girlium warmed the fish up over the gatemen's fire, stripped the meat into a bowl, and then he, myself, and the two men all shared it. The gatemen contributed salt and a large bowl of sima, essentially maize mush, about the consistency of play-doh. Not half bad, as lunch goes.
We wasted time by teaching me some chichewa words (chule=frog). Girlium had been trying to teach me greetings. In the afternoon, the gatemen called again, and informed me that the scouts were on their way to collect me. As it happened, the scouts and the trustee in Salima, an englishman, arrived at the same time, the scouts on foot and the trustee in a land rover. Tony lost no time in telling me that the manager had stolen not only the project's car, but both laptops, and that nobody could find him. He apologized profusely for the situation I was in. He drove me and the scouts up to the camp, where they showed me around, and the jist of what he had to tell me was that I couldn't stay.
In rainy season, Thuma forest is covered in deep, high grass. It hides all manner of beasties that shouldn't be surprised, including elephants and cape buffalo, both of which can and have willingly killed people there. In addition, the tall grass makes it essentially impossible to work on the most prevalent volunteer project, the mammal survey. And without a manager to find alternative work for me, there wasn't much I could do. The scouts were also dubious that they could protect me in the tall grass while doing my work.
I have handled myself with dangerous situations before, but if a scout got hurt because I didn't climb a tree fast enough, I would never forgive myself...
I was sad. I was already half in love with the forest- it's beautiful, it's dangerous, I looked over a cliff and saw a troupe of baboons.... I wanted so much to get to know it. Also, I liked the scouts. They laughed easily, they were competent, they seemed easy-going. It didn't hurt that they were also truly beautiful examples of Malawian men- I wouldn't have lacked for eye candy at Thuma. And they were going to teach me to play bau. But with no work, and the possibility of putting others in danger?
Tony took me back to his house, and I'm trying to reverse engines and find a new plan, and not trespass on his hospitality too long. Right now, everything's looking a bit hopeless, and I've had my share of despairing moments. Remember when the first job in Skagway didn't work out? This isn't as bad as that, because there's no way to blame it on myself. I just hope I bounce back as thoroughly this time.
I should close with a happy thought: I've had bad luck these past two weeks, no one can deny it. But I've been consistently and extremely lucky in the people I've met along the way who have given me help. David and Helen, Kenneth, Girlium George (whom I've promised to write) and now Tony and his wife and friends. Where would we be without kind people?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
In Which I Waste a Week of My Life
Well, I did it. I am successfully writing from Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, self-labeled "the warm heart of Africa". Luckily for you guys (or unluckily? I dunno- depends on how much you like my writing style) my journey was frought with blog material.
Thursday morning- for the third day in a row, I rose at 4am, repacked my things, and ventured into the heavy, chicken-scented air, down to the bus station. I more than half-expected that they would once again announce no bus. Another corner of me expected Shabbani to jump out of the shadows and start rubbing my neck again. Much to my relief, they told me the bus was on its way- a bit late, but it would leave this morning, myself aboard.
A quick thought that came to me while I waited- it's been the same everywhere I've gone in Africa, except for South Africa, which has its share of caucasians. But I think I now know what it feels like to be a cute puppy in a country of dog-fanciers. That's what it's like being a young white female in Africa. As I sat at the station, I was snapped at, whistled at, clucked at, "Hello, Madam"-ed, "How are you"-ed, and "You are beautiful"-ed, all delivered as though they expected that they could lure me forward to get my ears scratched.
The bus arrived. Rickety, but real. Soon after I got on and found a seat, I knew that the trip was not going to be fun. Tradespeople had stuffed the bottom compartments with their wares, so all the real luggage was piled in the back seats, stuffed above, under and around the seats, and in cluttering the center aisle. The bus itself was moving at no impressive speed- every other vehicle on the road passed us, and my neighbor was a large woman who took up more than her fair share of the seat. Our first rest stop was on a nondescript roadside, no toilets in view.
The highlight of the trip happened early- we saw a herd of elephants chilling in the shade and in a stream right next to the road! A little farther down, giraffe and zebra were clustered under a stand of trees, and yet a little farther, a few antelopes. That was truly amazing.
It started going downhill when, just around sunset, the truck stopped. For two hours, the drivers tinkered with the innards of the bus, while the passengers grew increasingly restless. Dripping sweat, hungry, and dehydrated, I was jumping out of my skin with silent irritation, but there was no one to vent to, because everyone around me was speaking Swahili or Chechewa(sp?). Finally, we got moving again- but only for a few hours. As the engine stopped yet again, in total darkness, and no repair sounds resumed, I gave up hope of knowing what was up, and fell asleep.
Woke around dawn, and could finally see the closed gate in front of the bus. We'd reached the border, which didn't open until seven. It was there that I learned about illegal money changers. I didn't know it was illegal when he approached me- I thought it was the accepted way of changing money, especially since he came onto the bus itself to do business. But when he handed me the Malawian money (Kwacha), the large woman next to me snatched it from my hand, counted it, and demanded that he give me more. It started a long argument that came to involve all the women surrounding us. The man became very angry, and went as though to strike one woman- at which we all rose up and started yelling- a guard came and made the man leave. At that point, everyone told me the money changers were illegal crooks. Lesson learned. I thanked them for defending me.
As I went through customs, I wound up joining forces with David and Helen, two separately traveling Ugandans. The official language in Uganda is English, so finally I had someone to talk to- Helen was quite an empowered woman for Africa, and I had a fascinating day listening to her debate different issues with David, such as the King of Swaziland's multiple wives. Davis had taken this bus route many times before, where Helen was a first-timer, like myself. Also like me, she had been told the journey would last 24 hours. David informed us, and indeed all the veteran tradespeople who regularly went this way seemed to accept, that it would take at least fifty. He told us that even if they customs people started going through all the luggage and merchandise first thing in the morning (which they wouldn't), there was nothing anyone could say to make the bus leave the border before 5pm. "But... what do we do all day?" Helen and I asked, astounded. David shrugged.
And he was right. We sat around all day, chatting, sighing, and watching while the merchandise inspectors were completely unproductive. Helen and I were wondering exactly who all this wasted time benefited. Like me, Helen had been stranded in Dar es Salaam for three days before they let her on a bus. We were both ready to demand four days of our lives back. 5:30 came, and no one had even started re-loading the bus, which was reported to take at least two hours. 7:00. Sun was down, still nothing. Everyone was complaining now- even the veterans said it had never taken this long. Rumors were flying about as to why it should be, but who knew what to believe? Around 9 or so, they got moving. Then the rain started, accompanied by lightning and thunder. The lights went out, and they were packing with the help of flashlights, which took even longer. Really, if someone had planned for everything to go wrong at once, they couldn't have done better. Wrapped in my huge sweater, I fell asleep until David told me it was time to put my bags back on board. We got moving after 1am- that means we were at the border around 24 hours. Multiple police roadblocks and several more engine breakdowns slowed us up, but finally at 1:30 in the afternoon we reached Lilongwe.
The friend that Helen was visiting took me to a place where I could go online and call my contact at the forest reserve. I was exhausted, greasy, I had a dehydration headache with accompanying skull-relocation residual pain, and all I'd eaten that day besides some mini-bananas at dawn was a hanfdul of raw peanuts. So when the contact numbers didn't work, you'll pardon me for some panic. What the hell now?
All I could think of was email. I know their system doesn't always work, depending on weather, and I'm also not sure how long the drive is. I figured I'd be in Lilongwe at least one night. So That's where I am, at a hotel in Lilongwe, waiting for Thuma's email to function so they can come and find me. I'm back to wasting time. On the bright side, it's a nice hotel and all the stories I've heard about friendly people in Malawi seem to be true so far. For the sake of my wallet and my drive for company, I hope they come for me soon.
