incredible true-ish adventures

You know it's love when

2007-12-19T02:51:00.001-05:00

...he buys you a portable lap desk so you can work from the couch and it's only the best present you've ever gotten in your entire life.

ok only one year later

2007-12-15T21:41:00.000-05:00

Sitting on my big new chocolate velvet couch that keeps extruding feathers into the back of my neck. Have moved from this couch approx 5 times during the day - 3 bathroom breaks, one trek to the stove to make coffee, and a trip down the block to Jpan for takeaway sushi. The rest of the day has been spent with my computer on my lap nominally outlining fed courts but mostly catching up on six years of dooce.com archives. Just looked back at the outlines I made 1L year (40+ pages with graphics and flowcharts) and though 1) I'm so glad to be done with that 2) 2 days to the exam and I am 1/3 through my fed courts outline. I hope the curve has changed significantly this year. 3) Why the heck didn't I get straight A's with that solid gold shit?

The computer fan is periodically making very loud wheezing humming noises. Maybe it's purring? My lap is quite warm. We're practically snuggling.

Jason is sitting about 6 feet away studying con law at a busted Ikea desk we hauled off the sidewalk two days ago. Made of extruded wood product and blonde veneer, it boasts the graffiti "Latin Queen" in a girlish pen. Every once in a while he flexes his muscles, just to remind himself that he's not a haggard 2L but rather a rugged hunk of virile masculinity. Grrr.

I said goodbye last night to a good friend, Joel, who is taking off on a grand world tour to play jazz piano in California, Australia, and on cruise ships visiting various fjord-strewn ports of Northern Europe. Do they have staff attorneys on Carnival Cruises?

Back in NY

2006-12-11T05:07:00.000-05:00

I quit blogging for a while because I didn't have anything interesting to say. I still don't really, but I'm going to try. I'm back at school for my second year. It's been fine, I love love love my apartment on the Lower East Side and my roommate Nadya, and my classes are great this year too. I actally discovered a love for property law, of all things. And Constitutional law of course is awesome, definitelly one of those everying-I-hoped-for-and-more experiences. Quote this week from prof. Yoshino on Scalia: "You say collegue, I say best friend forever!" I've also learned a ton from helping to run the Advocacy Committee for Law Students for Human Rights. It's been tough at times: 10+ hours a week on email, and negotiating between a lot of people's competing visions of what the LSHR should be about. But I think I've gotten better at standing up for my views, and at being diplomatic, which is the other side of the same coin. And I'm better at responding to emails right away, just try me! Oh I also have been doing an internship working as part of the defense team for a federal terrorism case. That's been amazing, but I can't blog about it. Maybe when it's over in a week, but I'll have to ask the lawyers I work with what happens to confidentiality after a trial finishes. I probably should know that...
OK, I have to go to bed because it's 5:30am and I have my first final tomorrow. Here's to being almost halfawy done with law school!

Christians and Condoms, Hills Aplenty: Rwanda (a bit late)

2006-08-06T09:54:00.000-04:00

First impression of Rwanda: it’s beautiful. I never imagined it was possible for a landscape to contain so many hills. Hills everywhere, hills on top of hills, creating exaggerated shapes like a child’s drawing. Also: like the dumping ground of an insane experimental art collective, obsessed with creating every possible variation on the basic form. The product of their wild abandon litters the Rwandan countryside, but the project finally had to be abandoned when the tiny country couldn’t fit even one more specimen within its borders.

Of course all these hills make for a rather dramatic bus ride. We had more than our share of heart-in-the-throat close calls at hairpin turns, compensated by an ever-changing kaleidoscope of spectacular views. Everywhere, through this fantastical landscape, people are walking: bundles on heads, babies on backs, uphill and down, around and down and up again. I wonder if the see the beauty, or is it a luxury for tourists on plush-seated busses?

Second impression: Kigali is sort of like a mini Kampala. Even the taxi park is K’la in miniature. The difference is, Kampalas hills add contour and variation to the city, creating areas of vista and areas of valley. Kigali’s hills run roughshod through the city, slice it up at every turn. 100 meters down the road is likely to be totally obscured by a bend, while 200 m may be visible again having re emerged below before disappearing again into another valley. A grid system is completely out of the question.

Third impression: It’s a bit scary. Our first night at dinner we sit at an outdoor patio and eat tilapia masala, fajitas, spaghetti marinara. A small pebble sails in, hitting Annamartine on the back of the head. Streetkids outside, lurking in the shadows. A man with a stick (is he employed by the restaurant?) makes halfhearted, vaguely threatening motions in their direction. They scatter, but when he settles back against the wall they re-circle. More pebbles, periodically. No casualties. After dinner we walk out into the night and the kids swarm around, pleading with outstretched hands and big eyes. We set off walking, with vague ideas of finding a cab. We’re surprised to see the restaurant staff sprinting off in the other direction returning within minutes with a taxi for us. As we get in the begging intensifies: kids sticking their hands pleadingly through open windows. Then, suddenly, as the taxi begins to drive off, the strategy shifts. A hand shoots in fast as lightening and grabs for my purse. More hands grasp the door handle. We bang down the locks and fumble with window levers as the taxi driver slams on the gas. The kids continue running abreast with the taxi, first jogging and then sprinting, pulling the door handles, grabbing the bumper, climbing up on the back of the boot. The driver accelerates again, and the last few hangers-on give up and fall back to be reclaimed by the night. Rwanda has over a million orphans, mostly from the genocide. Though I’d read books, seen movies, etc., I’d still sort of thought of the events in abstract terms, as something very tragic that happened in the past, but people have moved on, right? I didn’t have the imagination to understand that the genocide is still very real and present in Rwanda today. The street kids are only one manifestation.

