lucky if you think of it as home.

It's been a few days since I've been home, and it's not as weird as I'd imagined. I think I spent so much time thinking about what would be different and challenging that I over hyped the entire "re-entry" concept. It's been a busy week though - flew to Atlanta and was interviewed and subsequently rejected for a Marshall scholarship, only to discover that I was next on the list in a year where budget limited the commission to 35 instead of 40 awards, meaning that my region had seven instead of eight. That was a rough day. But getting an interview bodes well for being admitted to St. Andrews independently, and there are still a few scholarships out there for Americans, so I still have a good shot at spending next year in Scotland.

After that debacle, I went to the grocery store (deli & produce = glorious!), joined the gym, spent an ungodly amount of time trying to find a no-contract phone plan (for other returning PCVs hoping to move/find a job, Virgin USA had the best deal I could find), and am now reliving my old middle school days by riding my bike around the neighborhood (although that seems to confuse a lot of the cars not used to sharing a lane - apparently Hunter's Creek is not a "bike to work" sort of neighborhood!).

The only truly odd thing about coming back has been the little things I've noticed. In the Frankfurt airport (while enjoying my wheat beer and pretzel!), I was enthralled watching the interactions between the twenty-something waitress and the middle-aged male customers. It wasn't flirting, per se, but more of a friendly banter that made me realize how long it's been since I've seen men and women interact without awkwardness. Now I'm seeing it everywhere and realizing how incomplete life is when you feel uncomfortable around half the population. This relates back to my desire to take salsa or hip-hop classes - after three years, I'm tired of the idea that a woman's sexuality is something to be repressed or feared.

But best of all has been feeling as though I fit in again - walking through the grocery store and, despite my dopey grin at the cheese section, having no one really care. And then understanding the conversations happening around me - that's an unusual sensation. We'll see how it all goes - it might

Now that I've left Ethiopia, if you're craving more stories from the birthplace of humanity, I've linked to several of the more active PCV blogs to the right.

home is where the heart is.

Gazing out over the scenery while riding the dawn bus from Assela to Adama, I found myself humming a vaguely familiar tune. As we rounded the curve and the full vista of shimmering gold wheat fields in front of distant mountains came into view, I recognized the opening bars of "America the Beautiful," a traditional American song.

"O beautiful, for spacious skies
O'er amber waves of grain
For purple mountains, majesties
Above the fruited plains"

In that moment, Ethiopia looked just like the vast plains of the American midwest where I was born and I realized that Ethiopia had become a second home to me. Looking back, I hardly remember my first frightened trips to the market, testing my fledgling Amharic as I bought a kilo of onions or found the grinding mill for the first time. Today, it all feels like second nature to me.

While my time here has been filled with challenges as I adjusted to living far from home in a new culture, now, just days before my departure, my mind is filled with only the joyous moments of the last two years. The young woman who stood up in an English class full of men and said she wanted to dedicate her life to campaigning for the rights of women around the world. The boy who shyly thanked me and told me that every Ethiopian he knew wanted to go to America, but I was the only American he'd ever seen in Ethiopia. The old woman who passionately taught her daughters that respect is a universal human right. The prisoners overjoyed to discover they deserved the same opportunities as anyone else. The teacher who said he can identify an American because we are always smiling and treat everyone the same. The bus passengers and cafe patrons with whom I shared countless humorous cultural exchanges. The list is endless.

My heart is torn as I alternate between excitement about going back to America and sadness for this new home that I'll be leaving behind. I believe that more unites us than divides us, and never has that been more true than after my time in Ethiopia. When I first arrived here, all I could see was how different Ethiopia was from America. But in time, I realized that deep down, we are all citizens of the world; we all want the same things - the opportunity to improve our lives and leave the world a little better for the next generation. The comfort and love of a family. I'll miss the Ethiopian family I've created here. I'll miss catching my breath every time I look up at the beauty of Chilalo Mountain silhouetted against the crystal blue sky. I'll miss being welcomed like a long lost friend in my local cafes and restaurants. I'll miss introducing dozens of Ethiopians to American chocolate cake and falling asleep to the sound of rain crashing on a tin roof.

