Fire!

The mountain is on fire. Like, a big chunk of it.

I’ve seen a fire truck in town exactly 1 times, and it was more like a fire-minivan, so I’m not convinced it would have much effect, even if I could find it now in our hour of need.

I’m also not convinced that this is an accidental fire although “controlled” would probably be a much more favorable description than it deserves.

Meanwhile, since that fire is probably 6-8k away (that’s 4-5 miles for my metrically challenged friends), I feel comfortable letting my thoughts continue to be preoccupied by Paris. In a mere 44 days, I’ll be on a flight to Paris. 

Obviously, I’m pretty excited, but just now my musings are more on the mileage I just mentioned than on the Louvre. That 6 to 8 dreaded k: I'm anticipating my Parisian runs. Nope, that’s not an allusion to diarrhea. In fact, those kinds of runs I typically get to leave behind whenever I leave Africa (yes, there’s an ugly side to living in the developing world beyond general injustices like hunger and poverty). I’m talking about actual runs. Like, with my legs.

Let me start from the beginning: you see, my company is staffed mainly by the insane. We’ve got the guy whose weekend run is a marathon. We’ve got another who wants to see how many birthdays he can match mileage to age (at this point, he’s far exceeded his age and I won’t get into the actual numbers… it’s just upsetting). The entire Rwanda team runs with him. Last year, according to my sources, all of them ran further than they’d ever run before and at least a half marathon. Another guy is a world champion ultimate player. Still another finished the New York marathon first in his age group for Americans (okay, the Kenyans still smoked him, but still).

So that’s who I lived with the last two years. We also maintained a pretty serious “Taco Tuesday” tradition. Tuesdays, therefore, should have been the happiest night of the week, except that it coincided with “sports night” with these maniacs. So, my colleague Gazi and I revolted. We formed Team Sensible, the non-running club of our organization. In defiance of sports night, we followed up the Tuesday staff meeting with a “coke walk,” meandering down the block about 5 minutes to the stand that sold 500 milliliter bottles of Coca-Cola. It was beautiful.

And then I moved to Tanzania. And something weird happened. I started running.

It hurts pretty bad most of the time and I pretty much hate it. That’s probably why it’s on my mind right now. On the 15^th of September of this year (that’s roughly 7 weeks from today), I’ll be trying to complete a half marathon in Sarajevo. We’re leading up to this trip with a few days in Paris, which means my final training runs may well be along the Seine. That’ll be nice, too, because instead of ralphing the physical incarnation of my nerves onto the lawns of the Greek Orthodox Church (oops), a foreign diplomat (sorry, Norway), or my neighbors (I’m not sorry, you jerks), it’ll all be washed away by a scenic, historic river. So, that’ll be nice.

Did you think I’d be able to cover forest fire, half-marathoning, diarrhea, and vomit all in one post?  You’re welcome, internet.

Finishing my first 5k.  I'm in the pink shirt.
See how few people are left?  That's cause I was way at the back.

Child Labor

I’d like to recommend a dissertation topic to any takers. 

While I was in America a few weeks back, I got into a conversation with my pops. He’s an old-school story-teller, the type to spin wild yarns that may or may not have really happened. As he likes to say whenever I challenge the veracity of one of his tales, “Never let the facts interfere with a good story.”

Anyway. Most of dear old Dad’s stories are numbered. Not literally, but we know them all so well, they might as well be. We know about how he copied the master key to his undergraduate college. (He was the head of the dish crew and found the key on a returned plate; he carefully sanded down a blank key until he could literally unlock the campus. Not bad, until the story closes with him choosing after hours time in the Physics lab… am I making him sound like a terrorist? He’s not. Just a tinkerer.) We also know the story of my great aunt trying to scatter the ashes of her father – that one is a real gem. It involves old ladies on adult-sized tricycles, a windy final dispatch, and rubber waders. And we know about the time my great-grandfather accidentally shot himself in the foot. The stories get better and better with each re-telling.

