A Return to Academia

I'm quickly approaching two months since I came home from my various travels. In that time, I've been applying to grad schools (a slow and arduous process), freaking out on a regular schedule of give or take once a week, and taking a few classes at my old alma mater, Wabash College.

I've been auditing two classes that I hope will help me get into grad school, but that isn't the sole reason that I'm here. I'm taking Microeconomics because just about every graduate school seems to require it in order to even be considered for a Master's in International Affairs. That was the primary reason I joined the class, but as the semester has gone on, I find myself more and more interested by what I'm learning. It's not so much the graphs and the technical aspects of excel, those I actually barely understand at all. (That's what happens when you take two or three years away from a computer. Things like Excel begin to look even more foreign than when you left.) Instead, I'm more interested in the analytic aspects of economics. I love the calculus behind it. I love the attempt to understand people through their subconscious, everyday habits. My old days as a math team member are coming back to me in the calculus part of it. Back in the day, we went four years without a loss; we pretty much dominated. But economics is more than simply math. Sure it's a social science, but it's also a guide to philosophy and life. Why do people make the decisions that they make? Why does history show us some civilizations succeeding and taking on new technologies while others lag behind? A lot of the time it comes down to an economic argument. Individuals know where their best interests lie, and it helps to explain why the question I saw in development, "Why aren't you doing it our way?" is better asked, "Why do you do it your way?" It's a subtle distinction, but one that's important for understanding different cultures and realizing the adaptability and ingenuity that make humanity amazing. It's a way of looking at the world not through our own personal egoism, but of honestly questioning another person's beliefs to reinforce or change your own.

It's maybe a bit of a deep thought for a basic economics course, but I've found that now that I've been away from academia for a bit, I'm more interested in why we study what we study. I'm taking another class about ethnic conflict and genocide, and because of my intense interest, I just pour myself into the readings. I've noticed though that other students don't. In both classes I'm taking, students fall asleep, don't do the reading, or don't try to fully understand why we're studying what we're studying.

I wonder if I was like this as a student. When I attended Wabash, I occasionally skipped readings, and I'm sure I fell asleep in a class or two. I didn't know how any of this knowledge was going to affect me outside of my own personal growth, and let's face it, personal growth can sometimes take a back seat during a reading of Aristotle. I had no clue what I wanted to do after I finished my undergraduate degree. I was there because it was expected of me. It's nearly impossible to find a job without a degree anymore, and in this increased demand for a degree of any kind, undergraduate education has become sort of like a continuation of secondary school. Sure you're a little more specialized, but you don't have any real idea why you're there other than to keep your "future" on track.

Now that I have a very clear idea of what I want to do, I am so much more focused in class than I have ever been at any other time of my life. I came into the semester four weeks behind the other students. In that time I had a lot of catching up to do, and I did it. It took me a solid week to get through all the readings in Ethnic Conflict, which is taught as a high-level political science course. In those first few weeks, I was basically teaching myself Microeconomics from a book, but I'm pretty sure I got most of it down. But what surprises me is that hardly any of the other students seem to have the same focus. I've been quite confused at times when a class suddenly seems to double in the few days running up to a major test. Where were all these other people, and why haven't they been coming to class?

I don't mean to make Wabash sound like the students are just completely uninvolved or lazy. They aren't. Wabash men make some of the most insightful points and ask some of the best questions I've ever heard from a kid born after 1990 (which is still kind of freaking me out, thinking about that age gap). But like students everywhere, they beg for extra credit, complain that something "wasn't on the study guide for the test," or whine that "there's too much work." I find myself on the side of the professor in all of these complaints. The reading is right there, you have it in your hands. The test isn't trying to trick you, it's just there to assess how much you've been paying attention. If you've read the articles and are interested in the material, your only complaint should be that you had so much more to say in a limited amount of time.

I guess I've got it pretty easy though as an older student. Now that I know what I want to do, what I want to study, and most importantly, why I want to learn what I want to learn, it makes it much easier to buckle down and get to it. I'm interested in what I'm learning. Even if a class is boring, I know that I'll need that information to make some other bigger step in the future. But so many of these students aren't like that. I know I wasn't back then. Maybe part of the reason that young adults seem to need a new age category, something between adolescence and adulthood, is that continued education has become almost a requirement at this stage of American development. A student is often shuttled from high school directly to undergraduate without any real-life experience. Uplifted from his/her parent's house to a dorm, a student doesn't have any better idea of how the world works or what they want their place to be within it. I guess I'm now a proponent of taking a gap year like so many Europeans do, taking time off to gain some experience or travel a bit, see and do new things. I wish I had taken one, but in retrospect, attending a liberal arts college like Wabash didn't hurt too much. I had no idea what I wanted to do, so why not get a little taste of everything? But I was a kid. I'd never even held a real job. It doesn't seem like we really enter adulthood until we start to have real responsibilities, and we don't get those until we finish undergrad, and by then, we're saddled with thousands of dollars of debt and little idea of what happens next. We've been taken care of and sheltered by institutions for our entire lives. Maybe it's time to stop asking young adults to act like their parents if we aren't ever going to expose them to the realities and responsibilities the world asks of it's citizens.

Teenage Idiots

I substitute taught today at my former high school. It’s a little extra cash while I’m at home, and the work isn’t too bad. But wow, can it take you back. I’m beginning to feel a distinct gulf between my 18 years growing up in rural Indiana and the seven years I’ve been away at college and in the Peace Corps. This is how my Dad must feel when my brother and I can’t remember watching Soupy Sales as kids. The kids in these high school classes were all born after 1990. In fact, they were all born after 1992, and it’s so difficult for me to conceive of that. I was already in second grade when these kids were born. I remember when the first Toy Story came out. It was in 1995. Think about how long ago that was.

It’s funny to observe these students and compare them to representative television high school dramas. Maybe it’s just the ratings, or maybe it’s the fact that I grew up in some patch of corn in the middle of nowhere, but high school kids aren’t that exciting. Instead, to my outside eyes, they all seem so innocent and naïve. Maybe I’m just projecting my own reality on them, the person I was a decade ago.

Wow, a kid just asked another, “Did you ever see the movie Space Jam?” I think, “Like that’s a movie you have to ask about?” I didn’t know anyone who hadn’t seen Space Jam when I was a kid. Hasn’t everyone seen Space Jam? Evidently, Space Jam has gone the way of Soupy Sales.

Whoa. Stop. Things haven’t got that bad yet.

Going back to school has definitely played into the time warp head trauma of living at home. High school is one of those places you shouldn’t ever have to step foot in again once you’ve left. I wasn’t one of those who were desperately in love with high school. I was quite willing to leave it all behind, the sooner the better.

I think one of the reasons is because I never really fit in to the machismo that’s inherent in high school boys. It’s funny to see it here from a position of authority. There’s an easily identifiable jockeying for position among these guys. It’s an opportunity to be stupid, challenge for position, question authority, and maybe get the attention of one of the cuter girls. It’s kind of like watching the chimps at the zoo.

It actually reminds me a lot of Niger. The one group that I didn’t really spend a lot of time with was the teenage boys. They were the biggest pain in the ass in the entire village. It was the same kind of stuff too. They hung out in groups, cocksure but really not all that confident, the act of immaturity and bravado without that much power. Teenage girls didn’t fall into the typical categories. The typical girl in Niger is married by fourteen and pregnant by sixteen. They’re forced into maturity rather quickly. The guys, on the other hand, usually have to make something of their futures before they can marry. They need to have property of their own to afford a wife, so they’ll usually keep farming the fields or go off to the coast to look for work.

It was always marriage that put the clamps down on these young guys. As soon as they found a wife, they settled down and became respectable members of society. You could hang out with them, play cards, talk about the weather just like the old men, but until they hit that age, they were the most infuriating trial of the day.

It’s amazing to watch the transformation. I feel like it must be something to do with the relationship with elders in a community. In Niger, a man isn’t a man until he’s married. Believe me, I heard this a lot. “You’re not married? But you’re 25? You must not have a penis.” Unmarried men were not yet adults, but they obviously weren’t still children. The gap of adolescence is much smaller in Niger, so men above the age of sixteen fall into this strange gap where they have no real identity in society. They’re no longer dependent, but they’re not really a productive, contributing individual. Men, I wouldn’t say regress, but I can’t think of too many other terms for it. It becomes their own little social circle, subject to its own power struggles but still subservient to the elders in society.

Is it like that with American boys? I remember high school as kind of a, well I shouldn’t write it, but it involves a bunch of guys and a circle. Among the guys (and I’m sure among the girls as well, I don’t know, I wasn’t part of that circle) there was more posturing than personality, more stupidity than substance. I never fit into that, and I still don’t when there are guys of that age about. I don’t think I ever grew into or out of it. I found my own group of friends and tried to ignore the stupidity at large. Of course, we as high school boys still did stupid things, but we kept it in check and didn’t try to dominate others. Must be something with the hormones; whatever we did, we needed an outlet for idiocy.

I might write more about this later, but honestly, I’m not that in to reliving my past, as least not the parts that I’ve tried to leave behind. Just another reason to break out of this box…

Underwhelmed

It's been nearly two months since I came back from my various travels and my time in Africa. The cultural readjustment hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be mostly, I think, due to my long, winding road home. However, now I'm faced with the difficulties of living in a place so closely associated with my past and a person with whom I no longer identify.