Traveling alone has a lot of perks- you do what you want when you want, being alone forces you to overcome your shyness, and it opens up more opportunities to meet new and interesting people you wouldn't normally spend time with. But until this trip I've spent four months or more in one place, and had time to develop friendships. The next time I try this one-month-per-location thing, I want a friend along.
Thursday morning- for the third day in a row, I rose at 4am, repacked my things, and ventured into the heavy, chicken-scented air, down to the bus station. I more than half-expected that they would once again announce no bus. Another corner of me expected Shabbani to jump out of the shadows and start rubbing my neck again. Much to my relief, they told me the bus was on its way- a bit late, but it would leave this morning, myself aboard.
A quick thought that came to me while I waited- it's been the same everywhere I've gone in Africa, except for South Africa, which has its share of caucasians. But I think I now know what it feels like to be a cute puppy in a country of dog-fanciers. That's what it's like being a young white female in Africa. As I sat at the station, I was snapped at, whistled at, clucked at, "Hello, Madam"-ed, "How are you"-ed, and "You are beautiful"-ed, all delivered as though they expected that they could lure me forward to get my ears scratched.
The bus arrived. Rickety, but real. Soon after I got on and found a seat, I knew that the trip was not going to be fun. Tradespeople had stuffed the bottom compartments with their wares, so all the real luggage was piled in the back seats, stuffed above, under and around the seats, and in cluttering the center aisle. The bus itself was moving at no impressive speed- every other vehicle on the road passed us, and my neighbor was a large woman who took up more than her fair share of the seat. Our first rest stop was on a nondescript roadside, no toilets in view.
The highlight of the trip happened early- we saw a herd of elephants chilling in the shade and in a stream right next to the road! A little farther down, giraffe and zebra were clustered under a stand of trees, and yet a little farther, a few antelopes. That was truly amazing.
It started going downhill when, just around sunset, the truck stopped. For two hours, the drivers tinkered with the innards of the bus, while the passengers grew increasingly restless. Dripping sweat, hungry, and dehydrated, I was jumping out of my skin with silent irritation, but there was no one to vent to, because everyone around me was speaking Swahili or Chechewa(sp?). Finally, we got moving again- but only for a few hours. As the engine stopped yet again, in total darkness, and no repair sounds resumed, I gave up hope of knowing what was up, and fell asleep.
Woke around dawn, and could finally see the closed gate in front of the bus. We'd reached the border, which didn't open until seven. It was there that I learned about illegal money changers. I didn't know it was illegal when he approached me- I thought it was the accepted way of changing money, especially since he came onto the bus itself to do business. But when he handed me the Malawian money (Kwacha), the large woman next to me snatched it from my hand, counted it, and demanded that he give me more. It started a long argument that came to involve all the women surrounding us. The man became very angry, and went as though to strike one woman- at which we all rose up and started yelling- a guard came and made the man leave. At that point, everyone told me the money changers were illegal crooks. Lesson learned. I thanked them for defending me.
As I went through customs, I wound up joining forces with David and Helen, two separately traveling Ugandans. The official language in Uganda is English, so finally I had someone to talk to- Helen was quite an empowered woman for Africa, and I had a fascinating day listening to her debate different issues with David, such as the King of Swaziland's multiple wives. Davis had taken this bus route many times before, where Helen was a first-timer, like myself. Also like me, she had been told the journey would last 24 hours. David informed us, and indeed all the veteran tradespeople who regularly went this way seemed to accept, that it would take at least fifty. He told us that even if they customs people started going through all the luggage and merchandise first thing in the morning (which they wouldn't), there was nothing anyone could say to make the bus leave the border before 5pm. "But... what do we do all day?" Helen and I asked, astounded. David shrugged.
And he was right. We sat around all day, chatting, sighing, and watching while the merchandise inspectors were completely unproductive. Helen and I were wondering exactly who all this wasted time benefited. Like me, Helen had been stranded in Dar es Salaam for three days before they let her on a bus. We were both ready to demand four days of our lives back. 5:30 came, and no one had even started re-loading the bus, which was reported to take at least two hours. 7:00. Sun was down, still nothing. Everyone was complaining now- even the veterans said it had never taken this long. Rumors were flying about as to why it should be, but who knew what to believe? Around 9 or so, they got moving. Then the rain started, accompanied by lightning and thunder. The lights went out, and they were packing with the help of flashlights, which took even longer. Really, if someone had planned for everything to go wrong at once, they couldn't have done better. Wrapped in my huge sweater, I fell asleep until David told me it was time to put my bags back on board. We got moving after 1am- that means we were at the border around 24 hours. Multiple police roadblocks and several more engine breakdowns slowed us up, but finally at 1:30 in the afternoon we reached Lilongwe.
The friend that Helen was visiting took me to a place where I could go online and call my contact at the forest reserve. I was exhausted, greasy, I had a dehydration headache with accompanying skull-relocation residual pain, and all I'd eaten that day besides some mini-bananas at dawn was a hanfdul of raw peanuts. So when the contact numbers didn't work, you'll pardon me for some panic. What the hell now?
All I could think of was email. I know their system doesn't always work, depending on weather, and I'm also not sure how long the drive is. I figured I'd be in Lilongwe at least one night. So That's where I am, at a hotel in Lilongwe, waiting for Thuma's email to function so they can come and find me. I'm back to wasting time. On the bright side, it's a nice hotel and all the stories I've heard about friendly people in Malawi seem to be true so far. For the sake of my wallet and my drive for company, I hope they come for me soon.
Traveling alone has a lot of perks- you do what you want when you want, being alone forces you to overcome your shyness, and it opens up more opportunities to meet new and interesting people you wouldn't normally spend time with. But until this trip I've spent four months or more in one place, and had time to develop friendships. The next time I try this one-month-per-location thing, I want a friend along.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Misadventures in Dar es Salaam
The plan was to spend one night in Dar es Salaam, then take the long ride down to Malawi. Heh. Misfire. First of all, once I'd waded through the throngs of "helpful" folk looking to lead you to the office (for a tip) I was told that no buses were leaving on Monday. Fine. Two nights in Dar. Well, not fine, but workable. I asked a taxi driver to take me to an affordable hotel.
Dar es Salaam is like a furnace, but my room had air conditioning, so the obvious first step was to strip down and stand under it, then get down to some serious time wasting. Unfortunately, the hotel was in such a bad neighborhood that I couldn't leave without a driver. Also, the hotel was having some problems with basic stuff working- like toilets, or water in general. They moved me four times- and this is without me putting up a fuss! I'm not a complainer, but they were such basic issues each time that they had to move me. Although my fifth room was a marvel of functional appliances, by the time it came to my second night, I was more than ready to leave. I ordered a greek salad for dinner, and went to bed early. Briefly woken up by the mosque next door which bellows its chants five times a day on a megaphone, then back to sleep.
Only I didn't sleep. Nausea set in early on, and by morning I had to accept that I was going nowhere that day. The driver who had taken me to the hotel, Shabbani, was waiting for me outside, and I managed to explain the problem to him. He started patting my stomach and rubbing my neck and telling me he was sorry, and would help. We drove to the station- very slowly, despite the clear roads. He was telling me something about how he likes me, and he will give me god. Meanwhile rubbing my neck. I was getting nervous, and told him I don't like being touched. Which only stopped him for a minute or two, so I repeated it.
By the time we got to the station, the nausea was worse, and I was having trouble standing, so Shabbani explained to them what was wrong. I might have been grateful, except that every time I tried to stand he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let me go anywhere. They gave me an "open date" ticket, meaning supposedly that I could come any day and get on the bus to Lilongwe. "Fine," I said, "But you don't go on Mondays. Are there other days with no bus?" "Yes, yes, open date," they beamed, nodding. I tried this several times, varying the words, with no success. Stomach churning, I gave up. We stopped at an ATM on the way back to the hotel, but first I had to throw up in a small park, with Shabbani pounding my back- for future reference, don't do this to anyone. It's unpleasant. He offered to take me to a hospital but (a) I knew he was overcharging me and (b) I was making it a priority to get away from him, at this point. When we got to the hotel, he dropped the best line: "I will come to the room to help you sleep." Seemed surprised when I said no and fled.