Other impressions: A plaque at the entrance to the genocide museum announcing the museum’s sponsorship by the William Clinton Foundation and the Government of Belgium. I wonder if their consciences are clean now. The museum itself, explaining the history of the ethnic strife, how the Hutu/Tutsi categories were created by the Belgians who placed the Tutsi (those who had a certain number of cows) over the Hutu to be able to control the country more effectively. Noticing in the museum, and even more blatantly in a newspaper article commemorating the national day of remembrance, the liberal use of the passive voice: Rwanda “was visited by genocide”, killings “happened” (no mention of who carried any of it out). Meanwhile the international community which (in the only use of the active voice in the whole article) “turned a blind eye.” I wonder how much of this pussyfooting around blame is necessitated by today’s political realities? It may behoove the current government, dominated by Tutsis, to portray the genocide as something that happened to Rwanda, caused by evil politicians spreading hatred and lies, and by callous international actors. It’s not that blame should not be assigned to the international community, but where are the individual Rwandans in all of this? Somebody raised all those machetes, and it wasn’t the Belgians, or Bill Clinton. Of corurse genocidaires have been prosecuted, some in widely-publicized trials. But by sacrificing a few scapegoats the government is also, symbolically, absolving the rest of blame. Maybe this is the kind of rhetoric necessary for reconciliation. Or perhaps it’s a cynical attempt by the government to maintain power by telling the mass of the people what they want to hear. Perhaps it’s a bit of both.

Gorilla trecking (the preliminatires): It took a Herculean effort to get ahold of the permits. Only about 20 are available per day, so our choice of weekend was based on when permits were available. After paying broker fees, bank transfer fees, currency exchange fees… we ended up spending over $400/pop. Getting to Rhungeri took an absolutely harrowing ride: screaming around curves on two wheels, the little matatu straining to break the bonds of gravity and take flight over the edge of every cliff [I may be exaggerating slightly]. Finally we arrived as dusk was settling in. Our hotel was also some sort of religious institution and was packed with young chruchgroups. Blonde shaggy curls, hemp necklaces, and bad teenage moustaches on the boys; long conair-straightened hair, awkward fleeting beauty and ridiculously short shorts on the girls. Hormones in the air, inappropriate urges channeled into religious fervor. Approximately point two guitars per capita, and frequent kumbaya circles breaking out like pimples on adolecent skin. We also had several amusing moments when the hotel staff kept appearing in Tammy and Cara’s room to enquire whether were *quite sure* they didn’t need their double bed separated into two twins. God forbid (literally) any homoerotic sleeping should take place under their roof. This was actually a welcome change to the hotel in Kigali where each room was equipped with a jumbo-sized foot pedal trashcan labeled “CONDOMS” across the top with masking tape. Kristen and I came to the firm conclusion that no further investigations would be conducted: the lid would not be opened even the tiniest crack. The bins were huge, I’d estimate five gallon capacity. They were probably completely empty, but the alternative was something we preferred not to think about. Finally, trying to pay at the Rhungeri hotel and being told that, despite “We Take Visa” signs plastered absolutely everywhere, the hotel can not, in fact, accept our credit card. Why? Various reasons are given at different times including “we only take Rwandese Visa cards” (do these even exist in a country whose only consumer products appear to be one brand of biscuits and two kinds of beer? Highly doubtful.), “We can’t get through on the phone,” and “The papers for the machine are all locked in a cupboard,” (The Man with the Key Has Gone).

The gorillas themselves: Incredible. We woke at the crack of dawn to assemble at the base camp. Racing other cars because we were told first come first served. Thanks to some tricky driving and Tammy’s take-charge attitude, we manage to secure a dream group of gorillas to visit: the one furthest away, with over forty members including about ten babies, three silverbacks, and a pair of twins. The hike itself took us through mysterious bamboo forests, led us clambering straight uphill at times, squeezing though narrow gaps in the groaning and creaking stalks. Mosquitoes, like good and bad angels, buzzing in both ears and around the soft belly and lower back areas for good measure. Then, after a patch of stinging nettles with sharp pharmaceutically-laced teeth, suddenly we came out of the forest and saw… a gorilla, just sitting there in a patch of spongy vegetation, blinking in the sun. We stopped and stared and whispered furiously, “Is he real?” “He looks kind of animatronic.” “I can’t believe we’re this close!” Then he scratched his arm and turned his head a few degrees to the left. The paparazzi went nuts. After the first gorilla was saw about 20 more members of the troupe, as they lolled about in the sun and munched juicy stalks of what I can only say approximates marsh reeds. We also followed some of them into the deep shade of some jungle trees where we watched them climb, groom each other, and eat eat eat. It was, to quote Lonely Planet, a “humbling, awe-inspiring, life-altering experience”. Well, life-altering in the sense that now I can say “I’ve seen the gorillas,” whereas in my previous, what I like to call my “before” life, I could not. But seriously, it was amazing to see them and definitely worth the effort.

Conclusions on Rwanda: hard to come by. There were too many contrasts, too many highs and lows, too many moments of tragedy and comedy to allow me to say anything more coherent than “Rwanda is a nation of paradoxes.” Wow, profound. Too bad it’s already been said by every other travel writer who has ever set foot in the country. I put off writing this for almost a month because I wanted more time for my thoughts to crystalize. But, as that has failed to happen, these disconnected ramblings will have to do.

my final English class

2006-08-05T06:13:00.000-04:00

I finished teaching the class on Wednesday with extremely mixed feeling. They are so grateful. But I’m getting on a plane and off I got back to the US; what’s next for them? Even if they get more English classes, can they get a job? Can they continue studying? Will RLP really follow through on helping them find scholarships? Or will they find out that all the things they dream of are totally impossible? Have I only succeeded in getting their hopes up needlessly?