That person is the old me, and I guess I shouldn't say that I no longer identify with him. It's very difficult for me to be sedentary. Before I left for Africa, I used to get restless, but I could usually distract myself in some way through television or video games, etc. Now, I can't bring myself to take hold of these former distractions. Living without them for nearly three years, I've forgotten how to live with them. As a result, my days have opened up considerably. Filling all those extra hours is the new challenge.

One would think that this is a good thing, and in many ways, it is. I can focus on really grinding through work for the classes I'm taking, buckle down on grad school applications, and get a little light reading and writing done in the spare time in between. However, the reality is that too much free time allows my brain to run wild.

I've had a lot of experience being completely overwhelmed by external forces. My senior year in undergrad, I applied for dean's permission to take six classes, two of which were senior capstone courses, one was a directing class that took up all my time both spare and the time I should have used for basic necessities like bathing, sleeping, and eating. I developed an eye twitch for the month we were in production, but I still somehow managed to walk away from that semester intact. I believed if I could survive that, I could survive anything. The momentum from that semester carried me through comprehensive exams and a double distinction. In Niger, I faced evacuations, dysentery, culture shock, corruption, and any number of other x factors with quite a bit of stress but no lasting side effects (caused by stress anyway, I'm sure the parasites left their mark). Again, if I could survive that, I could survive anything.

The point is that I can handle pressure very well. In fact, I thrive under pressure. It forces me to allocate my resources and really push myself to succeed. What I'm beginning to learn at home, however, is that I cannot handle the feeling of being surrounded by options but without any clear goal of how to take advantage of them. I feel like I'm completely underwhelmed at home, like I've just done all these things, reached the end of the road, and now I'm faced with a variety of paths but no clear idea of where any of them lead. It's frustrating, but worse, it throws my brain into overdrive trying to work out all the details of my options. My mind thrives on possibilities, gorging itself on them like a kid with too many sweets, and as one would expect, consuming too many sweets will eventually make one sick.

I've always overanalyzed, but usually the crazy part of me is held in check by the need to make a decision in some manageable time frame. Now, without any set schedule or itinerary, and stuck at home where I don't have to worry too much about material matters, I feel like I'm just drifting. Time is passing by, I can feel it, but I don't feel like I'm getting any closer to anything I want to do. I feel trapped by an imagined cycle of "If I want this job, I need to do grad school, but in order to get into grad school, I need more experience in the field that I can't get into because I don't have the degree." My brain kicks in and I start thinking about things that have no bearing on my present (like whether I want to study in New York or London, living opportunities, how I'll afford either, what the volunteer opportunities are there, etc.). All of these are future hurdles that I'll have to jump when the time comes, but I can't seem to differentiate present concerns with future. As a result, everything seems more pressing than it is. I get into these moods where my brain just starts grinding and grinding like a computer processor running too many programs at once. It's so busy with all these other things that it can't run even the simplest of tasks without crashing horrifically. Eventually, it's going to burn out.

All this wouldn't be too awful if I had people, events, exciting things to distract me. I love my parents, but I can't get too excited by hanging out with them. I need some peers as well as parents, people who I can relate to, people who share my interests. Unfortunately, there aren't any around. It's part of the fact that rural America has had huge problems with brain drain for years now. There are no jobs, no opportunities for students who've really pushed and excelled throughout high school and college. The only young people that I know in my community are the burnouts, those who've gotten married young, those who are already through a kid or two. I don't mean to sound elitist in any way, but how can I identify with someone with whom I share almost nothing? Just because we went the the same high school, grew up in the same small town, it doesn't mean much. We were already moving apart from one another when they separated the accelerated math and english classes back in junior high. The only thing we share is a background, and that background is only shared by someone looking from the outside. Within the community you have all those stereotypical high school roles. I was a nerd. All the other nerds are gone; they're doing things with their lives outside of rural Indiana. A lot of the burnouts, the ones who used to give me hell because my mother was a teacher, are still here. But we took our separate paths long ago.

I start to go crazy when there aren't people around. I'm like a puppy. I need lots of attention, or at the very least, I need someone around who I can chat with almost non-stop. If I don't speak my mind, speak it out loud, the words get trapped inside my head, and coherent ideas become jumbled as they whirl around in such a tight space. If I'm not writing or speaking constantly when my brain shifts into these high energy periods, I'm paralyzed by hours and hours of confused thought. It's not quite an anxiety attack, but I guess that's about as close as you can get. I've figured that I'm not writing nearly enough these days, so this entry is an attempt to fix that and give anyone who's interested an idea into what the readjustment process has been like for me: namely, I've been overwhelmed by underwhelming circumstances.

Turn and Face the Strange

What did you expect? I already had a post titled, "Changes," so I just needed to go along with the next part of the famous line by Bowie. Turning and facing the strange may be more of a commentary on America after three years gone, but in this case, the "Changes" will refer to me. It's interesting to see how other people look at you after such a long time away. When I returned home, I hadn't seen my parents in over two and a half years. When I left, I had just turned 23 and was setting off for something completely unknown. Until a few weeks earlier, I hadn't even heard of Niger. Now, at 25, having lived in this previously unknown country for two years, and traveling all of West Africa in the meantime, I'd returned to my home town, to my old house, to my old room, to my old bed.

The bed still squeaks. The house looks exactly the same. The room still has posters up from when I was in high school, and the town, well, there isn't much that can change on you in rural Indiana. But had I changed? Everyone said I looked taller. Did you grow? How tall are you now? Boy, they must have been feeding you good in Africa.

I don't really think they were. Was I taller? I still haven't measured myself properly since I've come home. Personally, I don't think I'm any taller. Don't we stop growing after a certain age? Hadn't I passed that age? Who would have been able to really tell me? My friends in Niger had never met me before January 2008, and we'd all grown together. Any obvious change in personality could be chalked up to Mefloquine, and any physical change, well, that could probably be attributed to any number of intestinal parasites or the recovery from said parasites:

"Wow, you look like hell."
"I have giardia and three types of intestinal worms previously unknown to science."
"Nice job, biological pioneer! You want a beer?"
"I'm not supposed to drink on these meds, but yes, yes I would love one."

"Hey! You look great!"
"I know! I just got rid of my tapeworm last week!"

I don't think I'm any taller. However, I think that once you've completed something arduous and personally challenging like the Peace Corps or any kind of voluntary service, you come back projecting a bit more confidence. As humble as I've tried to be, playing down living in another country, dealing with scorpions, snakes, heat, sandstorms, bush taxis, angry market mamas, internal parasites, mosquitoes, Mefloquine, corruption, disruption, terrorists, corruption, poverty, hunger, feeling blessed by smiles, song, children, tea, tradition, Tabaski, teaching, learning, sharing, speaking, and ten thousand other things that are impossible to relate to someone who's never experienced it, you project all these things and more. You've pushed through the bad, held onto the good, and it raises you up in some small way. My friends in London didn't notice a difference, but that's because they only knew me for a short amount of time, and that had been nearly four years ago. But my family, the people who had been with me from birth to toddling, running cross-country to running off and joining the Peace Corps, could tell that something was different. Something had grown, and the easiest way to chart that growth was through a possible increase in height.

It's hard for me to chart the changes myself. Leaving Niger, I left behind a whole group of people, less than 100, who know anything about my time in Africa. Now they're spread out all over the place, and I feel as if I'm a bit spread out with them. It's hard to go home, that's for sure, and I feel as if home is this disconnected place that doesn't even really apply to me anymore. Home will always be home, but I feel as if I've been transplanted here, and, like any other transplant, I feel a bit weak after being uprooted from my life as a traveler.

There are few in Carroll County, Indiana who have ever left the country. There are even fewer who have lived abroad for a significant amount of time in a developing country. I don't fault them that in any way, but it's difficult to connect with people. There are the rare ones who just have so many questions that the day becomes a blur as stories buzz through the air, but even with those who are most interested, I feel like I'm holding back. It's hard to know if telling the dysentery story is going too far. It's impossible to try to recreate a culture totally foreign to the listener without getting bogged down in ethnicity, history, and language, things that took me months to learn and be able to differentiate. Things that become common knowledge, words like "Maigari," "dala gu," and "solani," suddenly get blank stares. It's incredibly isolating, being unable to get into the heart of an experience. I often feel like I'm only skimming the surface of all that I would like or could say. But then I run up against a personal boundary of not wanting to be "that guy," the one who's always trying to dominate conversation with his experiences in Africa, the insufferable friend who keeps talking about poverty and hunger when all you want to do is order a pizza.

I guess what I have to learn, and what I've actually learned quite well as I moved through West Africa into Europe and back home, is that the experiences that I have will never leave me. They'll always be there, and every once in a while, I may be able to talk with a friend from Peace Corps and relive some of our shared experiences. Skype is great for that. But now that I'm away from Niger, it's kind of like that moment when you're a teenager, and it's time to put your old toys away. You keep them around for old time's sake, but you always kind of hope that you'll be able to bring them back out again. For now, I'm content cataloging my memories through my journals and blogs and hoping that I'll be able to relive them in the future and make new memories if I ever become a field worker for an international organization. It's not the exact same experience, but you need to mix it up every once in a while, right?

