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?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, July 23, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, July 19, 2010
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!
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!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
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
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
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