My speech (practice at countless goodbye ceremoines in Japan has finally come in handy...):

"When I came to Kampala, I had no idea what it would be like. They said “maybe you can start an English class for some refugees.” So I knew I’d be teaching you. But when I tried to picture in my head what my students would be like, I couldn't. Looking at all of you now, even in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined such an amazing group of people. You are all so intelligent, so kind, and so courageous. Not many people realize that just speaking English is itself an act of courage. It’s hard to be in a foreign land, where every time you open your mouth people look down on you and dismiss you. You become invisible. But I see you all, three times a week, having conversations about complex topics, debates, discussing fine points of grammar, all in English. It’s not always perfect, you don’t always know exactly how to say what you want to say. But you keep trying, you struggle through, and in the end you get your point across. Communication happens. It is no small thing that you make this effort, that you are willing to become children again, to have your thoughts reduced in subtlety and nuance by a clumsy foreign tongue. But thanks to your courage we’ve been able to discuss politics, war, relationships, family, love, the most important things in our lives. Thank you so much for being willing to share your thoughts, your opinions and your hearts with me. I have learned so much from you. They say teachers always get more out of teaching than their students. If I’ve managed to give you back one tenth – one one-hundredth – of what you’ve given me, I’ll be happy."

I also want to share two poems written by John, one of the students in my English class. He performed the second poem at our farewell party. It was fabulous: he stalked up and down the floor, delivering the lines like a poetry slammer extraorinarie. I was often frustrated at RLP: lack of substantive work, terrible facilities, power trips and pettiness, little use of my legal skills. But but but... I got to teach. Was it worth it? A million times over.

I. This poem is about the misery of the poet John B., a refugee in Uganda since 18/7/2005 beginning after his father’s assassination by rebels during the war in North Kivu province in Goma district on the 30^th of June 2005 during the independence celebration day of the DRC.

I SHALL EXPLAIN TO YOU SOME THINGS

You’ll ask what happened today?
And the orphans dreamy with poppies?
And the bad guns which kept beating out
The dreams of prophets uncompleted
With Nyiragongo – specks and stones?
I am going to tell you everything that happened to me
I lived near Rwanda in Goma town.
Quarter of good trees and paths
From there you could see
Christians: Protestants and Catholics
But, now like a volcano eruption
Our house was exploded
It was among the beautiful houses in Goma
Where all were Christians and students.

John, do you know?
Are you still getting ready?
Come back home and see
Mother, Sister and Brother’s death

Sergius, do you remember?
Mgwati, do you still remember in Virunga park?
My father assassinated
Do you remember how our house was?

Brother! Brother!
Loud voices weep
The town is smoking
My quarter is exploding

RCD/PM and MaiMai are fighting
Unfortunately for my family:
Killing people. And for my misery:
It was all of them.

Then tomorrow flames
Came out of my quarter
Dissolving human beings
From then on fire
Gunpowder from then on,
From then on blood.

Bandits and soldiers in convoy
Bandits all over the province
Came across the border to kill people
And through the roads all over the streets
The blood of people
Ran simply, like my family’s did.

Now, I am in exile
With strangers
My country and university I left
And I am destitute because of….

How many are refugees today?
How many orphans in this world?
See what they are going through
Why this tribalism and ethnic conflicts?

General Aamsi TF
Colonel Bindu
Look at our dead home
Look at broken Mabanga
Houses were burned
From every street in N-K
Congo will rise
From every dead child a rifle with eyes will rise
From every crime bullets will be born
Which will one day find a place in your hearts.

You ask why my poetry
Speaks to you of dreams and safety
Of the great life.

Come
See the death and blood along the quarters
Come see
The blood along the town
Come see
The death along the roads
See the blood
Come see the blood
Along the street…

- John B, Kampala Uganda

II This poem relates the joy of refugees, clients of RLP in Kampala Uganda, students in Sarah’s English class, second level. This poet writes this remembering the desperation of his situation here in Uganda when he approached RLP asking defense of his rights coming from Arua/Madiokollo, the third camp of his exile.

He thanks RLP for their defense, advice, research, legal assistance, and their offer of education because without education refugees will become nothing in the future.

I dedicate, he says, this to:

- Sarah his beloved teacher and to Genevieve, English first level teacher

- To RLP

- To the Education Ministry of RLP, and

- To his beloved lawyer PETER.

I SHALL SHOW YOU MY JOY

Longtime ago refugees asked themselves
How will they know English
Where will they go to learn from
What direction to take
And by the end
Who will be that volunteer?

Fortunately, in April 2006
Meeting volunteers at RLP
Sarah and Genevieve American ladies

My friend,
Do you know?
I know what? I do not
Oh! We have found!...
Yes, the milk of our eternal sciences lives
English course, and after: computer class.

Possible?
It is also for us our right here?
Perhaps!
But, I don’t think so!

Exactly, they already told me about RLP
We go there not only for rights
But, also to learn for our knowledge and futures
For us in exile.

Go there everybody you will see
You will meet them…
Sure, we can now speak English

But class! What do we say?
May God bless them
SARAH may God bless you
RLP may God bless all of you.

Do never abandon this career
Do never forget refugees in need
We also never forget you!

Teacher, go back to the USA in peace
Volunteers wherever you go
Back in peace
But, never forget us…

For all those who defend refugees
And human rights
I say –

Thank you! Thank you, thank you so much
Merci, merci, merci beaucoup
Pluros, multos, pluros mercis
Koko, koko, koko bwenene
Mwebale, mwebale, mwebalire dala
Aksanti, aksanti, aksanti sana

May live RLP and RLP’s staff
May live Sarah’s family
May live USA’s volunteers and Ugandan volunteers at RLP and others all over the world
May live Uganda human rights defenders
May live Education Ministry at RLP
May live, may live, may live!....

I thank you!

From John B.
At RLP
8/2/2006

Happy World Refugee Day

2006-07-13T08:34:00.000-04:00

World Refugee Day (June 20th)

My students asked me yesterday what I was going to give them for World Refugee Day. I said “um, English class?” I’m under strict instructions not to give them anything, for fear that word will spread and people will come to the class just to get a pen, a piece of paper, or a cheap notebook costing 25cents. So when I began today’s lesson with “this is your day,” they understandably looked at me like I was a bit nuts. So I asked them what the idea of a world day to remember refugees means to them. Not much: “today they are talking about us, but tomorrow they will have already forgotten.” I decided to abandon the day’s lesson plan and give them a chance to talk. I did feel a bit guilty getting them to educate me when I am supposed to be educating them, but they didn’t mind. They said maybe when I went back to my country I could tell people what I learned. They really want people to know that they exist and that they are suffering. So below are a few very random and disjointed notes I was able to cobble together from conversations with my students today, and on a few other occasions.