Reboot and Underway

Alright, so I neglected this blog a bit when I went from Africa into Europe. I completely abandoned it when I returned to America, and that's probably the biggest shame of all. Because I've basically finished a story without an ending, and the thing I've realized being home is that this story probably doesn't have any kind of ending. The narrative arc tends to wind around on itself, and I don't know if it will ever come back to connect with the person I was when I left for Africa nearly three years ago now. I don't know if anyone will be interested, so I'll kind of be keeping this blog for myself now and for anyone else who is interested in how I've readjusted and recovered, with particular insight into how I've changed in my time away, how America has changed, and every once in a while, I'll try to recount a crazy story or two that I might have missed in my time without internet.

But for right now, a short update. I've been home since August 24th. I'm currently living at home (slowly losing the battle every day not to jump off the roof), auditing a couple classes at my alma mater, Wabash College. I'm applying for graduate school, limiting my choices to New York and London, because the path I've found for myself involves international human rights advocacy, and, let's face it, all the organizations I would want to work with (Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, Global Witness, etc.) are all based out of these two cities. So I'm hoping I'll be able to intern/volunteer at one of these organizations while I'm studying. I'm applying for a master's program in human rights, and I hope to focus on human rights, international advocacy, corruption, gender, and post-conflict societies. It's a little broad at the moment, but that's the issue you face when you have too many interests. Really it's a human rights program, and within that I hope to focus primarily on corruption and post-conflict issues. But if there's one thing I've learned through my travels and the readings I've done since, it's that everything is tied up in everything else, so that liberal arts education really pays off when you start looking to connect the dots.

I'm also currently applying for a few jobs and looking to get away from home by the new year. I'm thinking of going international now, for all of several reasons that I may list in this blog at a later point. In the most concise terms, I've found it very difficult to be in America again after being away for so long. Plus, I want to travel more. I don't think anyone could have pegged me for wanderlust when I was a kid (I remember very definable boundaries that we never crossed, afraid that if we got too far from home we wouldn't be able to find our way back), but I've since been infected by the need to keep exploring and pushing my comfort zone, and I intend to follow that urge.

So that's all for now. Watch this space for updates from America and hopefully some insightful writing. It's one of the many things I'll be doing to keep some modicum of sanity while I'm living in a place I left so long ago.

A Long Time Gone

I've been away too long, and in three days, I'll leave again.

In this case, I'm not talking about America. While it is true that I've been away from my childhood home for over two and a half years, I've been away from my second home, London, much longer. I left this city over four years ago, after studying abroad and working here for the summer. It was a special time for me: my first time living and working abroad, thousands of miles from the place I'd grown up, the people I knew, and the person I was. I loved London, and, at the time, I could imagine myself spending quite a long time here.

But four years later, and how things change. It's part of growing up, I guess, but no one ever tells you how difficult it can be to go back to a place. Now that I've lived and worked in Niger, completely on my own in a completely foreign place, can I really still call London my second home? After all, I only spent about six months across the pond, whereas I spent two years in Tanka Lokoto, my Nigerien home. Does London get priority because it was my "first" second home? Or does Niger win out because it's so much closer to my heart and so much more immediate in my thoughts? When does the idea of place and home dissolve? After your third, fourth, fifth home? I'm closer to Niger than I am to my original home in America at this point and seriously terrified to return to a place I feel will have changed in all the subtle ways places change when you're away for so long.

I've been in London for about three weeks now. Everything is the same, and everything is different. London, as a city, seems to have changed very little. In all my time here, I've taken more evening walks through darkened streets than I can remember. It's a very walkable city, and the cool air always helps to clear my mind and work out any number of things I may or may not be pondering. One would think that in such a dynamic city, that I'd be lost after four years away, but as much as things change, I find the streets are still there for long walks with confused thoughts.

Most of these thoughts have reflected change. When I was here four years ago, none of my friends were married, most were still students, we all had too much time on our hands and not enough money in our pockets. But that's changed. Several of my friends, after four years, have serious relationships, one's gotten married (though I still haven't met Becky, and I'm not quite sure if it's all just an elaborate hoax). There aren't many students left (except for one who went for a PhD and got it, only to realize that that wasn't the kind of doctor she wanted to be. She'll start med school in September), and those who were students with no money but all the time in the world are now working, have money, but don't have the time to properly spend it. The ironies of adult life astound me.

And this "adult life" is what really gets me. It's assaulted me since I've come back to London and seen the first big group of people from my past life. I went away four years ago and they were all like me. I come back, and I'm still like me but everyone else has moved on with new responsibilities, a career, a relationship, a life. And here I am, broke, unemployed, without a girlfriend or any responsibilities, and I'm looking to go back to graduate school. Another two years of student life. Many might paint me as trying to avoid all pretenses of adulthood for another two years, but I am quickly approaching 26 and those appearances are actually just a clever deception, at least that's what I hope. Suddenly it becomes easier to understand the long walks through quiet city streets.

If I have to be honest, it's hard not to feel a bit lost, psychologically speaking, after so long away. It's too true that life goes on without you, and despite all my egotistical cravings, there's no changing that. People have to live their own lives, with hundreds of others coming and going throughout the years. Old friends reminisce of years gone by, and a fleeting image appears before the next round of beers. I've realized that the further I've gone away, the harder it is to come back, and as the years go by, in this age of globalization and worldwide opportunity, the farther and farther my friends drift to different corners of the globe, and the more I move around, the harder it is to find my way back to them. Already, it's been nine months since I've seen any of my fellow Volunteers from Niger. The people I meet along the road are all temporary souls who move where they wish, and eventhough I can identify and instantly cling to these vagabonds, pour out everything that needs to be said, I know that the relationship will end, and I'll have a pin in the map representing someone else that I may or may never see again.

It's spoken of a lot in literature regarding cultural readjustment, but I've found that these vagabonds, the ones who take in couchsurfers or who band together for a few days at a time in small traveling groups are more inherently interested in who I am, what I've been doing than those who stay put. Most of that is due to time constraints. We travel together, spend hours with one another, cook meals together, live intimately in such short bursts that we never leave the honeymoon phase of burgeoning friendship. My friends here, as amazing as they are (and I do love every one of them), don't have the time or the opportunity to get into where we've been, what we've been doing over a beer or a meal. I don't find I have the time either. Where do you start? Four years away, and who knows where we'll be next time we meet? Everyone honestly tries, and the greatest thing about my friends is that I can usually just pick right up where we left off. You have to, because four years of life compacted into about two hours just can't do justice to all that either has experienced. It also means that I end up feeling as if I haven't done anything, or nothing significant anyway, and overcoming that feeling may be one of the markers of growing older.

Because if there's one thing I've come to realize over such a long trip, it's the importance of independence, of self-actualization of all you may or may not have done. I have to take advantage of the places I'm in, attempt to have an experience with each new moment, mine my fellow vagabonds for every ounce of the beauty that is in every person who counts themselves truly alive, and generally live without any regrets as to opportunities lost, words unsaid, or moments unrealized. Living like this, one creates moments to which only a few people are privileged. They're stories that are within you that you can't properly convey because true beauty, a unique moment, is the hardest thing to convey, and even in my best moments, I still feel like I'm falling short, even if I've left the other person spellbound. They are moments that stand with me, and even if no one can fully understand how unique an experience it may have been, I'll know that I've felt something special, and I have to be thankful that I can relive it in memory, even if I can never share it fully. For my friends here, and I'm sure for my friends back in the States, there's a lot that they cannot know about what I've done, and even with weeks and weeks of constant story-telling, I'd still not be able to create my world for them. And it's the same for their lives as well. I by no means think that staying in one place, connecting with one person, working on a career is any more or less significant than any of the things that I have done. So even these moments of quotidian life, the ones I've missed out on, can't be expressed any better than some of the magical experiences I've had. And that's the story of four years away. Where do you start? Can you start? And if you can, is it possible to ever finish? I don't think so. Our stories are how we define our lives, and our perceptions of ourselves change with each year gone by. It's why I believe, after my three weeks here, that if I were to move back to London, say for graduate school or just for fun, I know the city will be the same city I left, but I will not be the same person. And eventhough the city is so familiar, I will be experiencing it all over again as if for the first time. I'll be meeting people I know but who I really will be rediscovering all over again. I'll remember my past, and be content to remake my present in whatever way the current of time takes me.

Generosity

Maybe it's just an illusion, but I have this image in my head of America before the turn of the 20th Century as a place that people traveled by horse and by ox-cart, a countryside where distances were so great that an hour on today's highway was equal to at least a full day's journey, where, if your neighbor visited and stayed late, they were welcome, nay required, to spend the night, and where strangers who knocked at the door were afforded a meal and at the very least a place to sleep out in the barn. There was an expectation then to treat everyone with generosity and hospitality, if, for no other reason, than because you one day might need the favor returned. That's just the image I have. I don't know how accurate it is, but it may inform this entry.

This is the positive story, as promised. It's an example of the best humanity has to offer and one of many reasons why I love people of all creeds, colors, and cultures.