After resting a while, I asked the hotel front desk to call me any cab but Shabbani. My new driver was lovely- content to let me sit in the back, while he ran the AC and radio, and he charged less than half what Shabbani did. At the hospital, the doctor told me that I most likely had a bacterial infection, and never to eat salads in Africa. Lesson learned, with a big red check-mark. Bring on the Cippro- and since Cippro has the reputation of killing everything in your digestive tract, I also invested in some active-culture yogurt.
My stomach felt better by the evening, and I told the new driver, Allan, to come for me in the morning to take me to the bus station. When I got downstairs, a bit early, Shabbani's car was there. Uncalled. But I remembered from the first morning that he's a heavy sleeper while he waits, so I lay low in the dark office until Allan came, then crept around him. But we hit another snag. "No bus today" they told me at the station, after I'd waited in a sweaty office almost an hour. I was ready to scream. Not trusting this "open date ticket" rubbish, I made them write me a new one for tomorrow, and promise that there would be a bus. Then I had a cab take me to a new hotel, where Shabbani won't be able to find me.
So now I'm waiting until they're allowed to check me in. My opinion of Dar es Salaam, and the bus station in particular, is somewhere below mayonnaise on the dislike scale, and if you've eaten with me, you know what that means. This whole city smells like dead chickens, and is about as efficient. Say TIA ("This is Africa") all you want, but come on! I feel sorry for my contact in Malawi, who has gotten daily messages explaining that I've been detained yet another day.
If they're true to their word, however (big If), and if I avoid salads today, I should be able to get out tomorrow and head Malawi-wards, where they'll have something useful for me to do.
Stay Tuned!
Dar es Salaam is like a furnace, but my room had air conditioning, so the obvious first step was to strip down and stand under it, then get down to some serious time wasting. Unfortunately, the hotel was in such a bad neighborhood that I couldn't leave without a driver. Also, the hotel was having some problems with basic stuff working- like toilets, or water in general. They moved me four times- and this is without me putting up a fuss! I'm not a complainer, but they were such basic issues each time that they had to move me. Although my fifth room was a marvel of functional appliances, by the time it came to my second night, I was more than ready to leave. I ordered a greek salad for dinner, and went to bed early. Briefly woken up by the mosque next door which bellows its chants five times a day on a megaphone, then back to sleep.
Only I didn't sleep. Nausea set in early on, and by morning I had to accept that I was going nowhere that day. The driver who had taken me to the hotel, Shabbani, was waiting for me outside, and I managed to explain the problem to him. He started patting my stomach and rubbing my neck and telling me he was sorry, and would help. We drove to the station- very slowly, despite the clear roads. He was telling me something about how he likes me, and he will give me god. Meanwhile rubbing my neck. I was getting nervous, and told him I don't like being touched. Which only stopped him for a minute or two, so I repeated it.
By the time we got to the station, the nausea was worse, and I was having trouble standing, so Shabbani explained to them what was wrong. I might have been grateful, except that every time I tried to stand he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let me go anywhere. They gave me an "open date" ticket, meaning supposedly that I could come any day and get on the bus to Lilongwe. "Fine," I said, "But you don't go on Mondays. Are there other days with no bus?" "Yes, yes, open date," they beamed, nodding. I tried this several times, varying the words, with no success. Stomach churning, I gave up. We stopped at an ATM on the way back to the hotel, but first I had to throw up in a small park, with Shabbani pounding my back- for future reference, don't do this to anyone. It's unpleasant. He offered to take me to a hospital but (a) I knew he was overcharging me and (b) I was making it a priority to get away from him, at this point. When we got to the hotel, he dropped the best line: "I will come to the room to help you sleep." Seemed surprised when I said no and fled.
After resting a while, I asked the hotel front desk to call me any cab but Shabbani. My new driver was lovely- content to let me sit in the back, while he ran the AC and radio, and he charged less than half what Shabbani did. At the hospital, the doctor told me that I most likely had a bacterial infection, and never to eat salads in Africa. Lesson learned, with a big red check-mark. Bring on the Cippro- and since Cippro has the reputation of killing everything in your digestive tract, I also invested in some active-culture yogurt.
My stomach felt better by the evening, and I told the new driver, Allan, to come for me in the morning to take me to the bus station. When I got downstairs, a bit early, Shabbani's car was there. Uncalled. But I remembered from the first morning that he's a heavy sleeper while he waits, so I lay low in the dark office until Allan came, then crept around him. But we hit another snag. "No bus today" they told me at the station, after I'd waited in a sweaty office almost an hour. I was ready to scream. Not trusting this "open date ticket" rubbish, I made them write me a new one for tomorrow, and promise that there would be a bus. Then I had a cab take me to a new hotel, where Shabbani won't be able to find me.
So now I'm waiting until they're allowed to check me in. My opinion of Dar es Salaam, and the bus station in particular, is somewhere below mayonnaise on the dislike scale, and if you've eaten with me, you know what that means. This whole city smells like dead chickens, and is about as efficient. Say TIA ("This is Africa") all you want, but come on! I feel sorry for my contact in Malawi, who has gotten daily messages explaining that I've been detained yet another day.
If they're true to their word, however (big If), and if I avoid salads today, I should be able to get out tomorrow and head Malawi-wards, where they'll have something useful for me to do.
Stay Tuned!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Stuff I Forgot and a Few New Tidbits
One thing I've noticed about Africa is how useless it is to plan too far ahead. Buy a plane ticket a month early and it's likely to be cancelled. Plan some work for the very next day, and in the morning the odds that you'll be doing something else are very high. Then there's Africa Time to consider- everything takes longer than you expect.
I forgot to mention in my last entry that a new orphanage is opening in the Arusha area. Last weekend, I joined some of the other girls to see the building and clean up the grounds. The woman who will be running it was there, along with two girls who will live there (one of them was named Irene- very common name here, though they pronounce it Irini.). We pulled unwanted plants, trimmed thorns, moved rubbish, and turned up some earth in preparation for a vegetable garden. It's cool knowing that disadvantaged kids will find some advantages there.
This being my last week, I took a day to visit Faraja, one of the other projects Ujamaa residents helpout with. Faraja houses around 40 young women who have been victimized by the sex trafficking industry or found in other rough circumstances. At Faraja, they are taught english, mathematics, cooking, tailoring, computer skills, and other useful assets so that when they leave, they canfind jobs to support themselves and, in some cases, their children. The first thing that struck me when I arrived was that the many of the girls carry their school supplies on their heads, just as Tanzanian women around town carry all manner of whatnot. Cute. And way outside of my skill set. I helped out in the english class, which was surprisingly fun. The girls are smiley and giggly, real charmers, and appealing to their competitive sides can yield great results!
Even so, I'm going to spend the rest of my time here working at Tumaini, to see the kids and get as much done as I can before I leave. Politics is causing some turmoil there- unfortunately, a difference exists between what Beatrice wants, what the visiting founder and his donors want, and what the volunteers want. Everyone agrees that the happiness and welfare of the children arethe more important things... and everyone has a different plan for achieving them. Myself, having kept my mouth shut and listened to all perspectives, I tend to side with Beatrice, because she lives there and clearly cares about the children. Also, her perspective is Tanzanian rather than Western, which I think is important, given that as adults the children will be living in a Tanzanian society.