“We refugees are like animals. An animal doesn’t know when it’s going to die. It can only wait in its pen for the end to come.”

They don’t want to go to the camps. They say Kampala is safer. They can sleep at a different place every night. “In the camps your enemies always know where you live.” One student described why he left the camp: I went to UNHCR and said I am not safe. My hut at the settlement was robbed and all my belongings were destroyed. They didn’t believe me. They said ‘get a letter from OPM.’ I went to OPM, they said ‘get a letter from the police.’ I went to the police and they said ‘get a letter from the camp commandant.’ I went back to the camp. He told me ‘get a letter from UNHCR.’”

Who are these enemies? It varies from person to person. One student of mine was the son of a government minister in Congo. The father was murdered and the rest of the family fled. Others students left because they had been involved in political demonstrations, or because university students were being targeted by the police, or because some rebel group tried to “recruit” (read: kidnap) them into its ranks. For others, I don’t know.

Even though Kampala may be safer than the camps, it is not much of a refuge: “They can come here on a bus. It only takes one day and costs 10,000 shillings. We are not safe.” I asked them, “Why are they trying to kill you? You’re in Kampala. You can’t hurt them.” They answered, “because we can identify them.”

Who is protecting refugees? One man, in his 40’s (the same man with whom I got into a heated debate about religion and marriage a few weeks ago) was a preacher in Congo but apparently ran afoul of someone powerful people and had to flee. About a month ago, he heard that someone had come to Kampala looking for him. He said, “I went to UNHCR and spoke to a protection officer. I said ‘this man is in Kampala. He is a hired killer and he is looking for me.’ They told me ‘go to the police. It is the job of the Ugandan police to protect you, not ours.’ I went to the police and they did nothing. They said tell UNHCR.” A familiar pattern… He did his best to keep moving, to hide. One night he got a phone call on his cell. He doesn’t know how they got his number. A voice said, “Sooner or later, we are going to find you and kill you. And by the way, you can go to the morgue to pick up your brother’s body.” His brother turned up at the morgue the next morning.

They can’t even really rely on UNHCR to be looking out for them. A related story that I heard from Lucy, one of the directors of RLP: A woman wanted to complain about her camp commandant. He was raping her. She needed his permission to go to Kampala. She told him she wanted to visit her sister. He granted the permission. In Kampala, she went to UNHCR and said “my camp commandant is raping me.” They looked at her letter and said, “you didn’t have permission to come here to UNHCR. Go back to the camp and get the correct permission.”

They also don’t trust Inter-Aid, UNHCR’s implementing partner in Kampala. They say, “It’s not an NGO. It’s an arm of government intelligence.” They say that Inter-Aid employees take money under the table to pass on information about them. They don’t feel they can tell their full stories to Inter-Aid representatives. The think if they tell them they fled because of problems with the government, government agents will turn up in Kampala looking for them. I don’t know how much of this is paranoia and how much is real.

“If you go to the police to tell them about an incident, they won’t believe you. They will say you did it to yourself. They say ‘you people cut yourself, you burn your houses.’ Even if you get all the neighbors to say what happened they won’t believe you. But if you pay them some money, then they may believe you. They will write you a letter that you can take to OPM. But sometimes, even if you pay the police, they will give you a letter but then they will call OPM and say ‘don’t believe this man, he is a liar who paid a bribe.’”

I don’t know how much of any of their stories are real. I have heard (again and again) from Noah my intern supervisor that I shouldn’t trust them. That they have every incentive to make up stories. Rumors of resettlement spread like wildfire: they hear that one person got resettled by telling a certain story, and all of the sudden everyone is telling the same story. They know that insecurity is the only way to get resettlement. The whole system seems set up to punish honesty. Noah told me how Inter-Aid, JRS or other relief organizations will help single women before women with husbands because in theory they are less likely to be able to support themselves. But when husbands can’t work because no one will hire them because they are refugees, this is not necessarily true. Other organizations only help AIDS widows; women whose husbands who died of any other cause are ineligible for aid. In this situation terms like honor, honesty, morality, seem bankrupt. When the choice is lie, or let your kids starve, doing the ‘right’ thing seems pretty foolish. You could make the argument that they are only hurting themselves, that a few people scamming the system ruin it for everyone, that if everyone played by the rules, they’d all be better off. But this argument rests on the assumption that the rules are fair, that UNHCR, Inter-Aid, the Ugandan government, all hold refugees’ best interests near and dear to their hearts. That none of these organizations have any vested interest, any financial or institutional stake in remaining in the refugee business.

It is very possible that my students believe they have an incentive to lie to me. Maybe they hope that if I believe them I will be able to pull some strings (imaginary strings I definitely do not have my hands on) and get them resettled. It might only be indicative of the incredible depths of my naïveté to say this, but I believe that much of what they are saying is true, at least on some level. Then again, maybe they are taking me for a ride. Fine. I can live with that. I can understand how some of the lawyers may get frustrated: they work hard every day for clients, putting themselves on the line for them, supporting them and their stories to OPM and UNHCR, and then they are made to look foolish when it comes out that the client was lying. But it’s not like the people who are lying to me are laughing all the way to the bank. They are desperate people, with precious little hope. I’d rather believe them and be proven wrong than not believe them and be proven right. As Lucy said “better they take us for fools than fascists.”