I had a few days to kill before meeting up with a friend in Chefchaouan, so I decided I needed to spend some time away from the cities. I headed up to Al Hoceima National Park, which is situated in the north of Morocco and occupies about fifty square kilometers of protected Mediterranean coast, limestone mountains and cliffs, thuya forest, and an azure-blue sea. It's a beautiful place to visit, but is particularly rewarding if you have no time constraints and are entirely self-sufficient.

Unfortunately, the park hasn't yet been very well developed to take advantage of all the natural beauty that it offers. Most people in the city of Al Hoceima actually didn't seem to know that they lived less than five kilometers from this protected area. A typical conversation went something like this:

- I'm looking for the National Park.
- Park? Oh yeah, it's three blocks that way, you can't miss it.
- No, the National Park.
- What now?
- The National Park of Al Hoceima?
- I don't know what you're talking about.

You can imagine my frustration. So, after about four hours of asking around, I just took off into the park with one pathetic map and food enough for about two days. It wasn't quite like living in a bus in Alaska, but I'm pretty confident I was the only traveler hiking around the trails and villages of this beautiful, secluded reserve.

I decided to camp that night on the beach outside a small village, the name of which I can't now remember. Just to make sure it was cool, I wandered around until I found the café. You're guaranteed to find a large percentage of any village at the local café at any time of the day. There I met Mohammed, an old fisherman with an uncanny knack for throwing his voice, which I was both too tired and too gullible to uncover his trick for about ten minutes, despite the fact that we were sitting about three feet from one another. His friend, much younger, a teacher at the village primary school, told me it was fine to sleep on the beach, but that I should come sleep at his house, eat dinner with his family, take a shower, and drink tea. I told him his offer was far too generous, and I couldn't possibly accept it. We kept talking, and after about ten minutes, he again made the offer, and again I declined. I didn't want to impose. After a bit more conversation, he insisted that I come spend the night and meet his family, and I insisted just as firmly that I wanted to sleep outside so that I could see the stars and hear the sea. This is how Moroccans function: they will always ask three times and are incredibly generous in all they offer. As I had turned down his home, he then insisted that I at least eat dinner with his family. Knowing that Moroccans typically eat around 11 pm or later, I declined. Again he insisted. Again I declined; I was too tired, eventhough I knew I was being rude by declining his hospitality. After his third offer, I pointed to the bread I'd brought along, insisting that I would not go hungry.

And what do you think happened? Around midnight, I woke up to move my tent, afraid of the tide during a particularly strong wind storm, and who do I see walking the beach toward my campsite? My friend the teacher, carrying with him a can of tuna salad, a roll of cookies, an apple, six wedges of Laughing Cow cheese, and a carton of juice. Since I'd refused to eat with him, he'd brought dinner to me, special delivery nearly half a kilometer from his house, through the cold, nasty weather, to me, a guy he barely knew, who he will, in all likelihood, never see again.

That's not the end of the story though. A few days later after a trip all the way to Tangier, I met two sisters, Emily and Cecilia, Americans who were traveling together through Morocco. Emily was in the process of finishing up her time in the country studying Arabic, and Cecilia was visiting from America. Instantly recognizing two very interesting people, I agreed to meet up with them in Chefchaouan (which was about two hours back the way I'd come, my ability to change plans based on the cool people I meet again taking me away from my goal of Europe to a place I'd already been). But I wouldn't have taken back all the extra time I spent with them even if you paid me (well, maybe if you paid me a lot, I'm getting rather poor these days). We went hiking around the area, met two more travelers, Simon and his mom Katerina, and the five of us took off together, back to Al Hoceima. Check it out on a map, that's like six hours in the direction I'd come from.

But this was one of the best memories I have of Morocco, and it was great to end my time there with such amazing people and such positive experiences. Remember in my last post that I mentioned that I sometimes gain a new perspective on my time in Africa through the pointed, insightful questions of other travelers? (You'd better not have skipped that one, or so help me...) Ya, they were some of these types. I literally made the decision to backtrack six hours along the coast with them, by flipping a coin. Honestly though, I probably would have gone anyway.

We had a few troubles, mainly fighting tooth and claw for every dirham we could save on taxis, but in the end, our drivers turned out to be great guys and really friendly once money matters disappeared. We lucked out finding the most amazing guesthouse in Northern Morocco. Let's just put it this way, when you and four friends have an entire house, including kitchen and bathrooms, to yourself on a hill overlooking a Berber village, limestone mountains, and the Mediterranean, it's good. When said house is surrounded by pomegranates, apricots, plums, almonds, and figs, all ripe for the picking, it's great. And when you get it all for just five euros a night, you start to think, "Maybe I could just stay here for the next month or so..." That was the situation we found ourselves in, and I'll keep the village name to myself, to keep it from being overrun by too many people (and because I can't remember it anyway).

And, best of all, we were welcomed by some of the nicest people I've ever met. We went looking for the trail to the village beach. Instead of just indicating the path, we got a ready-made guide in the form of Abdullah, who not only took off the entire afternoon to show us around, but also gave us insight into traditional Berber medicine, finding us some herbs for Cecilia, who was too sick to function. As we returned to the village, we realized we hadn't enough bread to last through the next day. We ran into our old man landlord, who was walking with a younger guy in a pink shirt. We asked where we could buy bread, not knowing that everyone in these tiny villages makes their own. No worries though, as old man Mohammed took us back to his house, introduced us to his family and gave us a loaf of bread about the size of a truck tire. As we were walking back, amazed at our luck, the younger guy in the pink shirt, who hadn't even spoken to us for more than thirty seconds, ran up to us and delivered us a second loaf, the same size as the first, just to make sure we had enough. He didn't say much, just smiled and offered us bread, almost shy at the gift he'd given. Food from their own tables to five people they barely knew. Pretty amazing.

And I have to wonder if this kind of generosity may be seen anymore in the developed world. In an age of personal transport, interstate hotels, and alarmist media, who trusts a stranger anymore, let alone goes so far out of their way to help one? I don't know if this giving spirit is particularly Moroccan, or if those in the countryside just look out for everyone equally. But this charitable energy is the image I have of all rural Americans living before the age of interstate highways and Best Westerns. Like I said, I don't know if it's an accurate image or just a fantasy, but I'd like to believe that it's something the developed world has lost and is slowly getting back. Communities like couchsurfing and facebook allow us to invite those we know and those we don't into our homes, show them around our communities, and share in a better, more positive world, where we learn from one another directly and don't rely on xenophobia or mistrust to tear us down. I like the changes I'm seeing, and I'm glad to have hospitality where I can find it.

Taking Exception to Exceptionalism

As promised, I continue my week of productivity with some thoughts and stories that I've accumulated over the past month. Typically, I like to pair these in positive and negative experiences, the positive usually following the negative to avoid any lingering distaste with humanity. This is no different, despite the fact that the following negative experience occurred a few weeks after what I will relate in the next post. The chronological continuity thus gets a bit confused, but hey, it's my narrative art, and I'll manipulate it as I see fit! Anyway, onwards and downwards. I promise a more heart-warming tale in the next few days.

My stay in Valencia wasn't ruined by the American at the bar, though I must say she represented a jarring example of what I fear may be all too commonplace when I return to the USA (or, more specifically, to rural Indiana). Now that I've left Africa, I'm diligently working towards Peace Corps' third goal: Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans. I extend this goal to include a better understanding of other people by all people. The conversations I have whilst traveling are all pretty similar, as everyone I meet on the road tends to be of a certain mentality and tends to be interested in my travels, my work, Niger, Africa, and the sense of community and service that leads so many people to attempt to make the world just a little bit better. At the best of times, I meet other travelers who ask such pointed, complex, and interesting questions that I get a chance to step back and reinterpret my service, always gaining a new appreciation for what a life-changing, unique experience it was. At the worst of times, and this has been rare so far, I run into someone like her...

It was the night of the Holland/Uruguay World Cup semi-final match. With the Dutch win, I found myself winding down over a beer with two Americans beside whom I'd found myself standing during the match. With one, a friendly university student taking a bit of vacation in Spain after a semester spent abroad in England, I found myself reminiscing over my time there and recounting some of my lighter stories about Africa. With the other, an expressionless, plastic-faced, overtan girl on her first-ever trip overseas, I encountered new territory, territory I wasn't prepared to navigate whilst a bit tipsy.

To me, these two girls represented the perfect distinction between the traveler and the tourist. The first was a budding young traveler, living abroad for the first time in her life and ready to go after every new cultural experience with a relish that will drive her friends up the wall when she gets back stateside (I should know, I was the same way). Her friend, however, was the type of conservative, stubborn, uninformed American the likes of which I haven't seen in a long time. (A somewhat delayed preliminary note: this is in no way an attack on Americans. Every country has people like this, people who never leave home but think, despite this, that they know how other people live.) We got off on the wrong foot almost immediately after a conversation about religion (she believed in "the devil" as a personified entity taking an active role in the temptaions of daily life), and though I disagreed with her on many issues, I relish a good conversation with anyone who has an open mind and an ability to listen.

Oh, an open mind! What a wonderful thing indeed! Here was the main sticking point separating the two into their respective tourist/traveler camps, because while the traveler accepted the differences around her as cultural learning opportunities, her friend the tourist questioned everything, compared these differences to American norms, and more often than not found the differences wildly inferior to what she was accustomed.