This one, however, was new. We were chatting about my Great Aunt Dorothy. When Aunt Dorothy was just a girl in the early 1900s, she, like any girl her age, was interested in ways to earn some extra pennies to spend at the local candy shoppe.* So, she got a job.

Now, this is where I get back to the title of my post. (Did I have anyone nervous about how my organization is planning to reach sustainability? Settle down, now.) When I was a kid, there were only a few things you could do to earn extra pocket money. I babysat and housesat for the neighbors. My brother mowed lawns in the summer and shoveled snow in the winter. And that’s all I can really think of. (Because I swear no one ever made any money at a lemonade stand and I was never up early enough to even consider a paper route.)

In Mississippi, some neighborhood kids knocked on my door once and asked if they could collect the pecans that had fallen from the tree in my front yard. (PECANS?  I HAVE PECANS?)** They wanted to take them over to a local shop that would pay a certain price per pound.

But Great Aunt Dorothy was too young to be sitting for children. She could, however, get a job assisting the local doctor. All she had to do was sit on the end of a dock and dangle her legs into the lake. This might have been tricky for a kid, seeing as she really wasn’t meant to kick her legs or splash the water. Why? (I can feel your question burning through the computer screen.)

Get this: she was fishing for leeches…with her legs! These were still the magical days of yore when doctors needed leeches to “treat” their patients. So Great Aunt Dorothy would dip her legs into the water and then pull the little blood-suckers off to sell them to the local doc.

Now, this is an Africa blog, so I don’t want to neglect some local flavor. I’ll admit to pretty scattered and anecdotal research, but so far, I can’t find anyone who remembers earning money as a child. The best I can get is from a colleague who, knowing he wanted something, would spend the morning helping his mom: washing her clothes, cleaning the windows, tidying the house, only to ask her for some money later that day. (Sound familiar?  I guess some things are universal.) But this actually makes sense. Village life in rural Africa would preclude children from earning money for watching other kids and chores like fetching water, cooking dinner, monitoring cattle, and the like are expected rather than rewarded (or, if they are rewarded, it’s in the less fun-blog-joking way of getting to go to school rather than candies from the local shoppe).

But now I’m interested. I’d love to read a paper or a book or something called “Pocket Money: Innocuous Child Labor Throughout History.” But, I have a full-time job, so if one of you out there in the blogosphere has some extra time or needs a dissertation topic, you don’t even have to credit me for the idea. Just send me what you find out!

* Just trying to stick with the old-timey feel.

** This was an exciting day for me.  I had no idea.

Reflections on Two Years in the Field

Yesterday was my anniversary.

I never expected to even be here.  I did have expectations, but those all landed me in a fur hat, drinking vodka, and singing folk songs about the Volga while strumming a balalaika.  For those of you who know me outside of the interwebs, you likely already know about my little obsession.*  But, what do they say?  Life is what happens when you’re making other plans… no, no, that’s not the one I want.  Right, it’s “if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”  Anyhoo.  Here I am two years later typing at eight degrees South instead of sixty-ish degrees North.

A lot can happen in two years and I feel I’ve accomplished and experienced a good amount.  (Deep breath in…) I’ve read like 50 books, climbed a mountain, been charged by a hippo, swam in the Nile, sailed on Lake Victoria, ridden in a hot air balloon, learned to drive on the wrong side of the road, ran a 5k, purchased and cared for a puppy who I subsequently semi-trained, been promoted, moved countries, improved my Swahili, and learned many of the ins and outs of my new best friend (Microsoft Excel).

I’ve also been dished up a whole heap of crap.  I’ve been held at gunpoint, defrauded, had a machete-brandishing man try to "adopt" the aforementioned puppy, lost my computer, music, pictures, and not to mention WEDDING RING to thieves (okay that one’s a combo with the first, but I felt it deserved it’s own section), suffered malaria and steady intestinal discomfort, and may or may not have contracted Schistosomiasis.  Which is worms.  Awesome.

So, it’s been eventful.

Starting this post, I wanted to think of something eloquent – stirring even – to summarize my time spent here so far.  I wanted to think of something persuasive to convince you that it’s all worth it because we’re changing lives and rooting out hunger.  But for some reason, instead, all I can think is to tell you about a game I just learned.