Beyond the dubious value of studying English with me six hours a week, perhaps the only thing I can give my students is a voice. I hope I have presented them as they are: men and women struggling to hold onto their humanity in an extremely de-humanizing situation. Though I have speculated whether or not they are ‘using me,’ I don’t have to speculate, I know, that on some level I am using them, appropriating their suffering and turning it into another colorful anecdote for my blog. Being conscious of this does not excuse it. In writing about my students I’ve tried to avoid anecdotalizing them. I’ve done my best to be faithful to them and their concerns large and small. I apologize if I have been unfaithful to their trust in me, or misrepresented them in any way.

shops by my house

2006-07-12T12:25:00.000-04:00

Back in Kampala: the matatu park, meat in Oweno Market, and some scenery by my house

2006-07-12T12:15:00.000-04:00

The source of the Nile (coooool) and a house near where I live

2006-07-12T11:33:00.000-04:00

Some more Kampala scenes. The cows are on my road, I see them most mornings

2006-07-12T11:27:00.000-04:00

Banana central

More of my neighborhood: the view of Kampala, an anthill, and some neighborhood kids

2006-07-12T11:04:00.000-04:00

Rwanda Pics

2006-07-11T11:38:00.000-04:00

disclaimer

2006-07-09T06:01:00.000-04:00

For the benefit of people who may be worried by my previous post:

Traveling by bodaboda is dangerous. It's basically a low-speed motorcycle. But I always wear my helmet, and I only go by boda when absolutely necessary. I can get to many places by matatu (bus-taxi). Though it takes a little longer, I usually use that method. Sometimes the bodas are necessary, but I try to take them as little as possible. So please don't worry too much: all travel involves some risk but I'm doing the best I can to mimimize it.

Jesus and chickens: surrealism on a boda

2006-07-07T12:21:00.000-04:00

I’m sitting on the back of a bodaboda, fighting to keep my skirt from flying up. Night is falling, and the headlights of the cars are just beginning to outshine the glow from the sky. The traffic before the clock tower roundabout is the usual jam: a complete standstill, cars packed seven deep. Once through the intersection the formation doesn’t change, only the speed. Cars, trucks and bodas whiz along in concert like one interlocking unit. My boda, which usually slices through the traffic like an agile swimmer heading upstream, gets stuck behind a huge lorry. It’s piled with row upon row of yellow plastic jerry cans. I count six high and five wide and there must be at least 40 deep. They are all tied on with rope and secured with a tarp, but the arrangement still seems precarious. I wonder how long can all those individual plastic units continue moving at the same speed in the same direction? The truck is enormous: its back fills my entire field of vision. The space behind the truck, framed by cars and bodas on the remaining three sides, becomes a stable little universe with all the planets barreling along at exactly the same speed. We travel like this for five minutes, maybe more. Time seems to stand still. I can see all the details on the back of the truck including, clearly, a tiny red sign that says “keep back.” Then I look down: below the bumper of the truck, on a giant mudflap that stretches across the entire backside, are the hand-lettered words: “The Lord is my Shepherd.” My mind flashes to the rest of the verse: Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. With a shock I discover my lips forming the words. Though I’m afraid, I have to laugh at myself. If the truck should betray the harmony of our little mobile universe and stop suddenly, I would slam headfirst into a cartoon picture of Jesus and his flock, mouthing a prayer about sheep. Then, as if confirm my suspicions about the absurdity of the situation, I notice that the man on the bodaboda to my right has attached, upside down by their feet, two live and immobile chickens, one on either side of his passenger seat. I stare into the beady little eyes chicken closest to me, and he stares back. I’d like to think that he, that the universe, winked. “Well,” I thought, “there’s someone in a significantly tighter spot than me.” Then suddenly the traffic shifted and the conspiracy of momentum was broken. A gap opened to the left of the truck, and my boda maneuvered us out of the charmed pocket. I waved goodbye to the chicken and we continued on our way, bobbing and weaving around potholes and pedestrians as if we had been doing it our whole lives.

Photos from Kibale trip - sorry no chimp shots

2006-06-18T13:40:00.000-04:00

I get schooled

2006-06-18T12:07:00.000-04:00

Last week Thursday I had a smaller English class than usual. I decided instead of coming in with a structured lesson plan, I would just to talk with my students and see where the conversation took us. I used this technique a lot in Japan when I was doing individual or small group lessons. I would teach vocabulary and grammar points that arose during the course of the conversation. It’s a much more student-centered approach. It’s a well-known maxim of language instruction that the more the lesson is centered on the teacher, the less the students are actually learning. It’s harder than you might think to resist the tendency to teach at the students. Involving them actively in the lesson takes a lot more energy and forethought. For every ounce of effort you get out of the students you have to put in at least twice that amount.

So the seven students and I sat down around a big table. I got everyone to talk about their day, and wrote down all the vocabulary and grammar that came up. One student talked about cooking, and I asked him about the steps for making millet bread. We learned boil, steam, pot, spoon, and stir. Some of the words were very similar to French, and the students were pleased to make the connection. I asked each student what languages he or she spoke and was astounded by the responses. Almost all Congolese can speak French and Swahili, plus any combination of the over 400 local languages spoken in the country. The students gave me a list of names that set my imagination wheeling. Lingala. Kinande. Aloor. Ashuku. Mushi. Temne. Kihema. Kikongo. It’s hard to fully accept in my heart that every one of those names represents an entire structure and vocabulary, complete with shades of meaning, colloquialisms, and regional differences as hotly contested as the great pop/soda divide. It seems there is no end to human creativity and inventiveness. Thinking about it, I get the sensation of staring into the depths of a deep well that may well continue down to the center of the earth. It's amazing, but at the same time it also fills me with a type of anger, a feeling of impotence. How can so many languages possibly exist in the world? What’s the point of all that duplicated effort, all those exquisitely detailed schemes and blueprints, when each one can communicate its rich and textured understanding of the world only to an extremely small group of isolated people? It certainly makes my titanic struggles with learning Spanish and Japanese (two languages out of thousands!) seem pathetic and rather futile.