Thus it was one innocent comment, one phrase I've uttered many times before without any incident, that sparked one of my worst conversations in recent memory with one of my fellow countrymen. It was this, which I still hold to be true: I believe, despite all the hardship and poverty, that my friends in Tanka Lokoto, my village in Niger, were actually happier in many ways than many of us in the developed world. Nigeriens don't suffer from depression, suicide; they don't need a new drug for every perceived problem because they struggle with more basic concerns such as food security and clean water. They appreciate what they have around them and the relationships they build and maintain to help them through life.

Well this touched a nerve, in no small part because this tourist took "the developed world" to mean "America" (she refused to drink the tap water, in Spain, a country that ranks in the top 15 of the most developed countries in the world!). This tourist took my comment as a slight against her country (which is also my country), and decided that any such insult to her country must be countered, vigorously. I honestly wish I could remember how much of this conversation went, but I'll boil it down to it's salient points.

1. America is the greatest country in the world. If this African country you lived in or whatever has been independent for what? fifty years? why isn't it a world power? Why can't it get it's shit together?

Well it's more complicated than that. There are several different ethnic groups, and you have to remember that America wasn't a true superpower until about 1948.

What are you talking about? America beat Britain. Britain was the superpower, America beat it and then became a superpower.

Tenuous grip on American history eh? (I didn't actually say this, I was very polite throughout.)

2. I can't believe you hate America so much. I'm ashamed to call you an American. You're what's wrong with America's reputation abroad.

What? What are you talking about? Peace Corps is what's wrong with America?

You're what's wrong with America. You hate America. You know, I'm going to kiss the ground when I get back to America. I'm going to kiss the ground every single day that I'm home.

I'd really like to see that. Could you send me a picture every single day you're in America. (I actually did say this, little more tipsy at this point.)

3. America is the greatest country in the world. I don't know how you don't see this. It's the greatest country in the world, and will continue to be the greatest country in the world. Forever. I don't know how you don't see it.

(This is where I got myself in trouble.) I'm pretty sure that's what the Brits said in about 1890. Or what the Romans thought in 470. Or the French in 1812. The Spanish in 1570. The Germans in 1943. (Her friend is just shouting STOP at this point...) Or what about the Songhai in 1550? The Ottomans in 1810? I could go ON AND ON!

So you can make your own judgement. We parted ways shortly after this tirade, without a handshake and confident we'd never cross paths again. If I had to say something about the whole experience, I would nicely call her a bit ignorant, but I have to stress that I don't think this would be an issue if she were actually trying to understand the world, accept that people and cultures are different, and that there's so much to learn. But she wasn't. So ya, a bit ignorant. A few more of my creative friends would call her a dipshit. I'll let you draw your own conclusions. Until next time.

The Transformed Journey

I'll begin my week of productivity with a word on travel in the developed world. I officially crossed over to this forgotten place (Europe) nearly one month ago when I crossed the Strait of Gibralter on the 35-minute ferry ride from Tangier, Morocco to Tarifa, Spain. In the ensuing weeks, I visited four of Spain's World Heritage Sites, including the Alhambra, Generalife, and Albayzin in Granada, the Llotja de la Seda in Valencia, and the historic cities of Córdoba and Toledo. I met up with a couchsurfer for an awesome Celtic festival on the northern coast before returning to Madrid to see Spain win the World Cup for the first time. Then it was off to Paris for Bastille Day celebrations of all sorts.

So you'd think with everything I've seen and done in the past month that I'd have heaps to write and update. Well I don't, and here's my explanation: I'm just not good enough to do it justice. Cities like Toledo, Valencia, and Córdoba have been written about before and will be written of again by writers who are much more elegant and productive than I. Sites like the Mezquita in Córdoba or the Alhambra in Granada are almost too much for a single blog entry. Washington Irving wrote an entire book devoted to stories inspired by the Alhambra, and I'm not going toe to toe with that giant of early American letters. With news coverage and internet video, the only thing I could add to the parties in Madrid and Paris would be my own politicized commentaries, but this isn't the place to run away with criticisms of France's link to long-serving dictators like Paul Biya (Cameroon, 27 years strong!) or Blaise Compaoré (Burkina Faso, 23 years in October, where does the time go?)who were given honorary seats in the July 14th celebrations. And if you saw videos from Spain's World Cup fiesta, you know that words cannot describe the crazy times in the streets of Madrid.

And, let's face it, most people reading this blog probably aren't that interested in Europe's great cities and landmarks, not for any negative reasons, but simply because the Eiffel Tower or the Museo del Prado are so easily visited these days. Get a cheap flight and see them yourself. Don't rely on me to give you any beautiful descriptions. West Africa, on the other hand, is a place which few people know anything about and even fewer visit. It's easy to understand why: with all the places in the world, there are few who would choose an undeveloped country to spend their vacation money. Especially considering that you go to West Africa, not for sightseeing, but to meet the people, which is hard to do if you can't speak French (or Songhai, Hausa, Bambara, Wolof, Fula, etc.) I feel confident that my descriptions of West Africa and my experiences there are somewhat interesting, if only because it's such an unknown part of the world.

So instead of describing Europe, I'm scaling back to focus on my experiences with other people and my interpretations of a world from which I've been away for over two years. This week's blogs will be a lot more personal for sure, but my personal writing has always been, in my view, my strongest suit. And hey, this is an individual blog after all, not a travel website. For me, it's always been a lot more entertaining to write about the horrorshow old lady vomit on the bus through Western Sahara that it is to actually write about Western Sahara (which was eye-gougingly dull). I prefer to tell stories, stories like the one of my bus ride from Madrid to Valencia. I sat next to a Guinean and in front of two Nigerians. Of course, I love talking to any African I can at this point, so I take every opportunity I can get, and we were in the midst of a conversation when KATHUNK!, something broke off from underneath the bus and started it shaking:

Me: I think the wheels are about to fall off this bus.
John (Nigerian man): This can't be right, it sounds like a train!
Tobin (Nigerian woman): It sounds like an African bus.
John: Ya, but African buses can't go this fast. (everyone laughing)

A little while later another KATHUNK, this one from right under my seat. The Guinean gets up and runs to another seat.

Me: What is this , we're not in Africa!
Guinean: Spain is the capital of Africa, they're just like Africans.
John: He's right, see, the driver just keeps on driving like nothing's wrong.
KATHUNK, BOOM!
Tobin: Oh my God, he's going to kill us all.

The bus eventually broke down with a "flat tire," and now we're stuck on the side of the road for 45 mins waiting for another bus to come get us.

Me: You know, if this WERE Africa, we'd have this thing fixed in twenty minutes.
Tobin: Twenty?! Try ten!
John: And we could eat some foufou while we wait!

This is just one of the more recent adventures. In the next few days, I have two more posts, one positive and one negative. For those of you who know my blog well, I like to pair the two so that they can balance and inform one another. They both deal with people and provide a clear distinction between "traveler" and "tourist," and the amazing and not so amazing interpersonal experiences I've had with people on the move and people at rest. Until tomorrow then,

Tschüß!

A Collection of Stories Unrecorded

Hello all,

Quick update from Germany as I haven't written anything in a long while. First of all, let me apologize for that as there's been almost too much to write. I officially crossed over into Europe almost a month ago now, and there've been plenty of stories. However, the Spanish don't sleep and I didn't either for the three weeks I was there. The past week has seen me in Madrid for the World Cup Final (CRAZY!), then on to Paris for Bastille Day, and now I've landed at my aunt's house outside Marburg, Germany. I'll be here for about a week, which means for all you lucky readers (the few of you who may be left), I have time on my hands to actually get some writing done. So I'm hereby declaring this week "Sterling's Week of Productivity," and I will here commit to writing at least four entries over the next seven days. This one may or may not count, I'm not sure yet.

But watch this space! I've had some time to do some serious thinking, so I should have some good stuff in the works. Hope you all agree and are waiting in anticipation for the words to flow like water.

Cheers!

Sterling

They Could Take Down the Walls of Jericho...

Where did all this NOISE come from? I've been traveling through Morocco for six freakin' weeks, and it's only now, as I've reached the end of my African road and I can literally see Spain from my hotel room, that I notice the symphonic crush of the developed world. And I have to ask myself, "When did it get so fuckin' loud around here?!"

I don't think I'd really thought about this constant aural assault until yesterday, when I was sitting at a café overlooking Tangier's Petite Socco. This was actually the same café that William S. Burroughs used to visit during his Moroccan sojourn to pick up prostitutes. Male prostitutes. I'm sure he did some writing here as well but probably only while waiting for a good time.

Today though, at the same café, it's almost impossible to muster any kind of creative impulse without something crashing through and upending even the shortest train of thought (I don't know what it's like for picking up male prostitutes). The roar of a passing motorcycle, a power saw grinding away at a nearby construction site, and those fucking HORNS! I don't mean car horns either. I mean the f***ing horns blaring away every second at the World Cup tournament. The matches are on all day at every café and bar in most of the world, Morocco included, and you can unfailingly hunt down a match wherever it's playing by following the sound of those stupid plastic horns. I'm really digging the World Cup, but I'm starting to prefer watching it without sound.