It’s not the no-pants game, which I recently learned from my dear friend, Ducky.  If you want to hear that one, just ask.  You can play it anywhere.  I was just a spectator because it turns out that Meridith might be called Duck but I’m just plain Chicken.

This game is called “goat or kid.”  You can probably guess the rules.  When you hear a baby crying in the village you have to decide…. Goat or Kid?  Could have been called “Kid or Kid” really.  (It woulda been if I ran things…)

The chances of you getting to play this game are very low if you’re reading this from a developed country.  You probably only get to experience goats at petting zoos, and that’s kind of a shame.  Then again, not really.  In fact, I might not mind a more limited interaction with these, the dirtiest of creatures.  Because it turns out: goats are dumb.  And noisy.  And under-foot.  And tough (the meat part).  And just generally annoying.

That said, I’m still thinking of getting one for Pickles.

Among the things I never expected to do... on safari with mis padres.

*I’m a Russophile.  I have a certificate to prove it and everything.

Just Like Ma Used to Make It

Nothing quite says “holiday” like the food that defines it.  I grew up eating a set menu for just about every holiday, not just the major ones.  Obviously, we did the traditional spread for Thanksgiving and something similar at Christmas, but we also had a couple of others.

On Fat Tuesday, it was always pancakes for dinner.  To celebrate the Luck of the Irish on St. Patty’s Day, we ate corned beef with sauerkraut.  For Easter, my mom would break out the big guns with a breaded ham garnished with pineapple.  But, my favorite by far was the 4^th of July.  Bratwurst, Juicy Lucys (cream-cheese stuffed burgers), baked beans with real Wisconsin cheese curds, corn on the cob, devilled eggs, and don’t get me started on the salads: potato, pasta, garden, take your pick! Now, set all that to the pleasant crackling sounds of sparklers and – for me – you’ve just defined summer.

                                         

So, yeah, I love the 4^th of July.  I love that even the sleepiest of towns and cities come alive with the Sousa-spangled parades, fireworks, and a sense of community with everyone you meet.  Needless to say, I struggle with the fact that, around here, the 4^th of July is just another day at the office.  No stars.  No stripes.  Certainly not forever.

However, over the past two years, I’ve learned an important lesson: when it comes to holiday food, expats can’t/dont/won't shy away from the kitchen, the garden or, if it comes to it, the slaughterhouse.  During his introduction to Thanksgiving, my English friend George not only learned that Americans aren’t crazy for loving this family-filled holiday (tragically slandered in his home country…), but he also got to cut the head off the turkey.  Because, facing a dangerous deficit of Butterball, we’ll get the real thing, feed it for a week, and then spend 4 hours plucking each one of those stubborn feathers out.

Thankfully, hamburger is not in short supply, so we won’t be slaughtering anything this weekend.  But, we are still missing a lot of key ingredients for a properly mid-western Independence Day picnic.  We can’t get brats or the right fruits and berries to decorate the cool-whip cake like a flag (yeah, you know the one). 

For that matter, where's the cool-whip?  And the graham cracker crusts?!

So we’ll have to make do.  Today we’re facing down a lot of serious from-scratch cooking for our 4^th of July extravaganza tomorrow.  In the past week, I’ve had ricotta drying from my water tank for an attempt at cheesecake and experiments on our new pasta machine for one of the salads.  Right now, the boys are out looking for a grill grate and, when they return, I'll head to our local western-style grocer who, thank goodness, carries food coloring… because I swear my desert is going to look festive regardless of the presence of strawberries and blueberries.

So, Happy 4^th, America - we’ll be celebrating you tomorrow!  And, since he’s here, we’re hoping the Prez will stop by our little barbeque, but I’m not holding my breath…




Before I sign off, though, I gotta lodge one complaint.  Why is it that I can carry firearms and ammunition in my checked luggage but not sparklers?  Dear NRA (because I can only assume this is your fault): WHY ARE YOU THE WAY THAT YOU ARE?!