In America, we say that "home is where the heart is." If that's true, then my home is scattered around the world, but there's now a little piece of my heart snugly nestled in the Ethiopian highlands. One day, I'll come back to find it again.

-my submission to Peace Corps/Ethiopia's program newsletter and my last post from Ethiopia.

freedom hangs like heaven.

I finally read The Poisonwood Bible, and although Kingsolver is much
too flowery a writer for my taste, I still couldn't put it down.
Perhaps because I'm here, but it turned out to be one of those books
that will probably forever stay with me. Part of me wishes the
preacher had tripped coming off the plane and sustained a brain injury
that would leave him forever mute, but I'm sure anyone else who's read
the book could have predicted I'd react in that way. There are
passages throughout the novel that I felt like were stolen from my own
thoughts. About trying to make sense of your own culture, lifestyle,
and beliefs in a world where they're frankly absurd. The daughters'
reactions to the lives and behaviors of the villagers. Reconciling
yourself to the reality that you must live under every assumption
based on everyone who's ever looked like you while knowing full well
you'll be lambasted for venturing any assumptions of your own. The
child-like fascination with the local food, dress, culture, lifestyle
- everything. The odd things you find yourself missing from home.
Your tiniest, most mundane action being fascinating, every single day
for months on end. Feeling like a regular in an establishment to
which you've never actually been. The notion that no amount of time
or language ability is enough to allow a white person to truly fit in
and be accepted. It's comforting to know that you're never the only
one.

As I come down to my final weeks here, I'm starting to think about
what Ethiopia will mean to me - how do I take this experience home
with me? How have I changed? The five-person narrator style of the
book did a lot to set me reflecting on how people allow Africa to
affect them. (This will be one of the few times I willingly refer to
"Africa" in the broad sense - culturally, each country is drastically
different, but the overall effect on Western mores is similar, and
that's the only context in which I'll ever use the term). Some people
end up feeling forever guilty for the privilege in which they were
raised - I don't want to be that girl. There are aspects of America
that I'm sure I'll find overwhelmingly gluttonous - we probably don't
need twenty varieties of canned soup, but all I can see is the other
side of that equation. With rampant consumerism comes choice, and the
belief that all of those choices are equally (or at least marginally)
valid. I'd rather have twenty soups I don't have to eat than have to
justify my job, love life, children or lack thereof, eating habits,
what I do or don't do on Sunday mornings, or anything else to anyone
else. I now appreciate those choices more than I ever would have if
I'd never lived without them. I'll probably also forever appreciate
the tiny details of my privileged life that I've historically taken
for granted - running water, electricity, parents who allow me to live
my own life, friends who appreciate that I form my own opinions, a
government that allows me to publicly disagree with it. I'd like to
fall somewhere in the middle, not renouncing my own background to
become "African," but not also writing off the entire experience as a
closed chapter in my life, never to be revisited.

Less than four weeks left. I just can't believe it's been this long
already and I don't even know how I feel about leaving. There are
reasons here for which I'd stay, not forever but for a time. But
there are also reasons at home for which I'd leave tomorrow. People
join the Peace Corps to "find themselves," but after life here,
everything seems feasible, so how do I weigh those reasons and figure
out how I'll carry Ethiopia with my for the rest of my life?

photos finally posted.

The links in the last post should actually work now - I finally
finished posting photos from the trip. Hope you enjoy!

victory is sweet, even deep in the cheap seats.

Photos:

Uganda: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2892561&id=2001205&l=a8e8ff8849
Rwanda: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2892547&id=2001205&l=bc92401ce9