The students were very interested in the languages spoken in the U.S. They were amazed that all across the country, most people speak only English. There is no regional language spoken in Texas, Ohio, Massachusetts, or Colorado. The students were very impressed they said, “This is why America can be a united country. You don’t have the problems we have in Congo.” I think they are right, to a certain extent. We don’t have the linguistic identity crisis as in Quebec or Catalunya. But we miss out on a lot as well. Most Americans never get to pull back the curtain and view the inner workings of their language. As a result they never understand how much its structures form the framework for their understanding of the world. They never learn that past, present, and future are really just one way of structuring your time. That you can have a perfectly functional language that makes no distinction between ‘now’ and ‘later.’ That masculine and feminine and singular and plural are not absolute categories. That to some people think it’s much more important to distinguish between whether one is talking about a member of one’s family or an outsider. That, even within the European languages there is a subtle but important difference between the Germanic “I like” (active, taking ownership of one’s feelings, exercising dominion over the favored object) and the Romanic “it pleases me.” The students had a very sophisticated view of language politics; not surprising considering their very personal experience with generations of conflict inspired at least in part by linguistic differences. We talked about the civil war in Congo, and about the Basques and the Quebecois. We discussed the tension between assimilation and identity, and families and individuals living in an uneasy truce between the two.

After talking about language the conversation took another interesting turn. Somehow the subject of marriage came up. We talked about traditional African polygamous marriage, Christian marriage, the American “triangular family” (mother, father, children) versus the African family which resembles more a pentagon, octagon, dodecahedron. We talked about why so many American marriages end in divorce. “It’s because they don’t know Jesus,” pronounced a middle aged man, a preacher, with the absolute certainty that is exclusive property of those who believe that the answer to every question can be found in a book. As someone not exactly on intimate terms with Jesus, I somehow still found myself defending Americans as a Christian people. I tried to tell this kind yet arrogant man that I don’t believe anybody holds the monopoly the truth. That I believe there is more than one way to be a Christian, and that one can be a good and righteous person without the benefit of any religious teaching. This is the same fight I got into with a friend in Ecuador who said of anyone whose beliefs differed slightly from her own “those people say they are Christians, but they aren’t really.” How can anyone say that? How can anyone say that of all the millions of religions in the world, and all the hundreds of sects of just Christianity, that their random tiny little sect, whose gospel has been filtered through Jews, Romans, Sun-worshipers, Medieval lords offering rewards in the afterlife for obedience in this one, Crusaders, dispensation sellers, power-hungry popes, defiant Kings, social outcasts, lunatics, business-obsessed merchants, colonizers, conquistadors, slaveholders, witch burners, cult leaders, doomsayers, holy-rollers, charlatans, faith healers, snake charmers, revivalists, missionaries, televangelists, charismatic preachers, all of whom had a finger in the pie, all of whom glorified God almost as much as they glorified themselves. All of these people had incentive to favor one interpretation over another, to add their own accent and phrasing to the trans-generational game of telephone. Can anyone really be so arrogant as to think that among all the clashing notes, the single lonely strain that was passed down to him – one theme in that garbled chorus, that ode to human ambition – is the One True Word of God?

After I said my bit the preacher launched, all hesitation at using English forgotten, into a full-throttle sermon. He lectured to me about the biblical commandment that a woman obey her husband. He said every woman who acts otherwise is denying the word of God. He said that Americans have so many divorces because we are sinners, and we must, by submitting to our husbands submit to God. I had to fight really hard against my desire to answer back with a devastating and completely unassailable argument. Being a teacher means striking a delicate balance. If I want to have a real give-and-take with my students I can’t take advantage of my position to hold myself on a different level, with my word being the last say on a topic. But if I want everyone to have a chance to talk and draw out the shyer students I have to take control of the conversation a little bit, cut people off when they start to hog too much of the class’s time. It’s really hard in teaching to avoid two things: dominating a conversation and allowing it to get out of hand. This was shaping up to be a crashing disaster: both evils at once. I took a deep breath and said to him, “thank you for sharing. But I think both of us need to remember this is English class, not preaching time.” Then I turned to the next student, a shy, quietly intelligent boy of about 25. I said “I’m very interested in your opinion.” He thought for a few moments, then responded in a soft voice that spoke of respect but also confidence. He said he believed that a woman should obey her husband, but that a husband should also respect and obey and be faithful to his wife: they should be as one unit, working together. He felt very sad at the thought of divorce, and also at the thought of the nuclear family that I grew up in, when his extended family network had been such an important part of his life. He explained how all his aunts and uncles had helped contribute to sending him to school, and how he would do the same for his cousins one day. So we all went around the table and shared our thoughts.

The class, supposed to last for two hours, ended up going on for three and a half. The students were amazing, incredible, totally engaging. I thought back to earlier lessons where I miscalculated their level, bored them with trivial sentences of no relevance to their lives, and insulted their intelligence with questions like “what is your hobby?” I should be asking them “what is the one true thing in your life?” “What does the future hold for your people?” “How has it felt to see your family become beggars in a foreign land? How do you to get up every morning to make the rounds of the circuit of humanitarian organizations (Inter-Aid, UNHCR, Jesuit Relief Services, RLP) in the hopes that maybe today someone will help you? How do you worry every night about what you will eat tomorrow, how you will clean your clothes, where you will sleep, where you can use a bathroom, whether you will be arrested, whether your family members left behind are still alive, and still find the energy to care about friends, music, football matches, love?” I worry so much that I am not doing them justice, not teaching them well enough, not giving them what they really need. I feel exhausted by the magnitude of their need, and by how little I have to offer them. English conversation, three times a week. A giant teacher’s pad covered in words by the end of each lesson. A piece of expensive paper that says “Certificate of Completion: RLP English Course, Advanced Level.”

Chimpanzees in the Mist (just call me Diane)

2006-06-13T07:45:00.000-04:00

I took advantage of a three day weekend to go to Kibale National forest and see the chimps. It was only a 4 hour bus ride away. I love, by the way, how four hours (or in fact even 6 or 8 hours) on a bus have become “only.” The fabled African patience is definitely affecting me. I stare out the window and set my mind free to roam across the plains, linger in mud houses where children pump water and old women shell peanuts in the shade, or dart among the trees with the birds and monkeys. Before I know it, the time has passed. I even half-wish the ride could go on longer, reluctant as I am to return to myself and to figuring out the logistics of the next phase of the trip.