But I'm getting away from myself. I'm writing this sitting in the Café de Paris, the famous literary salon that attracted the likes of Burroughs, Bowles, and Truman Capote. (The cultural history of this city just seems to ooze out of every alleyway and windowpane. Tangier hosted the Beats as well as the Beatles and artists such as Matisse and Delacroix to boot.) But I find it hard enough to think, let alone speak, with the noise from passing cars, the traffic cop's whistle, some crappy electronica being blasted from God knows where, and those damn, blasted HORNS!

When did we in the developed world lose our appreciation for peace, for serenity? Think about the last time you felt truly calm. I bet it didn't include a nearby traffic circle. Now think of yourself alone in the forest. Imagine it snowing. Remember the words of Robert Frost. His horse

"Gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake."

You know why this is peaceful? Because there weren't any snowmobiles back then! Frost's narrator wasn't in a car buzzing down the highway, he was driving a sleigh. He didn't have iPod earbuds in or the radio going. Maybe he was humming quietly to himself; at most, he was singing lustily. The point is that there was nothing to keep him from hearing the silence.

Living in a rural African village for two years, the loudest sound I was regularly exposed to was the occasional braying donkey (I'm purposefully ignoring the eight-hour period in which my village hooked up a loudspeaker to the mosque next to my house). In that two years, I had a lot of time to think. Now that I've returned from the desert, I fin all this sound, the noise of machinery and modernity, has disrupted my ability to reflect on life and on myself. And I can't help thinking that I can't be the only one. This aural/psychological assault robs us of our existential potential, and that's exactly the root of my gripe: most people would prefer not to think existentially for fear of what they may uncover. In their case, noise is salvation.

Maybe I'm becoming a bit too didactic. I apologize. This whole line of thought began as a diatribe against motorized traffic in the medina, the old walled part of most Moroccan cities. I greatly prefer Fes's medina over any of the others because its streets are too narrow, too winding, and too steep for anything other than foot and mule traffic. And I'm fine with that. I'm convinced the Moroccan Tourist Board's next move to maximize tourist revenue is to make the city medinas open only to pedestrian traffic from 6 am to midnight. That would take care of my greatest complaint. But for the rest, help me out by turning down your music, taking it easy on the old klaxon, or, better yet, walk or bike instead of driving, oh, and most important: turn down the World Cup coverage so I don't have to listen to those @#%$&^ HORNS!

West Africa Redux

Whenever I meet new people on the road, I try not to mention the fact that I've been traveling by myself for over six months, if only to avoid the inevitable ten-minute repetition of my past two years. (I continually mention my two years in West Africa here both because anyone who reads this can look back and get the whole story in one long afternoon and because you can't ask any follow-up questions!) But for those who are really curious, those whose eyes widen a little bit whenever I mention Mali, Ghana, or Sierra Leone, the inevitable question is usually, "What was your favorite place?"

And my usual gut reaction is "Are you kidding me?" Ask a student of literature for her favorite book. Ask a film historian to name his favorite flick. Ask my friend Patrick for his favorite paranoid, evil personality from 1928 - 1957. Maybe you could help him out by asking him only to focus on Europe, but really, there are just too many from which to choose. Asking me to choose my favorite place in West Africa is about like asking me to choose my favorite digit. My first inclination, I think I'd have to go with right-hand thumb, but that doesn't mean I'd be fine losing any of the rest.

Instead of launching into this diatribe, however, I usually cock my head and ask, "Of which country?" The truth is, I've seen and done a lot in my two and a half years in West Africa. I can't really give a definitive answer, but I can give you my list of my top travel descriptions. Apologies for continuing to neglect Morocco, but hopefully this Cliff's notes version of my trip can help guide any future questions for whenever I return home. Thus, in chronological order, I give you Sterling's Personal Guide to West Africa.

Abomey, Benin - the old seat of the Dahomey Empire, Abomey is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but its red-earth palaces, symbols of a kingdom built on slavery, is slowly crumbling back unto whence they. This is one of the best places, though, to look onto the sadistic side of the African slave trade and examine how this bloody, black institution set tribe against tribe to tear one another apart.

Boukoumbé, Benin - a hike deep into the hills reveals the land of the Betammaribé tribe, who resisted slavery by living independently as family units protected by their small, fortress-like houses. Spend a night with a family in a tata house surrounded by rolling green hills and towering baobob trees and you'll feel like you're in the Shire. Just try not to hit any old hobbit women with your slingshot (or blame it on a kid if you do).

Klouto, Togo - deep in the hills and jungle of southern Togo, Klouto is filled with coffee plantations that you can hike through while on the search for beautiful butterflies. If you don't have an inner lepidopterist, you can always check out the abandoned European castle hidden in the trees...

Green Turtle Lodge, Ghana - an ecolodge working on community development along one of the most beautiful stretches of beach in West Africa. A sure place to meet Peace Corps types and to get crunched by some seriously awesome waves.

Kumasi, Ghana - home of the Ashanti, one of the most well-known West African ethnies, famous for their colorful and highly-prized kente and adinkra cloth.

N'guigmi, Niger - not much there but pure white sand. Too bad the nearest ocean is thousands of kilometers away. Go and you'll feel like you're at the end of the earth, or at least the end of your travels. With genocide to the east, a batshit crazy dictator to the north, religo-ethnic conflict to the south, and general famine all around, you'll definitely start to rethink your privileged status as a developed country national.

Banfora to Sindou Peaks, Burkina Faso - I rented a motorbike and took it the 100km there and back all in one day, and what a day it was. The dirt piste is lined with trees the entire way, and hiking around the peaks is a bit like stepping into the scenery from Fraggle Rock. Those who remember that reference get bonus points for having a great childhood.

Dogon Country, Mali - take the road up from Ouaghiya to the Falaise de Bandiagara and get into some real hiking. This is one of the most unique cultural areas in all of Africa, but due to its location in rural West Africa has remained relatively untouched by mass tourism. And the stars...if only you knew.

Sunset Beers on the Niger - whether it's in Niamey, Mopti, Gao, or Gaya, a cold Flag on a hot desert night is pretty unbeatable with those beautiful African sunsets. And with fresh fish brought in that hour by colorful characters in even more colorful pirogues, you're sure of a good meal to go with your beer.

Festival du Desert, Mali - one of the greatest concerts I've ever been to, bar none. A celebration of Tuareg culture, and a great revenue resourse for a severely impoverished people, the Festival du Desert brings together some of the greatest acts in West African music alongside musicians from all over the world. But the focus is definitely the desert, and you won't ever forget that when you're freezing your ass off on your third night in the Saharan winter.

Yamoussoukro, Côté d'Ivoire - check out the previous post on this one from sometime in January. The city was built to glorify former president Houphouet-Boigny's ancestors, but from the looks of it, the only thing the city glorifies is how much money one man can dump into a swamp.

Monrovia, Liberia - maybe less of a tourist hotspot than a fascinating look into a community still trying to rebuild itself after nearly two decades of civil war. Let's examine the amenities: no electricity, no running water, unsafe tap water, and streets that most embassies have put off limits after 9 pm. But if you dare to brave them (carrying no more than $20 at any time) you can have a great night drinking with awesome people on the streets of this awesome town.

Tiwai Island, Sierra Leone - home to eleven different species of primate, including the rare Diana monkey, all on one easy-to-trek island in the middle of the Moa River. Go looking for rare pygmy hippos (good luck), walk through dense jungle, take a river swim (just watch out for the oyster shells), and finish it all up with a fresh-grilled fish caught that morning by your boat guide.

Freetown Beaches, Sierra Leone - by far the best beaches in all of West Africa, and there's something for everyone. Choose any color of powdery sand from pure white to yellow ochre, even sand that turns your feet black. Your food choices may be limited to lobster, oysters, barracuda, and mango, but who needs anything else? And while all the beaches may be beautiful, only a few have phosphorescent water...

Kamakwie, Sierra Leone - So why does Sierra Leone rank so highly? Well, when you have savannah, mountains, beaches, and jungle, it's kind of hard to choose just one place. Kamakwie wins out because it's close to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, but it's really only a good place to sleep if you've got awesome friends who work for a local NGO. Try camping in the park instead.

Doucki, Guinea - it's more than just a great name. Doucki is a village perched on the edge of a cliff in the Fouta Djalon region of Guinea, the ancestral home of the Fula people. This would only be mildly interesting without the incomparable Hassan Ba, who leads some of the most fun trekking I've ever done in this part of the world. Gorges, waterfalls, and more animals hiding in the rocks than you could ever imagine. What more could you want?

Kedougou, Senegal - I have to admit, some of these are brilliant only because of the people I met there. I spent a week laid up in Kedougou after I hurt my foot. It's a laid-back, chill town: the perfect place to see Senegalese/Fula culture on the everyday level. But there's enough nature about (including the nearby national park) to keep you busy even if you don't have the Peace Corps connections.

Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau - a unique culture hidden amongst the dangerous currents of the turquoise seas surrounding the islands. White powdery beaches and a Portugese influence makes this country unlike any other in West Africa.