It's lucky that the kids are oblivious to our squabbling. Eriki and Moosa are still climbing trees, Naomi still questing for food, and Mesiaki, when he isn't sleeping like the living dead, is still finding any excuse to run and shout. Zimbrani loves to be a human wheelbarrow. Junior, the baby, loves to be sung to. He'll stare at you, fish-eyed, for as long as you're willing to keep crooning (just watch out for the leaky diaper). While you've got Junior, you'll inevitably be visited by Herman, the oldest child of Mama Sara's household, who is, after Mama, Junior's most assiduous attendant. Herman has his own little brother, Julius, whose expression at rest reminds me of a sad St. Bernard puppy. Then there's Elia, our little HIV positive toddler, for whom everyone has a soft spot- in fact, Beatrice complains that if volunteers don't stop holding Elia every time he cries, he's going to be incredibly spoiled.
That's just a little bit about some of the kids, to give you a taste of what people here work so hard for.
Yesterday started on a low note. I'd recently learned that the amount I saved for this trip was woefully short (I blame inter-Africa plane ticket prices and doctor's bills). I also found out that a classmate of mine from middle and high school died of cancer. With these and a few other distrss factors on my mind, I arrived at Tumaini, where Beatrice could tell something was wrong. I assured her I was fine but, a mother and grandmother to the hilt, she kept asking until, mid-reassurance, I started to cry. At this point, she sat me down, fed me coffee and millet porridge, and proceeded to talk me out of my funk. She and her husband were going to town for errands, but she wouldn't hear of my starting work- "I will not leave you alone right now"- so I went with them. We talked about the Tumaini children, and about family, and she told me that I should marry one of her sons. Marriage is not currently on my radar, but I appreciated the thought. As I have said, I already liked Beatrice, but yseterday I gained a new appreciation for her. How many people would take that kind of time to comfort a random volunteer?
To end on a positive note, I must add that Africa is good for the figure. The adjustable waistband of my ugly-but-magical work pants tells me that I've been slowly but steadily slimming down since leaving Massachusetts. No mystery why that would be: plenty of moving around outdoors, and simpler, healthier food. The hostel almost never serves meat, and the vegetables most likely contain far fewer chemicals and preservatives. Then there's my heat-diminished sweet tooth. I thought nothing could vanquish my taste for chocolate, and yet here we are. I'm appreciative.
Parents, if your tempted to worry about my breakdown, STOP RIGHT THERE. I'm feel better now, but that will go away if you start parenting.
Love to all!
I forgot to mention in my last entry that a new orphanage is opening in the Arusha area. Last weekend, I joined some of the other girls to see the building and clean up the grounds. The woman who will be running it was there, along with two girls who will live there (one of them was named Irene- very common name here, though they pronounce it Irini.). We pulled unwanted plants, trimmed thorns, moved rubbish, and turned up some earth in preparation for a vegetable garden. It's cool knowing that disadvantaged kids will find some advantages there.
This being my last week, I took a day to visit Faraja, one of the other projects Ujamaa residents helpout with. Faraja houses around 40 young women who have been victimized by the sex trafficking industry or found in other rough circumstances. At Faraja, they are taught english, mathematics, cooking, tailoring, computer skills, and other useful assets so that when they leave, they canfind jobs to support themselves and, in some cases, their children. The first thing that struck me when I arrived was that the many of the girls carry their school supplies on their heads, just as Tanzanian women around town carry all manner of whatnot. Cute. And way outside of my skill set. I helped out in the english class, which was surprisingly fun. The girls are smiley and giggly, real charmers, and appealing to their competitive sides can yield great results!
Even so, I'm going to spend the rest of my time here working at Tumaini, to see the kids and get as much done as I can before I leave. Politics is causing some turmoil there- unfortunately, a difference exists between what Beatrice wants, what the visiting founder and his donors want, and what the volunteers want. Everyone agrees that the happiness and welfare of the children arethe more important things... and everyone has a different plan for achieving them. Myself, having kept my mouth shut and listened to all perspectives, I tend to side with Beatrice, because she lives there and clearly cares about the children. Also, her perspective is Tanzanian rather than Western, which I think is important, given that as adults the children will be living in a Tanzanian society.
It's lucky that the kids are oblivious to our squabbling. Eriki and Moosa are still climbing trees, Naomi still questing for food, and Mesiaki, when he isn't sleeping like the living dead, is still finding any excuse to run and shout. Zimbrani loves to be a human wheelbarrow. Junior, the baby, loves to be sung to. He'll stare at you, fish-eyed, for as long as you're willing to keep crooning (just watch out for the leaky diaper). While you've got Junior, you'll inevitably be visited by Herman, the oldest child of Mama Sara's household, who is, after Mama, Junior's most assiduous attendant. Herman has his own little brother, Julius, whose expression at rest reminds me of a sad St. Bernard puppy. Then there's Elia, our little HIV positive toddler, for whom everyone has a soft spot- in fact, Beatrice complains that if volunteers don't stop holding Elia every time he cries, he's going to be incredibly spoiled.
That's just a little bit about some of the kids, to give you a taste of what people here work so hard for.
Yesterday started on a low note. I'd recently learned that the amount I saved for this trip was woefully short (I blame inter-Africa plane ticket prices and doctor's bills). I also found out that a classmate of mine from middle and high school died of cancer. With these and a few other distrss factors on my mind, I arrived at Tumaini, where Beatrice could tell something was wrong. I assured her I was fine but, a mother and grandmother to the hilt, she kept asking until, mid-reassurance, I started to cry. At this point, she sat me down, fed me coffee and millet porridge, and proceeded to talk me out of my funk. She and her husband were going to town for errands, but she wouldn't hear of my starting work- "I will not leave you alone right now"- so I went with them. We talked about the Tumaini children, and about family, and she told me that I should marry one of her sons. Marriage is not currently on my radar, but I appreciated the thought. As I have said, I already liked Beatrice, but yseterday I gained a new appreciation for her. How many people would take that kind of time to comfort a random volunteer?
To end on a positive note, I must add that Africa is good for the figure. The adjustable waistband of my ugly-but-magical work pants tells me that I've been slowly but steadily slimming down since leaving Massachusetts. No mystery why that would be: plenty of moving around outdoors, and simpler, healthier food. The hostel almost never serves meat, and the vegetables most likely contain far fewer chemicals and preservatives. Then there's my heat-diminished sweet tooth. I thought nothing could vanquish my taste for chocolate, and yet here we are. I'm appreciative.
Parents, if your tempted to worry about my breakdown, STOP RIGHT THERE. I'm feel better now, but that will go away if you start parenting.
Love to all!
Monday, February 22, 2010
My Immortal Feet
My feet have been immortalized... on the hallway floor of two orphan households, leading from the bathroom to the sink. The purpose is to remind the children to wash their hands. Just think- MY feet, which I have always considered one of my better features, may well protect children from illness. My dreams are that much more complete.
In addition to blessing the next generation with a permanent vision of my perfect arches, we've had a variety of activities since I last wrote- a new house for 8-9 new kids is about to be furnished, so we scrubbed it from top to bottom and routed the spiders and mysterious stains. There are new chicks who need their daily vitamins and antibiotics, and we're also on a crusade to improve the existing henhouse- our girls have just started laying! Jayde, who's been here longer than me, was like a proud Mama when she saw the first egg! Since then, our pioneering hen has laid approximately 1.5 eggs a day, and we believe another lady has taken up the hobby as well.
Today we bought a mess of building materials to construct a shed that will keep the cow's grass dry. We returned to the center atop a truck piled with rough boards- it's common for Tanzanian workmen to ride in the backs of trucks, but I'm not sure the townsfolk had ever seen Mzungu doing it- we spent the entite long ride surrounded by cries of "Mzungu, Mzungu!" Some of the kids even chased the truck.
The rainy season seems to have started a bit early this year- the last few mornings have been cloudy, with rain in the afternoons, and today it's actually already rained twice. Although it makes a pleasant respite from the heat, today was inconvenient. Katarina, Kelvini and Elia were scheduled to go into the doctor's for check-ups, and the taxi we called to get them got stuck in the mud on the way up the mountain. The only solution was to walk to meet it. Mud cakes quickly on the bottom of your sandals, until soon it's as thick or thicker than the sandal itself. To keep the older kids from getting too messy, Jayde and I each piggy-backed one until we found the car. Elia, only 18 months, was on his house-mama's back.