As the photos suggest, the trip was incredible. I've never met so
many ridiculously friendly people as I did in Uganda. Even the
immigration officials had enormous grins on their faces. When we
stumbled into the rioting in Kampala, people went out of their way to
make sure we weren't involved. Our bus driver warned us about streets
to avoid, and a woman ended up walking us a kilometer out of her way
to show us to a bus station we were trying to find. And this wasn't
limited to saving the mzungus from chaos - on Bushara Island, a
stunningly beautiful camp on Lake Bunyonyi (thanks Will for the
recommendation!), the staff were equally attentive (apologizing for
food being late? Inday?). Bushara was a Peace Corps Volunteer's
dream - sustainable, eco-friendly camp (composting toilets!) staffed
by the local community and where all profits go back into the
community. Scholarships for students, orphan caregiver businesses,
handicraft cooperatives, vegetable garden on the premises, dance
troupes, dugout canoe trips - the works. We further proved our theory
that if you're willing to make a fool of yourself, people will love
you forever. Ugandan dance is not beginner-friendly. Lots of
spirited leaping high into the air - exhausting. But more more free
and uninhibited than most Ethiopian dances, so it was refreshing to
move something besides our shoulders. We definitely felt it the next
day though! We stayed in a sweet little "treehouse" (although not
actually in a tree) with a balcony overlooking the lake and a gorgeous
outdoor shower. Glorious. I'm going back if I ever find myself in
Uganda again.

Rafting the Nile is better described in photos (we successfully
navigated our way down a 12 foot waterfall!), but I'm now considering
abandoning all my academic plans and getting certified as a raft
guide. That would be the life, for a few years at least. One of our
fellow rafters was a Kiwi working for a charity that funds, among
other things, an NGO in Somaliland (not Somalia!) working on education
and rehabilitation for former Islamic militants. He found my
excitement rather odd, to say the least, but is putting me in touch
with the directors to see about possible teaching jobs. You meet the
most fascinating people wandering through Africa.

And the mountain gorillas. Yes, it's worth it. A 400-pound
silverback walked within a meter of me. They're such breathtaking
animals, it's easy to see how Dian Fossey ended up spending her life
with them. I've never felt so poor in all my life though - we were
surrounded by middle age, high-end travelers decked out in all the
fancy trekking gear and wearing several thousand dollars worth of
camera equipment dangling off their belts, and there we were, the
backpackers in ratty clothes, staying at the ten-dollar a night hostel
and fretting over the cost of hiring a car to the park entrance. I
think the park staff noticed and took pity on us though, because we
ended up trekking the Susa family, the largest of them all (41 members
when most have 10-15) and also the family that Fossey studied. After
scrambling up wet undergrowth on a 45 degree incline at 2500 meters
for three hours, we walked up to a sleeping silverback, the family
matriarch, and her six-month-old baby. And it just gets better - we
ended up seeing at least 24 members of the family, including the
playful five-year-old twins who seemed to love posing for our cameras.
You're so close that a telephoto lens is actually a handicap.
Incredible.

Within our group, we also had a very amusing travel companion, who
apparently had "the worst shower of his life" at a $500 per night
resort overlooking the volcanoes. We amused our fellow trekkers with
stories of Ethiopia, which was simply beyond comprehension for most.
Peter frightened them all describing how excited Karen and I got when
we discovered that sliced bread abounds in Uganda (seriously - people
walk around the bus station selling it! I haven't seen sliced bread
in two years!). Note the number of photos we took of us eating basic
grocery store food. And then there were the crisp green apples on
every street corner. We had a mild breakdown in a supermarket in
Entebbe trying to decided between three kinds of equally priced cheese
(it took us close to ten minutes to reason it out), then a similar
incident when faced with six varieties of sliced bread. We won't even
discuss our reactions to finding such a glorious supermarket. Just a
precursor to the odd creatures we're going to be when we come home.
Consider yourself warned.

We also spent a few nights in Gisenyi, on Lake Kivu, a quiet little
lake town that has actually been slightly ruined for me since I
learned that it served as the HQ for the interim
government/genocidaires when the rebel army captured Kigali. But it
boasts a quiet lakefront beach, where we had picnics and made friends
with random Rwandan wanderers who asked us for, in order, a book,
lotion, and to take his photo with all of us. Plus a couple of
teenage boys who proved unable to speak directly to women, diverting
all their questions about Karen and I through Peter ("What book is
Jessica reading? How old is Karen?"). We spent our evenings at a
beach front bar enjoying the local Primus (served in 720 cl bottles!)
and playing with the resident dog and her seven (!) puppies. That's
an impressive litter anywhere, but to have that many survive in
Africa? Wow. I had to be restrained from taking one or more home
with us.