Chinguetti, Mauritania - stuck right in the middle of the desert, and one of the holiest cities in all of Islam, Chinguetti is a great place to start your camel trek, be it two days, four, or fifty (if you're keen to take it all the way to Timbuktu). If nothing else, a trek into the desert will provide one of the most beautiful sleeping experiences you'll ever have, especially with a full moon.

Chôum to Nouadhibou Express - the ultimate travel experience. Sixteen hours on top of an iron ore hopper through the desert. It doesn't get much hardcore than that. If you're brave, you can hop off for bathroom breaks whenever the train stops, but make them quick, because this train don't wait!

So there you have it. It may be a bit cheap to do a "best of" list, but the well of ideas was pretty dry there for a while. I think the rains may have come, however, with my first full day in Tangier. I'll have a really good post again soon. I promise.

The Failures of Documentation

An inexcusable lack of updates from Morocco. If you follow this blog at all, you may have wondered, "Did he fall off the continent? Kidnapped by Berbers? Lost in some haze of a hash dream?"

No. The real answer to "Where have you been?" is probably just "Around." I don't know how to describe my lack of any creativity in the six weeks I've been in Morocco. I've had unprecedented access to the Internet (well, unprecedented for someone who's spent the last two years in rural, sub-Saharan Africa.) Perhaps one of the best explanations is my inability to find the time to write is this: for the previous six months, I've traveled in places where bedtime is around 8:30 pm. If you have a headlamp, that can get extended to about 9:30 or whenever you feel like you can't function solely by the light of an LED anymore. In Morocco, I've regularly been up until midnight or later. The biggest difference is Daylight Savings Time, which Moroccans hate and which, frankly, makes little sense in a Muslim country dominated by prayer calls attuned to the sun. Well, that and I've noticed that Moroccans don't really get going until about 9 in the morning. For someone who's used to getting up at 7, this leaves me with about two hours of boredom and wandering around deserted streets. (It just occurred to me that maybe I should use that time to write, and this thought has now destroyed my attempted apology regarding a lack of communication. Well...damn.)

I think I'll use the time I have today on the train to Tangier to pound out a couple of blog posts that I can hopefully post in the next few days. For those of you who know your geography, you know Tangier as the "Gateway to Africa." It sits just right across the Strait of Gibralter from Spain and has been known as a seedy, character-filled transit town for generations. Think of the cantina scene in Star Wars. Now replace Obi-Wan with a grizzled, heroine-addicted William S. Burroughs, Greedo with Paul Bowles, and the alien band with the Rolling Stones. Oh, and while we're at it, the bartender is Truman Capote. Why not. I haven't been there yet, but that just sounds fun.

And it's only by writing some of this out that memories come back to me from some of the other famous Moroccan cities I've visited already: Fes, Meknes, Rabat, and, of course, Marrakesh. I've been running around so much lately, as well as looking to a return to America in the next few months, that I haven't seen the places I've been. I don't mean I've been sleepwalking through these places. That's almost impossible to do when you're traveling by yourself and you have to manage all of your own meals and accomodation. But, the time has come for some serious reflection, which means finding a low-impact city and taking some time for myself in a cafe. Not sure if I'll be able to find that in Tangier. My bet is no. However, for now, I have a train to catch and pages and pages to write. Watch this space: there will be new mind-expanding entries here shortly. 'Til then.

Respect Your Elders

Writing about Rabat. What can I say? I spent nearly a week in Morocco's capital city, and I've seen just about all that it could offer someone who doesn't live there. But I spent most of my day preparing for the night, as the 9th Annual Mawazine Festival of World Music was on for my week there. F***ing fantastic.

This was one of those moments where luck and good timing led me to the right place. I'd heard of the Mawazine Festival as I passed cafés and restaurants with television usually tuned to football or National Geographic Abu Dhabi (they really watch a lot of National Geo here, I don't know why). But I had no idea who was playing, where the concert was, how much it cost. Then, walking the streets of Marrakesh, I saw an enormous billboard featuring a man in a fedora and black jacket, head bowed to the camera: Carlos Santana at Mawazine. Tickets on sale for 600 dirham (about $70). I froze. Immediately thoughts of "If only" and "Can I afford that?" began to sweep through my head. I knew some other Volunteers would be in Rabat for their mid-service medical appointments around that time, so I thought, "Why not join them and see how the spirit moves me."

As the week of the festival drew closer, I saw more and more coverage on the national channel: Julio Iglesias, Sting, Carlos Santana, BB KING?! BB King is 84 years old these days. I decided then and there that even if it meant dropping $70, I had to see him. It might be my last chance.

I met up with a Volunteer who'd been evacuated way back in the day from Madagascar, a friend of a friend kind of thing, for a beer. He was off to see Seun Kuti that night. It was a free show, I was welcome, why the hell not? I'd never heard of him, but boy, do I know him now. Seun Kuti's father is Fela Kuti, the Nigerian musician who pioneered Afrobeat, a mixture of African rhythms, highlife, jazz, and funk. The show rocked. It reminded me of everything I love about Africa. At one point Seun said something along the lines of "I want you to shout out as loud as you can, because in Africa, we don't talk small. We shout out with every part of our soul!" I'd never thought about it before, but he was right, and it's what I love about the continent. Africans tend to make everything big. Anyone who's ever been in a group of Africans know how loud and boisterous they can get, throwing around jokes and stories like no others. And as I look to some of my favorite artists: Howlin' Wolf, Etta James, Muddy Waters, I think that tendency to pour your soul out in one loud cry crossed the Atlantic and defined American music of all stripes.

Okay, so now I'm hooked. Free shows and some amazing new music on my first night in Rabat. Next up: Cheikh Tidiane Seck. I'd seen this guy at the Festival in the Desert in Timbuktu. Crazy to think that that was over five months ago, and here he is again in Morocco. He took me back to my Sahelian roots with his rockin' take on traditional griot music and some of those lovely, full-bodied Malian women, who probably shook it a little too much for a Moroccan audience. That's fine. Let's let the Malians shake things up a bit.

So two shows down, I start to look for who I want to see, who I can see for free. This can't be right. Elton John is playing for free to those who don't mind standing a football pitch away from the stage. I am THERE! Evidently, this show almost didn't happen, as some conservative imams in Morocco cast Elton John as a menace to good Islamic values. But the show went on as planned, rightfully, as the concert organizers noted, as it's a festival to bring people and cultures together for a proper, respectful cultural exchange. As I walked up to the jangling piano of Tiny Dancer, I knew I'd made the right decision to stay in Rabat for the duration of the festival. I have to say though, after the African bands, that I was a bit disappointed by Elton John as musician. The technicality isn't as high quality as those others. And the lyrics aren't all that great, in the end. I mean, are there any other lyrics to Bennie and the Jets other than "Buh Bennie and the Jetssssssssssssssssssss?" But damn. You do have to hand it to the man. He knows how to put on a spectacle. Eventhough he sings everything down an octave these days (I should never be able to sing along with Tiny Dancer in anything but a falsetto), you gotta hand it to him: the songs are catchy, and he knows how to catch your eye.

Elton John turned 63 this year. That's almost as old as my Dad, and I don't think I could see him putting on a show like that. Though strangely enough, I can imagine him in purple sunglasses and a coat and tails, the sleeves embroidered with a rainbow-colored shooting star. That weird? Didn't think so. BB King, however, will be 85 this year, and that just blows my mind. 84 years old and still touring? Not just touring, but touring internationally and taking on a gig in Morocco? I had to see it. I'd heard rumors he was playing from a wheelchair these days. I'd seen Maynard Ferguson, right at the end of his life, and while the old boy could still blow, he usually needed about ten minutes to rest from the minor heart attack suffered after each solo. It's just not the same with a guitarist. Old BB King took the stage and man, could he riff. And his band, a bunch of crusty old guys just like him, well, they didn't miss a beat either. In fact, I think they've all gotten better with age. Of course, they can ham it up with the best of them now. Going into the show thinking that these old guys probably don't have the pads or the chops to rock just lets them blow you even further out of the water. I only hope they come through Indiana while I'm at home, so I can get another chance to see them shine. Damn. I can't write about music and give you the visceral response of being there, but I was dancing the whole night and longing to see him up close.

Last night: Carlos Santana. I've been listening to Santana since 8th grade. Twelve freakin' years! Ya, remember Supernatural? The album that exploded with collaborators like Eric Clapton, Dave Matthews, Wyclef Jean, Lauren Hill, and who could forget Rob Thomas's work on Smooth, that song you couldn't escape for an entire summer. Santana, like Sir Elton, is 63 this year, but I'd like to say, this is one of the best shows I've ever seen. I would have dropped the 600 dirhams on the spot to have the chance to party up near the stage. But...I'm poor. As it was, I crammed in between a bunch of Moroccans who could appreciate the music, but only as a show, not as an experience. There was one other guy, very close by, who, like me, knew all the lyrics, and we were having a time trying to get the others moving. But wow, that cat has only gotten better as the years have gone by. Never have I felt music approach the level of frenetic ecstasy as I had that night.