This particular bus ride went off without a serious hitch, if you don’t count the two and a half hours we spent sitting in Kampala waiting while the bus was stuffed absolutely to the gills with paying customers. Perhaps they were also waiting to give the passengers a final opportunity buy any newspapers, muffins, chapattis, portable radios, lotions, Cokes, chickens, loaves of bread, secondhand shoes, plastic jewelry, or de-worming medicine that we might need for the trip. About 10 minutes before departure they signaled their intent to leave by turning on the engine and bathing us all in diesel fumes so thick they were actually visible inside the bus. But then we were on our way, lung damage forgotten in the excitement of motion. As we pulled out of the bus station we noticed a slogan painted on the back of another bus waiting to depart: “God likes patience.”

Upon arrival in Fort Portal, despite having heavily sampled the constant array of food products offered through the window of the bus by vendors along the road including Cassava, ears of corn, and roasted bananas tasting halfway like plantains, (but avoiding the meat –on-a-stick like the plague it most likely carries) we stopped for lunch at a lovely outdoor restaurant with an extensive menu, at least a third of which was presently available. We then hiked into the town proper where we engaged in protracted negotiations to get a special hire car to take us to the park. Thanks to Tammy, we managed to bargain them down from 500,000 Ush to 25,000 for the 45 minute ride. The catch: all six of us had to ride in one small Japanese import. We managed with four in the back and two in the front, including 6’7” Mike. Forty-five extremely pothole-ridden minutes later, we pulled into the national park’s lodge where we learned that a) there were only four beds left, and b) seeing the chimps now cost over twice the price listed in our guidebook: $50 per person. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if we had brought more money. But with no credit cards accepted and no ATMs in sight, we were in serious financial straits. After huddling in a corner and adding up all the money we had in our wallets, socks, deep backpack pockets, and belly bags, we figured that we would have just enough to cover the chimps, the park entry fee (25% student discount thank heavens) 2 nights in the lodge (for 4 people), and transportation back to Kampala, with a tiny amount left for food, water, local transportation, and incidentals. I had to borrow the most money. I had discovered the night before that the stack of bills that have been hidden under my mattress since I unwittingly withdrew 10 times what I intended on my first day here had shrunk considerably, and I was only in possession of 80,000 shillings (about $40) for the whole trip. Since we were scheduled to depart at 7am, I didn’t have time to visit the ATM on the morning of, so I was relying on borrowing a bit from my friends. Fortunately Prashanth and Kara had been a lot more forward thinking than I, and had brought enough to cover the unexpected expense for themselves and for the rest of the group.

It was too late that day to see the chimps, and they were booked for the next morning. So we had dinner at the lodge’s restaurant, the first of many meals where everything was calculated to maximize the calories-to-shillings ratio. We settled on chips (aka French fries: 1500 for a huge steaming plate) and Spanish Omlette (2000, but which turned out to be just omlette so more chips were called for). Before we knew it darkness was falling, and we retired around 9pm. We’d decided to share the four beds in two bandas among the six of us, and the two boys, and by virtue of being 6’7” and about 6’, got their own beds in their own banda. The girls got to sleep two to a bed, which actually was not nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds. The beds were slightly wider than NYU’s hateful “extra-long twins,” and we didn’t even have to spoon. After slathering on bugspray and paying a visit to the long-drop squat toilet (following the customary female practice of always going in teams) we squeezed our bodies into bed.

We had our chimp walk scheduled for the afternoon, so we got up early before sunrise to catch the 7:00 bus to the crater lakes, just 10k down the road. We didn’t see the bus, but a packed matatu (small bus/van sporting Japanese characters announcing the name of a school) soon came along. True to the spirit of the trip, two empty seats magically became six as the other passengers squeezed over and made room for us. We traveled out of the deep forest spotting to our great excitement (and the amusement of our Ugandan passengers) a pack of baboons by the side of the road, past rolling hills covered with tea plantations and mist. At the park we found a small guest house and restaurant offering tours of the lakes. We met an extremely kind woman who seemed thrilled that we were volunteers, and Americans to boot. She raved about a zoo in North Carolina that had sponsored several of their employees to attend an ecology conservation course, and showed us their diplomas mounted on the walls. She also showed us a framed picture of Khadafi and the local Torro king, a boy of about 14. She explained how the ancient Ugandan kingdoms had been abolished under Idi Amin, but had be reinstated under Museveni. All the kingdoms wanted their king back save one; apparently he’d been a tyrant. Khadafi had donated a lot of money to support the destitute kings and provide for their education and upkeep. “He is genius at public relations,” the woman proclaimed. “He saw what people wanted, and gave it to them.” Something to think about. We explained our financial situation to the woman, and she kindly agreed to knock the price of the walk around the lake down to 2000/ head. We eagerly agreed, and set off with our guide. It was a lovely walk past fields and forests, along an up-and-down and winding path. We passed banana plants, plots of corn, Irish potatoes, fig and avocado trees, eucalyptus groves, and peanuts growing in the earth. We saw families working in the fields, bent over their potatoes or peanuts, and they all stopped and waved to us as we passed. Small children ran up to us and smiled shyly. We asked “what’s your name?” and “how old are you?” A pair of tiny boys wielding nothing but a stick apiece herded seven of Africa’s amazing long-horned cows down the path to greener pastures. The walk took only about 2 hours, and afterwards we sat at picnic tables and split a coke and a fanta between the six of us. Several small monkeys came along and peered at us from the trees next to table. Then we set off to for our camp at about 10:30, hoping to walk a while and take photos of the tea plantations before the 11:00 bus came along. The tea plantations were gorgeous, the most stunning green imaginable. They completely cross-hatched the hills with their rows and plot divisions. We walked up and down, over the tops of the hills and through the valleys. The road was red dirt, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun was shining on the green tea leaves. We passed children with machetes and bundles of sticks balanced on their heads, and the boys with the cows again. But we saw no bus. We kept walking, enjoying the view and the road and the sunshine. We entered the forest, and the shade was cool. Butterflies fluttered ahead of us, flying up from great clods of shit when we startled them. Dead butterfly wings also lined the road, casualties of run-ins with birds or matatu grilles. Still no bus. We kept walking. Two and a half hours later, the lodge’s distinctive wood carved chimpanzee sign finally appeared around the bend. Covered in road dust, feet aching, water depleted, skins burned to crisps, with only leftover bus-muffin crumbs in our stomach from breakfast we practically ran up the road to the lodge to order our lunch. A bit of a splurge this time, with spaghetti and roasted vegetables, supplemented of course by chips. We were exhausted and the World Cup was coming on in a few hours, so we postponed the chimp walk for the next day and went to read in the shade and nap before going to watch the cup.