All in all, an amazing trip, riots and all. Both countries are highly
recommended. Peace Corps officially booked my flight and I'll be home
November 15. Crazy. New VSO volunteers arrived last week and the new
PCVs arrive in Assela on Saturday (can't wait to meet you all!), so I
have plenty of distractions for these final months.

never again.

For a lot of people, Rwanda exists as the genocide and nothing more.
In a way, that's true - it's impossible to be there without thinking
about it. But the country shows an incredible recovery. Kigali feels
virtually like a first-world capital - paved roads, shiny glass
buildings, and some of the cleanest streets I've ever seen. (Perhaps
the nationwide ban on plastic bags - in favor of paper - has something
to do with that). After the genocide museum and memorials, the
country's development seems that much more impressive. The museum is
one of the most moving places I've ever seen - the final room is
filled with enormous photographs of child victims, complete with
information about their lives before the war. Things like their
favorite toys or foods and personalities...and then how they died.
The one that made me lose it was a little six year old boy who liked
helping people, wanted to be a doctor, and who's last words were
"UNAMIR will save us." He was hacked to death by a machete. How?
Why?

In only fifteen years, the visible signs of a violent civil war have
disappeared. But I don't believe the memory ever will. Eight hundred
thousand people - ten percent of the population - gone forever.
Walking down the street, you can't help but look at everyone and
wonder "Where were you?" Did you watch your family slaughtered in
front of you? Did a stroke of luck or the generosity of a stranger
save you? Did you betray a neighbor? Or worse yet, did you hack your
friends and neighbors to death? With every child over the age of
fifteen, you can't stop yourself from imagining what they saw. I just
finished reading Romeo Dallaire's (the Canadian general who headed the
UN Assistance Mission for Rwanda before and during the genocide) Shake
Hands with the Devil (a book everyone should read) and I've never been
so horrified by anything in my life. Rivers choked with bodies, rats
the size of dogs, dogs that had to be shot because they'd developed a
taste for human flesh and were no longer satisfied with carrion.
Trying to remove a moving person from a pile of bodies only to
discover that the maggots inside created the illusion of life. The
mission didn't have pens and paper, let alone troops and supplies, yet
they stayed, constantly urging the Security Council that they could
stop the killings with 5,000 troops. The inaction of the world was
shameful, and all the more so because it seems we've learned nothing.

But what struck me more was the incongruity of it all. Rwanda is one
of the most naturally beautiful places I've ever seen. Lush green
hills, rust red dirt - it's the Africa a child would paint. There's
nothing impressively beautiful in the way the Grand Canyon or a
flawless beach is gorgeous, but more of a calm tranquility that makes
what happened even more unbelievable. More shocking is how much a
part of life the genocide reminders still are. In one of the most
densely populated countries in the world, where even steep hills are
intensely cultivated, there's simply no room to move away. We visited
a genocide memorial in a church outside of Kigali. You walk down a
residential road to reach it, which is difficult enough, only to find
that the gates face a school. Walking through the church, with the
stifling odor of death and decay and pews piled with a nauseating
volume of rags that were once someone's clothes, you can hear the
shouts of children in the schoolyard. In the back are underground
graves with piles of skulls and bones. They look the same at first,
then you notice the smaller skulls or the gashes or the shattered eye
sockets. A lone man silently leads you around the grounds and all you
can think about is that he has to have a reason to be there. You
don't want to ask in case it's guilt, but then what kind of person are
you for hoping it's "only" to remain close to the memory of those he
lost?

What happened in Rwanda needs to be remembered, but it's unfortunate
that the reminders haunt those who can never forget instead of those
who stood by and condoned the atrocities. That church belongs in
Washington, DC, in Brussels, in Paris, in London, or on the grounds of
the UN building, not in the backyards of the survivors. Never again.

life is what happens when you're making other plans.