I defy anyone to come here without getting attached to the kids. I can't understand most of what they say, but it's amazing how many games you can play without a common language. And how distinct their personalities can become. Since this is the beginning of my last week, I'm a little worried about saying goodbye.
In a different vein, I think the term "beautiful black man" was invented in Tanzania, and that "beautiful black woman" should be much more common. The typical cast of features in this country causes me to double-take multiple times with every trip into town. And the clothing doesn't hurt- I always see Maasai men wandering about, wrapped in their blankets. The women wear long skirts and shirts that compliment a curvy figure impressively. Western clothing does nothing for healthy curves, and I find myself coveting the Tanzanian women's clothes. Also, I've seen a variety of braid creations that make me wish I had woolly-textured hair so I could try them out without looking ridiculous.
In a funny vein, Beatrice told me the other day that I'm like a Maasai. Why? Because I always have a knife with me, and I use it for everything. In this case, it's actually my leatherman, Scooby Bob (Karin, if you're reading this, you should tell Bob, who gave the leatherman to me, that it's been invaluable). Sometimes I feel like the other volunteers just view me as a walking multi-tool (Yes, I see the nasty jokes that could come from this- shut up and sit down).
There aren't many other solo travelers at my hostel. Mostly, it's couples or groups of female friends. Nor are there many chronic travelers. So sometimes I feel a bit lonely, despite being surrounded by people. There are definite advantages to traveling on your own, and then there are the lonely times. Today is one of them.
Missing everyone.
In addition to blessing the next generation with a permanent vision of my perfect arches, we've had a variety of activities since I last wrote- a new house for 8-9 new kids is about to be furnished, so we scrubbed it from top to bottom and routed the spiders and mysterious stains. There are new chicks who need their daily vitamins and antibiotics, and we're also on a crusade to improve the existing henhouse- our girls have just started laying! Jayde, who's been here longer than me, was like a proud Mama when she saw the first egg! Since then, our pioneering hen has laid approximately 1.5 eggs a day, and we believe another lady has taken up the hobby as well.
Today we bought a mess of building materials to construct a shed that will keep the cow's grass dry. We returned to the center atop a truck piled with rough boards- it's common for Tanzanian workmen to ride in the backs of trucks, but I'm not sure the townsfolk had ever seen Mzungu doing it- we spent the entite long ride surrounded by cries of "Mzungu, Mzungu!" Some of the kids even chased the truck.
The rainy season seems to have started a bit early this year- the last few mornings have been cloudy, with rain in the afternoons, and today it's actually already rained twice. Although it makes a pleasant respite from the heat, today was inconvenient. Katarina, Kelvini and Elia were scheduled to go into the doctor's for check-ups, and the taxi we called to get them got stuck in the mud on the way up the mountain. The only solution was to walk to meet it. Mud cakes quickly on the bottom of your sandals, until soon it's as thick or thicker than the sandal itself. To keep the older kids from getting too messy, Jayde and I each piggy-backed one until we found the car. Elia, only 18 months, was on his house-mama's back.
I defy anyone to come here without getting attached to the kids. I can't understand most of what they say, but it's amazing how many games you can play without a common language. And how distinct their personalities can become. Since this is the beginning of my last week, I'm a little worried about saying goodbye.
In a different vein, I think the term "beautiful black man" was invented in Tanzania, and that "beautiful black woman" should be much more common. The typical cast of features in this country causes me to double-take multiple times with every trip into town. And the clothing doesn't hurt- I always see Maasai men wandering about, wrapped in their blankets. The women wear long skirts and shirts that compliment a curvy figure impressively. Western clothing does nothing for healthy curves, and I find myself coveting the Tanzanian women's clothes. Also, I've seen a variety of braid creations that make me wish I had woolly-textured hair so I could try them out without looking ridiculous.
In a funny vein, Beatrice told me the other day that I'm like a Maasai. Why? Because I always have a knife with me, and I use it for everything. In this case, it's actually my leatherman, Scooby Bob (Karin, if you're reading this, you should tell Bob, who gave the leatherman to me, that it's been invaluable). Sometimes I feel like the other volunteers just view me as a walking multi-tool (Yes, I see the nasty jokes that could come from this- shut up and sit down).
There aren't many other solo travelers at my hostel. Mostly, it's couples or groups of female friends. Nor are there many chronic travelers. So sometimes I feel a bit lonely, despite being surrounded by people. There are definite advantages to traveling on your own, and then there are the lonely times. Today is one of them.
Missing everyone.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
In Appreciation of Mosquito Nets and Vervet Vibes
Mosquito nets are marvelous. I grew up around mosquitoes, and learned to feel them land on me or try to bite, so before coming here, I hadn't had a mosquito bite in years. Tanzanian mosquitoes are different- you won't see them, and you won't feel them, but their bites are infernally large, internally itchy, and to add insult to injury, they will turn vividly purple when they're done itching. Give me mosquitos from Carlisle any day. I've found that they're especially fond of the arches of my feet- maybe that's just an area I neglect with the bug spray. Perhaps if I marinaded my feet in chemicals overnight, they wouldn't bother me? Aside from keeping the bugs away, however, mosquito nets remind me of my canopy bed fixation as a child. Finally, the dream comes true.
Slowly and painfully, I am trying to learn Swahili. After learning karibu (welcome) and (thank you), the next word we inevitably all learn is mzungu, which means "white person". It's interesting to be in the racial and cultural minority, to know that you are constantly amusing
people with your cultural mistakes. As long as you smile and try, they don't seem to mind.
Today our mission was to give the children de-worming pills, which turns out to be nothing like de-worming sled dogs. For one thing, the dogs mostly don't have worms, whereas the children almost certainly do. But, much like the sled dogs, they are cooperative in almost anything you want them to do, regardless of whether they like it. Those pills couldn't have tasted good, but they chewed them down like champions, and we suggested some orange to cover the flavor.
After replenishing the antibiotic-enhanced water for the new chicks, I stayed to have lunch with Beatrice's family. She let me help her in the kitchen- the meal consisted of rice, beans, and cooked spinach, all enhanced with carrot and spices. Also bananas. Delicious and filling. Beatrice refilled my plate after my first helping, and even afterwards assured me that I had eaten very little. I was stuffed! I practically waddled out of there!
Before I left, Beatrice called me to the window and pointed out a family of monkeys who were loitering on the edge of the forest, raiding the compost. They had found some bananas, and some of them ate while the babies leaped and chased each other through the branches. Google tells me that they were vervet monkeys. Grey, black faces, very long tails. Adorable.
To return to Swahili lessons, mzungu women are much appreciated by Tanzanian men, and Beatrice's youngest son, Nicky, has told us that he should marry one. While I helped Beatrice cook today, he told me, "Ah, you will make such a good wife," so I did the only thing I could do- laughed. He also tried to give me a necklace and earrings today, but I told him I couldn't take them. He has a solution- he'll give them to his sister, and when she gives them to me, I'll have to accept. Gulp. He already knows I don't have a boyfriend, but maybe I should make up a fictional man? Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jealous disposition... suggestions?
My old roomie Amy tells me that she sent me a flock of fuzzy vibes to pull me out of my low mood, and I have decided that they took the form of vervet monkeys. So this is me sending vervets back to all of you! If a bunch of squirrels, sparrows, or... I dunno, frogs? Whatever floats your boat-- if these things show up to brighten your day-- you're welcome! Now, if you find crows dive-bombing you, or you get stung by a bee, that's not me. Unless I have cause to be angry with you-- you know who you are!
Slowly and painfully, I am trying to learn Swahili. After learning karibu (welcome) and (thank you), the next word we inevitably all learn is mzungu, which means "white person". It's interesting to be in the racial and cultural minority, to know that you are constantly amusing
people with your cultural mistakes. As long as you smile and try, they don't seem to mind.