The continuing theme with these three big acts were these guys who are up there and have been up there now for decades. With all the support I can give to Sir Elton and his band, they're all pretty old dudes who nevertheless have never slowed down. And while they may not have cut their hair since they started touring in the 70s, you gotta hand it to them: when you're that good, you don't have to. Watching BB King was like hanging out with the old guys at the mosque in Niger: they don't need to say much, because whatever comes out of their mouth will have you rolling in the aisles. And it's obvious they just love it. It's a great thing to see guys up there just having fun. Santana brought in some young guys, but when you have to play that hard for that long, you need stamina. I don't know how he does it, but I only hope that I have that kind of strength when I hit 63. These are old musicians who won't fade away, and with this much life, I don't think I'll have to worry about catching the next show.

Travel and Tourism

Hard to believe it's been over a week since my last post. I haven't been plugged into the Internet despite its pretty universal access in Morocco. But more than just technological laziness, I've found it very difficult to write since I've been here. I'm not sure how to describe this issue. Perhaps, like Hemingway, if I may be permitted to use a pretty weak comparison, I find it difficult to write of a place I know while I'm in said place. Only upon reflection can I find my voice, and indeed, with increasingly fragile memory, I do find myself looking back to West Africa. And how could I not? For me, it was home. After two years, I felt as if I knew the people and knew myself within that culture.

But in Morocco, in North Africa, I am a stranger, and though I may hate to admit it, I am, in many ways, just another tourist. I never felt this unique difference in West Africa, despite being typically the only Westerner around. Cultural currents run deep in in the former French Afrique Occidental, so I felt that from Diffa to Dakar, Timbuktu to Tubmanburg as if I belonged, knowing as I did my own persona within an African context. Thus, I was traveler, even sometimes resident, not tourist. Tourist, to me, implies a certain naïvety, often seen as a walking bag of money who may know a bit about a place's people or culture, but often not much more than the superficial. More important than experiencing the place, tourists tend to shuttle from sight to sight, with limited time to check as many "must-sees" off their list as possible.

I wasn't a tourist in West Africa, partially because there are so few people who travel there who fit this description. The Sahelian zone is the poorest, least developed part of the world. Despite hosting at one time some of the richest empires in sub-Saharan Africa, the land left little behind as a testament to African wealth and power. So West Africa remains little visited, and you'd be hard-pressed to find many who know where Mali is, let alone someone who knows it hosted two of the European Middle Ages' wealthiest civilizations.

Tourism, at its best, can change this. Fifteen years ago, who would have known the architectural wonders of Fez, the seedy reputation of Tangiers, or the human pageantry of Marrakesh? Maybe those who read some of the beat poets who took advantage of the anything goes attitude of post-independence Morocco. But others had to wait for cheap flights from Europe. Now it's easy to take a weekend trip to see transvestite belly dancers in the Jma el-Fna or to enjoy hand-rolled cous cous with a view of the snow-capped High Atlas mountains. Hordes have taken advantage of this place's newly discovered accessibility.

Tourism, at it's best, opens up cultures in ways impossible to other experiences. It's one thing to read about slavery in history books or personal narratives; it's quite something else to see the slave castles in Cape Coast, Ghana. Seeing Islam represented as only a young man's hostile antagonism belies the gentle nature of a Moroccan father with his children. Hearing only about repressed, burka-clad women banned from public places in France ignores an upwardly mobile generation of working women who have money and know how to look good. One of the most interesting things I've noticed as someone who studied a bit of gender is the women's revolution modestly moving forward in Morocco. Women in the cities are finding many more opportunities in education and the workplace and are beginning to make their voices heard. Of course, the examples I've cited exist in the West, but as an unvoiced majority, one all too easy to overlook in a culture obsessed with political theatre and posturing instead of news, people interested only in entertainment, conflict, and "talking points." At it's best, tourism opens the tourist to a culture and ideals he/she may not understand at home. It's far easier to see the forest when you're surrounded by the trees.

Of course, tourism, at it's best, is usually simply called travel. At my university, we tried our best to instill the ideal of experiential learning in our travels. But in the end, we were still tourists. I look back now on those days as a learning experience for my present travels, so I guess in that regard, the whole experiential learning thing worked out. (You'd think, as an English major, I would have been able to connect those two thoughts...) I didn't realize how much I'd subconsciously picked up until I came to Morocco and saw the throngs of tourists who've just discovered this land thanks to Ryan Air. They provide a case study of what NOT to do if you want to truly experience a place. Read ahead and hope you're not here described.

What are you wearing?! This applies especially to Morocco, but I saw a lot of it in West Africa too. In Muslim cultures, modesty is paramount, especially for women. Like it or not, you stand out and can be borderline offensive when you bare shoulders, legs, and chest. Look around you. If the locals aren't wearing it, neither should you. How can you stand to stand out so? Don't you feel naked? Oh and one more thing: shorts were made for sport and the beach. There is really no other time when they are needed. You look stupid. Especially jean shorts. What is this? Did I miss the memo on reliving 1995? "But it's hot...," I hear you whining. Pants are no hotter than shorts. Get yourself a nice pair of linen slacks, and guess what, they're even cooler, as they block the radiant heat from the pavement, ground etc. I recently met a girl and we played "Guess the Nationality" based on dress and attitude. I hope you weren't one of the many Germans who should have left their lederhosen at home.

Put away the guide book. Lonely Planet. Yes, it's a great resource. I myself have one, and it was indispensible to my travels around West Africa. However, there is never any need to have it out while you're walking. The Lonely Planet: Morocco book has a distinct cover of the Fez palace gates which you can spot a mile away. It just screams "TOURIST!" And while that may not bother you, just think of for whom the next carpet seller is searching...you may just be that sucker.

Why are you taking a picture? It's a door. It's not even a very interesting door. I've seen plenty more interesting doors in my time. Hell, there's even a more interesting door five feet away. There are 5000 more interesting doors in Morocco alone. Are you going to photograph all of them too? Are you some kind of door enthusiast? If so, then I admire your commitment to a fantastically boring hobby. My favorite tourists are the ones who have the guide book in one hand and a digital camera in the other. One of the blessings of the digital age is a nearly limitless capacity to get the perfect shot. One of the tragedies is that most people now spend all their time getting any and every shot. I sometimes miss the days of film, where you couldn't afford to take thousands of pictures of walls, doors, and that speck of bird on the horizon. You had 32 shots, and every one had to count. Now I see tourists just walking and snapping as they go. I don't even think they look at what they're photographing. Forget form and composition, I'm wondering what the subject is even supposed to be. No, you can't take a good picture of the bright crescent moon. And no, that little Nikon will not be able to pick up the subtle lighting in an underground mausoleum. And for the love of God, stop taking pictures of artwork. Buy the f***in' post card! This goes to all of you who crowd around the Mona Lisa. Can we just take some time to f***in' appreciate the things in life that cannot be captured by technology?! What do you do with the literally thousands of photos you snap when you get home? Do you print them all out and bind them in an album? There's a good rule: snap only what you would pay to print.

There are more. This might become a recurring theme as I find more and more things that irritate the ever-loving sh** out of me. One thing that I do appreciate, after a long time on the road with French people, are Americans. I realize this is a non sequitor, but please, induldge me. This sounds kind of cheesy, but the child-like simplicity of most Americans is refreshing after so much travel. I'm used to Europeans who have the tendency to take their service for granted. But after meeting Norman and Jeanne in Essaouira, who introduced themselves and had a big, happy greeting for the receptionist at the hotel, I had to remember that that's not something I'm used to seeing. It's nice. It humanizes both the tourist and the local. Not only that, but locals always greet one another, so it's culturally appropriate as well as humanizing. And that's where true experience rests.

If I Go, Be Sure to Bury Me in the Clouds

I tend to fall asleep in public transport. Any kind. From iron ore train to crowded bush taxi, bus to boat. It's become quite a talent of mine, and I have to admit, it is kind of nice to wake up from a peaceful nap, look out the window, and see some beautiful new part of Afric... OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!

Okay, so only sometimes does it happen like that. Today was one of those days. After hiking down out of the mountains, I took a grand taxi back up said mountains from Ouled Brahil to Marrakesh. First of all, there's so much to say about Marrakesh in the few hours I've been here that it will take a completely different entry. This is about something else. The road to Marrakesh weaves through the High Atlas mountains through the Tizi n'Test. This pass is the only way through the mountains without resorting to hours of detours through Ouarzazate to the east or Agadir to the west.

Okay, so now that I have some background out of the way, where was I? Oh yes, death and destruction. It's difficult not to panic a bit when you wake up to the screech of tires and nothing but sky in front of the car. Then it turns, and you realize you've only almost driven over the edge of a cliff at 40k an hour. And then you realize that you still have 140km to go with a Michael Schumacher wannabe in a crappy Mercedes Berliner on a twisty, one-lane mountain road filled with blind turns. It's like the best rollercoaster ever. You know, the one at the county fair that's been shut down across the state for maiming too many carnies? Ya, that one. Anyway, I found myself praying to whoever would listen that we'd make it out alive as we burned up the mountain road, oblivious to any sense of danger or stomach-churning G's. Go ahead, lady in the front seat, throw up; in this case, it's warranted. I'd join you, except I have about a liter of orange Fanta sitting in my stomach, so anything that comes out my nose is going to end up looking like a Nickelodeon advertisement. It's Slime Time!!! Gross. There have been many times in Africa that I've been glad of a broken speedometer. In cases like these, ignorance is bliss.