"Insensate cruelty to those you can whip, and groveling submission to
those you can't...It was inevitable that she should accept any
inconsistency and cruelty from her deity as all good worshippers do
from theirs. All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods
dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be
worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear
is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the
beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers.
Real gods require blood...The physical impossibilities in no way
injured faith. That was the mystery and mysteries are the chores of
gods. Beyond her faith was a fanaticism to defend the altars of her
god. " - Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

I think I've recovered from my Toni Morrison-induced disdain for an
entire genre of literature. I've recently finished both Hurston
(above) and A Raisin in the Sun, both of which were excellent. Eyes
was set in Depression-era Florida, which was entertaining. I also
finished the Old Testament (!). Traumatized is a rather gentle word.
Read it cover to cover, not just the inspirational quotable bits you'd
get in a sermon, and I think you get a better picture of why I can't
believe. The indiscriminate punishments, the inconsistencies, the
violence (and let's not even get into the frequent rape and gender
issues), the holding of grudges and punishing the many for the sins of
the few. What's the use of worshipping primarily (or solely, one
might argue) out of fear? How is that a god in which anyone could
find solace, his non-existence notwithstanding? On a side note, I was
rather disappointed that all the allusions I was hoping to better
understand turned out to be only a few verses long.

In less contentious news, I recently experienced the joy and
efficiency that is the Assela police station. When my wallet was
stolen earlier this summer, it seems I was right to think it was too
good to be true that someone would be returning it to me. It never
showed up and I can't get in touch with the guy who supposedly had it.
Alas. Anyway, without an Ethiopian resident ID, I can't get
discounted airfare and there are rumors that we have to return the ID
in order to leave the country, so I figured I should have that
replaced. Unfortunately, you need a sealed police report in order to
get a new one, which strikes me a rather silly, since I highly doubt
there's much of a market for a resident (not citizen) ID with a white
girl's photo on it. But I digress.

I anticipated the process being torturous, so I went with our security
officer when he was in town. The "chief investigator," who I
sincerely hope is downsized tomorrow, refused to help us because we
said it was "lost on a bus" and there was no way of knowing if it
actually happened in Assela (never mind that we just wanted the piece
of paper, we weren't going so far as to actually request he
investigate the crime or anything crazy like that). Fikre (our
security officer) happens to be friends with the chief, so he went
over his head and talked the chief into forcing a report for us.
Fikre was angry enough to not even shake the investigator's hand when
we left, which is probably closest to the American equivalent of
defecating on someone's desk. I was told to call in a week to see if
it was ready. I did so. It wasn't, but would be the following week.
I went back. The chief was gone and no one knew what I was talking
about. I called Fikre to get the chief to share the situation with
his underlings. A week later, I was assured the report and chief
would be there the next day, so I showed up again. Chief was gone and
no one knew what I was talking about. Three calls to the chief
established that my ID had been stolen, but nothing else. While
refusing to sit in protest, I managed to make it clear that the report
was finished and I just wanted to pick it up. A fourth call to the
chief determined this was not the case.

At this point, my standing was making people nervous (we were rapidly
approaching the hour mark), so the guy in charge ordered someone to
write the report for me. After verifying the name of the country (The
Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia) in which he was born and has
never left, he embarked upon the task. By hand writing on a piece of
double-wide notebook paper, with a sheet of carbon paper in the middle
so they could have a copy (I suppose I should be grateful I didn't
have to wait for someone to write a second one). Three stamps were
applied, someone signed it, and tore the sheet in half (not even cut).
At the last moment, someone was sent across the street to buy an
envelope. An hour and twenty minutes after walking in, I was solemnly
presented with a torn piece of notebook paper in an airmail envelope
with another symphony of stamps across the flap. How many people
would you guess it takes to reach this state of affairs? I'll give
you a hint. A normal person wouldn't have enough fingers to tell this
story with dramatic hand gestures for emphasis. We peaked at 11
officers, plus four random people in there for their own reasons (all
of whom arrived after and left before me, furthering my frustration).
Remind me to never be robbed again.

I wish I wasn't such a slacker at staying in touch with old
professors. I'm going to have such horribly mediocre letters of
recommendation while applying for graduate school and a means of
funding it that doesn't entail black market organ donation. I had
also not opened my CV file since before leaving Jordan, which was an
unfortunate mess to clean up and update. I haven't brought myself to
start the even more excruciating process of personal statements and
the like. Baby steps.