Today our mission was to give the children de-worming pills, which turns out to be nothing like de-worming sled dogs. For one thing, the dogs mostly don't have worms, whereas the children almost certainly do. But, much like the sled dogs, they are cooperative in almost anything you want them to do, regardless of whether they like it. Those pills couldn't have tasted good, but they chewed them down like champions, and we suggested some orange to cover the flavor.
After replenishing the antibiotic-enhanced water for the new chicks, I stayed to have lunch with Beatrice's family. She let me help her in the kitchen- the meal consisted of rice, beans, and cooked spinach, all enhanced with carrot and spices. Also bananas. Delicious and filling. Beatrice refilled my plate after my first helping, and even afterwards assured me that I had eaten very little. I was stuffed! I practically waddled out of there!
Before I left, Beatrice called me to the window and pointed out a family of monkeys who were loitering on the edge of the forest, raiding the compost. They had found some bananas, and some of them ate while the babies leaped and chased each other through the branches. Google tells me that they were vervet monkeys. Grey, black faces, very long tails. Adorable.
To return to Swahili lessons, mzungu women are much appreciated by Tanzanian men, and Beatrice's youngest son, Nicky, has told us that he should marry one. While I helped Beatrice cook today, he told me, "Ah, you will make such a good wife," so I did the only thing I could do- laughed. He also tried to give me a necklace and earrings today, but I told him I couldn't take them. He has a solution- he'll give them to his sister, and when she gives them to me, I'll have to accept. Gulp. He already knows I don't have a boyfriend, but maybe I should make up a fictional man? Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jealous disposition... suggestions?
My old roomie Amy tells me that she sent me a flock of fuzzy vibes to pull me out of my low mood, and I have decided that they took the form of vervet monkeys. So this is me sending vervets back to all of you! If a bunch of squirrels, sparrows, or... I dunno, frogs? Whatever floats your boat-- if these things show up to brighten your day-- you're welcome! Now, if you find crows dive-bombing you, or you get stung by a bee, that's not me. Unless I have cause to be angry with you-- you know who you are!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I Can Too
Sometimes I feel like Fate has a plan, like she lines up challenges for me, one by one, and watches to see if I get through them. Yesterday, it felt very much like she and I were having a conversation. It went something like this:
Irene: K, so what's next.
Fate: Well now, lessee here, we've tackled a number of different countries, all kinds of work...
Irene (preening): Why yes, I believe we have.
Fate: Mm-hm... you're feeling kinda smug, aren't you?
Irene: I suppose you could say that. After all, I've learned everything else. I can tackle anything.
Fate: Oh yeah?
Irene: I think so.
Fate: All right, hot stuff.... Cuddle that baby!
Irene (spinning around very fast and gulping): Excuse me, do what to what?
Fate: Babies. Cuddle them. Make them happy.
Irene: I... um.... uh, really?
Fate: What's wrong? Scared of a little baby?
Yes. Yes, babies do alarm me. Specifically, 30-odd babies and toddlers are quite intimidating to me. What are you supposed to do with them? What makes them happy? Why do they always have that vague odor to them? Yesterday I accompanied some of the girls to the baby orphanage and cuddled for three hours straight- with one break to feed a tiny girl named Victorie. After a while, I think I got the hang of the cuddling- the babies are especially easy, because I found that if you simply lie flat on your back on the floor, they'll come over on their own and make themselves comfortable. And if they don't want to sleep, you can fall back on the old classic of bouncing them and humming randomly jouncy tunes.
Nevertheless, I've come to the conclusion that not only does the baby orphanage have more than enough volunteers already, but I'm happier working in the sun for eight hours a day than cuddle for three. At Tumaini, where the older children live, I can do things to improve their quality of life, and still interact with them. This is more satisfying to me.
I'm having some trouble settling in here. I got so used to spending time with males in Capetown that a house full of women and couples is a tad unsettling. I seem to be the only solo traveler here. Also it took me some time to catch my journal up to date, and I haven't really arrived at a new place until I'm satisfied that I won't forget anything from the last one. Today I'm trying harder- I'm joining the Swahili class that Omi, one of the Tanzanian men who help us out at the hostel, teaches, and I'm heading back to Tumaini today to get the new baby chicks settled in. Trying not to be homesick, especially since, in my life, I never know exactly which home I'm sick for. This too shall pass?
Love all you guys.
Irene: K, so what's next.
Fate: Well now, lessee here, we've tackled a number of different countries, all kinds of work...
Irene (preening): Why yes, I believe we have.
Fate: Mm-hm... you're feeling kinda smug, aren't you?
Irene: I suppose you could say that. After all, I've learned everything else. I can tackle anything.
Fate: Oh yeah?
Irene: I think so.
Fate: All right, hot stuff.... Cuddle that baby!
Irene (spinning around very fast and gulping): Excuse me, do what to what?
Fate: Babies. Cuddle them. Make them happy.
Irene: I... um.... uh, really?
Fate: What's wrong? Scared of a little baby?
Yes. Yes, babies do alarm me. Specifically, 30-odd babies and toddlers are quite intimidating to me. What are you supposed to do with them? What makes them happy? Why do they always have that vague odor to them? Yesterday I accompanied some of the girls to the baby orphanage and cuddled for three hours straight- with one break to feed a tiny girl named Victorie. After a while, I think I got the hang of the cuddling- the babies are especially easy, because I found that if you simply lie flat on your back on the floor, they'll come over on their own and make themselves comfortable. And if they don't want to sleep, you can fall back on the old classic of bouncing them and humming randomly jouncy tunes.
Nevertheless, I've come to the conclusion that not only does the baby orphanage have more than enough volunteers already, but I'm happier working in the sun for eight hours a day than cuddle for three. At Tumaini, where the older children live, I can do things to improve their quality of life, and still interact with them. This is more satisfying to me.
I'm having some trouble settling in here. I got so used to spending time with males in Capetown that a house full of women and couples is a tad unsettling. I seem to be the only solo traveler here. Also it took me some time to catch my journal up to date, and I haven't really arrived at a new place until I'm satisfied that I won't forget anything from the last one. Today I'm trying harder- I'm joining the Swahili class that Omi, one of the Tanzanian men who help us out at the hostel, teaches, and I'm heading back to Tumaini today to get the new baby chicks settled in. Trying not to be homesick, especially since, in my life, I never know exactly which home I'm sick for. This too shall pass?
Love all you guys.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Trouble with Opposable Thumbs
I left Capetown at 4:30 Sunday morning, with a small farewell committee- Steve, Claire, and Skipper were all there to see me off, none of us having gone to sleep. I missed the hostel as soon as I left, and wished I'd taken a bit longer to say goodbye. But does it really help? I think it makes things harder.
The flights to Tanzania were uneventful. I kept falling asleep and slumping into the aisle so that the stewardesses had to wake me up. After one of my naps, a weird Afrikaans guy next to me informed me that he had read my journal. I sat bolt upright, thinking of a gajillion things in there that I would NOT like strangers to be reading. His only comment was on how much things could change in a generation.... Oh well.
Ujamaa Hostel is in Arusha, Tanzania, not too far from Mt. Kilimanjaro. It houses volunteers, feeds them breakfast and dinner, and provides them with volunteer opportunities for no additional fee. Yesterday, I worked at an orphanage called Tumaini (Too-MY-nee) for children ages 5-7ish. They only have 19 right now, but as soon as their new house is ready, more will be coming. The manager, Beatrice (called Bebe by the children, which means "grandmother" in Swahili), has grand plans for the place which she outlined for me. They've had chickens for a year, they're just getting cows, and soon we'll be digging fish ponds so that these too can be a source of food and revenue for the children. Beatrice wants Tumaini to be as self-sufficient as possible.