Funny how nothing ever seems to go according to plan and we always end
up better for the things and people that stumble across us. You'd
think we'd learn to just stop planning and live.

Wishlist:
-Burned/bootleg AVI files of the following TV shows:
+Weeds - Season 4 & 5
+The Office (US) - Season 5, episodes 16-end (or UK Office, series 2-onward)
-Cheese in any form
-Original cheddar goldfish crackers
-Hollandaise sauce
-Sourdough pretzel nuggets
-Fritos

in your world my feet are out of step.

It occurs to me that group 3 of the PC Ethiopia program has probably
received all of their invitations by now and are panicking as they
attempt to fit their entire life into 80lbs in the next two months.
If you've stumbled across this blog googling "peace corps ethiopia,"
feel free to email me if you have any questions, concerns, whatever.
That's what we're here for. You'll all be training in and around my
lovely town of Assela, 2600-ish meters above sea level in the shadow
of Mt. Chilalo (4139m), where the weather and scenery are gorgeous and
there's no oxygen. A great place to start running, if you're given to
such silly notions - Assela is the capital of Arsi Zone, birthplace of
all of Ethiopia's marathoners. One lap around the stadium track and
you'll understand why. A free word of advice - don't bother with
solar anything. Your house will have power, and electricity cuts are
most common in the rainy season, when there's no sun anyway (13 months
of sunshine, the national tourism board slogan, is a misnomer at
best).

I've been reading Huxley's Point Counter Point and find myself
thoroughly entertained by that generation of literature's assumption
that readers speak several languages. Latin and French references are
never translated, and although I don't actually speak either language,
I enjoy the nostalgia for a time when English speakers weren't
necessarily monolingual. Ditto for references to classic literature -
one brief line, and the reader is just expected to understand all that
Morley or Proust encapsulates (if wishing made it so). Those were the
days. I also love the way he talks about sex and love in a poetic,
roundabout way - somehow it's sexier than the more explicit, direct
descriptions of modern literature.

On that topic, I recently had a fascinating discussion with Eshetu
about homosexuality (and sex in general - after all, I AM an HIV
educator). Like all Ethiopians I've met, he's repulsed by the idea,
although less condemning than most. For him, it's more of a lack of
experience than anything else. Anyway, we've danced around this topic
a few times in the past, so this time he took the plunge and asked
about the mechanics and purpose of homosexuality. I made the argument
that in today's world (well, in non-genitally mutilating cultures at
least), sex is more about pleasure than procreation (and hence
penetration). Why else would we need and have bothered to invent
contraception? If it was only about babies, then there'd be no need
to prevent pregnancy. Eshetu himself admitted that he and his wife
have had sex more than their two children would require. From there,
I think it's a small step to suggest that homosexuality isn't any less
"normal" than foreplay or sex with no goal of procreation. Not to
mention that it's absurd to suggest that it's a choice - even in the
most liberal cultures of the world, who would honestly choose to be
treated that way by parts of society? Eshetu pointed out that my
explanation ignores all religious opinions, but that's hardly new for
me. Religion doesn't have to account for the opinions of
non-believers, so why should I?

This led into a discussion of the wrath of the God of the Old
Testament (I'm into Lamentations now - I can see the light at the end
of the tunnel!) and my belief (I won't say "faith," because I have
evidence) in science eventually providing an explanation for all of
life's little mysteries. Historically, mankind invented a god with a
chariot to explain the sunrise and a few seeds of a pomegranate in the
underworld to explain winter, so I think it's only a matter of time
before other things follow suit. I was also halfway through Dawkins's
The Selfish Gene, so maybe that explains it (highly recommended). I
think hanging out with three science-loving atheists is really pushing
Eshetu to question blind faith and decide if he truly believes in his
religion or if he's merely following what his parents taught him.

Wishlist:
-Burned/bootleg AVI files of the following TV shows:
+Weeds - Season 4 & 5
+The Office (US) - Season 5, episodes 16-end (or UK Office, series 2-onward)
+30 Rock - Season 3 & 4
-Cheese in any form
-Hollandaise sauce
-Sourdough pretzel nuggets
-Fritos
-Mac and cheese