So yesterday I worked with Jade, an Aussie girl, to build an enclosure for baby chicks and to put a chicken wire roof over the chickens which will keep the kites out. I was actually able to use my experience in Ecuador to suggest a way of connecting the strips of chicken wire together. We did have the inevitable difficulty: the children were done with school for the day, and were naturally curious about what the white girls and the two field workers (Ezekiel and William) were doing. Soon there was a small cloud of them playing with the wheelbarrow and the tape measure (I do remember those being fun when I was little, though I can't recall why), scaring the chickens (who doesnb't love that?), running off with hammers, and my personal favorite, a little boy called Musa was intent on stealing the wirecutters and snipping chicken wire in inappropriate places. He was very bright- if he spoke more english, I could have explained to him that he was endangering his own egg supply, and he might have cut it out. As it was, he just enjoyed the game of trying to avoid my evil eye upon him.
This is something the animals never did. Some of them might have, given opposable thumbs to play with, but children definitely have too much of an advantage. The only comparison I can think of is when the capucchins at Santa Martha unscrewed the light bulb that was supposed to keep them warm at night, smashed it, and went running around with the metal base and jagged glass in their hands. So I would state that the trouble with opposable thumbs... is that children have them. Maybe that's something that ought to develop later in life?
Today, that last night of not sleeping at the hostel finally caught up with me, and I've been dragging myself around. Decided not to volunteer today, but to make myself more peppy and useful in days to come by sleeping and pulling myself together. I'm also a week behind on my journal, and I won't really be able to concentrate on Tanzania until I've written down everything I want to remember from before. And, of course, the third mission of the day- write to you lovely people. You are officially my favorite chore.
Tanzania is very green and junglish. Mosquitos have made a feast of me- yes, they ARE worse than Carlisle ones- and I'm very grateful for that blue capsule in the morning that fends off malaria. Nevertheless, the people are friendly, and I'm fascinated by the tangle of leaves and vines everywhere. Also, the food is great. Simple, tasty, filling, and doubtless more healthy than what I eat at home.
Since Ujamaa runs a number of different volunteering sites, I'll be visiting a number of them, so stay tuned. Or don't, whatever your fancy! As usual, I'll be trying not to remember that I miss you all!
The flights to Tanzania were uneventful. I kept falling asleep and slumping into the aisle so that the stewardesses had to wake me up. After one of my naps, a weird Afrikaans guy next to me informed me that he had read my journal. I sat bolt upright, thinking of a gajillion things in there that I would NOT like strangers to be reading. His only comment was on how much things could change in a generation.... Oh well.
Ujamaa Hostel is in Arusha, Tanzania, not too far from Mt. Kilimanjaro. It houses volunteers, feeds them breakfast and dinner, and provides them with volunteer opportunities for no additional fee. Yesterday, I worked at an orphanage called Tumaini (Too-MY-nee) for children ages 5-7ish. They only have 19 right now, but as soon as their new house is ready, more will be coming. The manager, Beatrice (called Bebe by the children, which means "grandmother" in Swahili), has grand plans for the place which she outlined for me. They've had chickens for a year, they're just getting cows, and soon we'll be digging fish ponds so that these too can be a source of food and revenue for the children. Beatrice wants Tumaini to be as self-sufficient as possible.
So yesterday I worked with Jade, an Aussie girl, to build an enclosure for baby chicks and to put a chicken wire roof over the chickens which will keep the kites out. I was actually able to use my experience in Ecuador to suggest a way of connecting the strips of chicken wire together. We did have the inevitable difficulty: the children were done with school for the day, and were naturally curious about what the white girls and the two field workers (Ezekiel and William) were doing. Soon there was a small cloud of them playing with the wheelbarrow and the tape measure (I do remember those being fun when I was little, though I can't recall why), scaring the chickens (who doesnb't love that?), running off with hammers, and my personal favorite, a little boy called Musa was intent on stealing the wirecutters and snipping chicken wire in inappropriate places. He was very bright- if he spoke more english, I could have explained to him that he was endangering his own egg supply, and he might have cut it out. As it was, he just enjoyed the game of trying to avoid my evil eye upon him.
This is something the animals never did. Some of them might have, given opposable thumbs to play with, but children definitely have too much of an advantage. The only comparison I can think of is when the capucchins at Santa Martha unscrewed the light bulb that was supposed to keep them warm at night, smashed it, and went running around with the metal base and jagged glass in their hands. So I would state that the trouble with opposable thumbs... is that children have them. Maybe that's something that ought to develop later in life?
Today, that last night of not sleeping at the hostel finally caught up with me, and I've been dragging myself around. Decided not to volunteer today, but to make myself more peppy and useful in days to come by sleeping and pulling myself together. I'm also a week behind on my journal, and I won't really be able to concentrate on Tanzania until I've written down everything I want to remember from before. And, of course, the third mission of the day- write to you lovely people. You are officially my favorite chore.
Tanzania is very green and junglish. Mosquitos have made a feast of me- yes, they ARE worse than Carlisle ones- and I'm very grateful for that blue capsule in the morning that fends off malaria. Nevertheless, the people are friendly, and I'm fascinated by the tangle of leaves and vines everywhere. Also, the food is great. Simple, tasty, filling, and doubtless more healthy than what I eat at home.
Since Ujamaa runs a number of different volunteering sites, I'll be visiting a number of them, so stay tuned. Or don't, whatever your fancy! As usual, I'll be trying not to remember that I miss you all!
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Bunkbed and the Chiropractor
This is the tale of a rickety bunkbed in the mountains of Ecuador, a chiropractor in Capetown, South Africa, and how they touched the life of a bright, beautiful and enterprising young woman. For the purposes of smooth narrative, we must give this paragon a name- I shall call her Irene.
The tale begins at an Ecuadorian wildlife center, where our hero is spending four months building lion enclosures, dodging homicidal kinkajous and giving butchery lessons. The month is August, the year is 2008, and night is trickling down upon the mountaintop. The lovely Irene was relaxing with her fellow volunteers. On an impulse, she scrambled up to her bunk to retrieve an mp3 player. And now we must reveal our hero's fatal flaw, her Achilles Heel, if you will. Irene is, we regret, undeniably and unfailingly clumsy.
As she slid down from her bunk, Irene's hand slipped, and she landed flat, facedown on a hard, tile floor. Her chin rebounded, blood leaped from her lower lip and jaw, and she gave a very manly howl of rage and pain. Having assured herself that it was a howl, not a girly squeal, she found to her relief that teeth and bones were all intact. Her teeth didn't seem to be meeting up exactly the way they used to, but why quibble? She did the only thing she could do:clean up the blood, go to bed, and rise in the morning, stiff-necked, to explain her new beauty marks to the volunteer group.
Our tale skips forward now to October 2009, when the restless wanderer Irene returned to the home of her mother after eleven months in Alaska. Shortly afterwards, as previously documented, a painful sinus infection arose, but Irene, believing herself capable of, to use the colloquial "kicking its microscopic ass back to germy-town," delayed her doctor's visit for almost two months. The doctor prescribed antibiotics, but as each course ended, the pain returned. In the first weeks of January, Irene boarded a plane for South Africa, having just started her third round of antibiotics, believing firmly that no puny microbes could survive this final scourge. Especially since the only thing left to do was see an ear-nose-throat doctor, and the hero has a dislike of doctor's offices.
She was wrong. Yes, I know it's a shock and a rarity from such a lady, but so it was. With the end of the prescription, the persistent pain returned. Iron entered Irene's soul. Her entire four months in Africa included only one sizable gap between programs, right after Drakenstien. Cunning and wise to the last, Irene knew that this time must be used to thwart the infection and restore order to her sinuses.
The owner of Drakenstein's wife worked in medicine, and was able to supply the name and number of a Capetown ENT. Despite being sent to the wrong side of town by tourist information, our hero successfully reached her appointment, and with eloquence she explained her problem. Examinations yielded bewilderingly normal results, and a CT scans was ordered posthaste. When Irene had braved the machine, she gazed in wonder at the glowing image of her own skull. Never had her nose looked less like a ski jump, she mused...
The doctor was dismayed. "Your skull is weird," she proclaimed, "but your sinuses are clear like crystal. The clear kind. Away with you to a chiropractor, then a dentist, and if they can't find a problem, you get more drugs."
Irene was discouraged, and in dread of dentists and further drugs. With little expectation that a chiropractor could help her, she nonetheless dutifully appeared on his doorstep two days later. Having heard her sordid tale, the chiropractor examined the gallant lass. As soon as his fingers touched the base of her spine, he exclaimed in surprise, "Oh my god, how did that happen?"
It didn't seem like a good sign. "What?" squeaked the hero.
"Your skull is sitting a centimeter off-center on your spine. Like someone picked it up and put it back in the wrong place."
Imagine Irene's bafflement. Would she not have remembered which an event? The now-intrigued chiropractor continued his tests, and it was while he was asking whether her teeth fit together correctly that she brilliantly recalled the sensation, right after striking the floor in Ecuador, of her teeth not quite matching up. The story of the fall was recounted immediately, and the mystery of the sourceless pain was solved. Although at the time she had laughed about her visible scars, Irene had thought little of the matter since except as a good story to tell. She had learned to move around her head's new position, all unawares, and for a year and a half the tension had built up. The good chiropractor cracked and stretched our hero's neck a few times, stuck a few needles into the nerve, and assured Irene that her skull was back where it was supposed to be.
I have kept this tale to myself, not wishing to cause anxiety to any of those persons inclined towards worrying from afar. Knowing that our hero was applying the full extent of her mental and social resources to the problem, it seemed counter-productive that anyone else should fret about it.
For myself, while the hero Irene has been bent on her quest to straighten out her head, I have been keeping myself lazy at the hostel. Most often I hang out with Steve, Claire, Marius, and a South African skipper called Bash. After the first three nights, I got tired of waking up hung over, and I scaled back the drinking. Since then, my time has been split between catching up on sleep, walks around the city, and hanging out. The massive sunburn I got at the beach is healing now, another the outline of my suit's tie is still sharply demarkated. Steve calls it Jesus, and I wish Jesus would hurry up and peel his butt off my back. We all had a braai (barbeque) a few nights ago; spent a night sleeping on the balcony at one point, giving birth to a new hostel rule: no sleeping on the balcony; and today is my last day, which makes me surprisingly sad for a place that I've only been a week. It felt like longer. Today I plan on trying to forget that it's happening, and going with Steve and Skipper Bash to see Bash's boat.
Sorry about the pictures I promised you. The computers don't have a cd drive, so uploading them was a no-go. I'll keep trying.
I leave tomorrow morning for a 6:oo flight to Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, to stay at a place called Ujamaa Hostel.
The tale begins at an Ecuadorian wildlife center, where our hero is spending four months building lion enclosures, dodging homicidal kinkajous and giving butchery lessons. The month is August, the year is 2008, and night is trickling down upon the mountaintop. The lovely Irene was relaxing with her fellow volunteers. On an impulse, she scrambled up to her bunk to retrieve an mp3 player. And now we must reveal our hero's fatal flaw, her Achilles Heel, if you will. Irene is, we regret, undeniably and unfailingly clumsy.
As she slid down from her bunk, Irene's hand slipped, and she landed flat, facedown on a hard, tile floor. Her chin rebounded, blood leaped from her lower lip and jaw, and she gave a very manly howl of rage and pain. Having assured herself that it was a howl, not a girly squeal, she found to her relief that teeth and bones were all intact. Her teeth didn't seem to be meeting up exactly the way they used to, but why quibble? She did the only thing she could do:clean up the blood, go to bed, and rise in the morning, stiff-necked, to explain her new beauty marks to the volunteer group.
Our tale skips forward now to October 2009, when the restless wanderer Irene returned to the home of her mother after eleven months in Alaska. Shortly afterwards, as previously documented, a painful sinus infection arose, but Irene, believing herself capable of, to use the colloquial "kicking its microscopic ass back to germy-town," delayed her doctor's visit for almost two months. The doctor prescribed antibiotics, but as each course ended, the pain returned. In the first weeks of January, Irene boarded a plane for South Africa, having just started her third round of antibiotics, believing firmly that no puny microbes could survive this final scourge. Especially since the only thing left to do was see an ear-nose-throat doctor, and the hero has a dislike of doctor's offices.
She was wrong. Yes, I know it's a shock and a rarity from such a lady, but so it was. With the end of the prescription, the persistent pain returned. Iron entered Irene's soul. Her entire four months in Africa included only one sizable gap between programs, right after Drakenstien. Cunning and wise to the last, Irene knew that this time must be used to thwart the infection and restore order to her sinuses.
The owner of Drakenstein's wife worked in medicine, and was able to supply the name and number of a Capetown ENT. Despite being sent to the wrong side of town by tourist information, our hero successfully reached her appointment, and with eloquence she explained her problem. Examinations yielded bewilderingly normal results, and a CT scans was ordered posthaste. When Irene had braved the machine, she gazed in wonder at the glowing image of her own skull. Never had her nose looked less like a ski jump, she mused...
The doctor was dismayed. "Your skull is weird," she proclaimed, "but your sinuses are clear like crystal. The clear kind. Away with you to a chiropractor, then a dentist, and if they can't find a problem, you get more drugs."
Irene was discouraged, and in dread of dentists and further drugs. With little expectation that a chiropractor could help her, she nonetheless dutifully appeared on his doorstep two days later. Having heard her sordid tale, the chiropractor examined the gallant lass. As soon as his fingers touched the base of her spine, he exclaimed in surprise, "Oh my god, how did that happen?"
It didn't seem like a good sign. "What?" squeaked the hero.
"Your skull is sitting a centimeter off-center on your spine. Like someone picked it up and put it back in the wrong place."
Imagine Irene's bafflement. Would she not have remembered which an event? The now-intrigued chiropractor continued his tests, and it was while he was asking whether her teeth fit together correctly that she brilliantly recalled the sensation, right after striking the floor in Ecuador, of her teeth not quite matching up. The story of the fall was recounted immediately, and the mystery of the sourceless pain was solved. Although at the time she had laughed about her visible scars, Irene had thought little of the matter since except as a good story to tell. She had learned to move around her head's new position, all unawares, and for a year and a half the tension had built up. The good chiropractor cracked and stretched our hero's neck a few times, stuck a few needles into the nerve, and assured Irene that her skull was back where it was supposed to be.
I have kept this tale to myself, not wishing to cause anxiety to any of those persons inclined towards worrying from afar. Knowing that our hero was applying the full extent of her mental and social resources to the problem, it seemed counter-productive that anyone else should fret about it.
For myself, while the hero Irene has been bent on her quest to straighten out her head, I have been keeping myself lazy at the hostel. Most often I hang out with Steve, Claire, Marius, and a South African skipper called Bash. After the first three nights, I got tired of waking up hung over, and I scaled back the drinking. Since then, my time has been split between catching up on sleep, walks around the city, and hanging out. The massive sunburn I got at the beach is healing now, another the outline of my suit's tie is still sharply demarkated. Steve calls it Jesus, and I wish Jesus would hurry up and peel his butt off my back. We all had a braai (barbeque) a few nights ago; spent a night sleeping on the balcony at one point, giving birth to a new hostel rule: no sleeping on the balcony; and today is my last day, which makes me surprisingly sad for a place that I've only been a week. It felt like longer. Today I plan on trying to forget that it's happening, and going with Steve and Skipper Bash to see Bash's boat.
Sorry about the pictures I promised you. The computers don't have a cd drive, so uploading them was a no-go. I'll keep trying.
I leave tomorrow morning for a 6:oo flight to Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, to stay at a place called Ujamaa Hostel.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)