Kristin, Tammy, and I stayed a bit longer in bed, and got a ride into the neighboring small town at 6 to meet Prashanth, Mike, and Kara who had gone in for the 4pm game. We found them sitting on the front steps of the only bar in town, drinking homemade banana liquor out of a gas can with the mayor and his elderly uncle. Staring over curiously from neighboring stoops was a large group of equally inebriated locals. A turkey lurked in the background, puffing its feathers, while the uncle tried to convince us to buy it and cook it for Thanksgiving dinner (never mind that it’s June). We joined the party, and soon were drinking Eagle beers (made from soughum and only 1000 per bottle) and wharai, the local banana moonshine poured out by the mayor with a huge grin. Every time the turkey strutted over, Prashanth seemed to tense up. He explained that the two of them had had a run-in earlier when he’d inadvertently gotten between it and its mate. It was a huge beast, with an evil-looking head atop a long scraggly neck, and giant powerful wings. When it puffed up its feathers it appeared to be the size of German shepherd. It also appeared to be getting ready for Round Two with Prashanth. Fortunately, it never got the chance because we were soon ushered into a small room adjacent the bar where we were served heaping plates of matoke and roasted potatoes smothered in peanut sauce. Ugandan food had never tasted so good. Then it was time for the game to start, and we headed over to the bar where there was a TV set up in what appeared to be a shed, its roof and walls made of woven reeds. People were crammed onto long benches, and we squeezed in in the dark. There was no power in town, but the bar had a generator running. The TV was small but had good picture quality, and the volume was turned way up. Trinidad and Tobago played Sweden, and held them 1-1 with only ten players for most of the 2^nd half. The crowd was heavily for Trinidad and Tobago, and we were too, partially out of solidarity, and partially out of a desire not to be beaten. Sweden’s top-to-toe yellow uniforms didn’t help their case much either. While waiting for the next game, a young man, one of the guides at the national forest who we’d met when we arrived, invited us to his home a few houses down. The town itself appeared to cling tightly to the single road running through its middle, and consisted of about 30 buildings. We stumbled along in the dark to his house, where we were ushered in to a small front room. A table was set with a huge steaming plate of matoke and a pot of roasted beef. This was his dinner, prepared by his wife, but African custom would not allow him to have guests in his home without offering them something to eat. “If you do not take something, the rats will surely nibble my feet tonight.” Custom would also not allow us to decline, so we all took small helpings of matoke and meat, declaring ourselves stuffed and leaving as much as possible in the dish. The meat was excellent, savory and tender, and we didn’t have to dig very deep to sing its praises. After thanking the young man and his wife, we headed back to the bar to watch the final game of the evening: Argentina v. Ivory Coast. Argentina was dominating when we decided to leave, since certain members of our party had taken rather too much food and drink. This time it was seven of us crammed into a small car since a German girl from the lodge had joined us as well.

We awoke at 7:30 for our 8:00 appointment with the chips. It was a misty morning, but the rain held off. We met our guide and set off into the forest. At first we walked along the path, but soon our guide’s ears perked to distant chimp calls and he veered off without warning into the underbrush. We followed as fast as possible, tripping over low roots and ducking under heavily spiked hanging vines. The chimps were hooting, somewhere ahead. After about 15 minutes we came upon three of them, all male, eating in the brush. They were surprisingly big, especially when one stood up and shocked us with his girth and his striking resemblance to a stocky bowlegged man. They stayed for a while and then moved on, walking smoothly on their hands and back legs. We followed them at a distance, and they led us to a sort of clearing. All of a sudden, the trees around us were full of shrieking and hooting. The chimps we had been following took off at a fast run, making for a big tree in the middle of the clearing. They were joined by a steady stream of other chimps, all howling as they loped along. They ran to a big tree and rapidly climbed it, swinging their compact muscular bodies with ease. Our hearts were pounding in our chests: we were surrounded by over 30 powerful and agitated animals. All my survival instincts awoke from hibernation and started howling along with the wild calls of the chimps. I was about to take off running myself, but our guide didn’t seem to be worried all. I tried to slow my racing heart and enjoy the moment. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the group was gone. Our guide motioned us to follow him and we pursued the sounds of howling and hooting getting fainter in the dense brush. We walked for another 30 minutes without success, though we heard chimp calls periodically up ahead. Then we saw them again: of two enormous males, one almost completely grey. The guide told us he was the number three chimp in the pack of about 100, the “deputy prime minister.” The two of them were stretched out in the underbrush, seemingly taking a nap. One rolled over and scratched his belly. We were able to watch them for about 20 minutes. One woke up and started to nibble on a big piece of fruit, the other stayed asleep. Then another chimp appeared in the tree behind us, only about 5 feet away. He started hooting and the other chimps joined, and again we were awed by the power of these huge animals. Then the three took off again. This time we didn’t follow, since our hour with the chimps was up. This troop is habituated to human contact but isn’t supposed to spend more than an hour a day in our presence. We walked back through the forest, slightly shell-shocked. I don’t know what I was expecting: perhaps some cute monkeys performing adorable antics? But what I saw was a group of extremely wild animals engaged in complex behavior I understood next to nothing about. It was actually a pretty humbling experience.

One among the thousands

2006-06-08T13:31:00.001-04:00

Bernadette came into the research office today to ask if any of the interns could do an intake interview. The other two looked less than enthusiastic, so I volunteered. I met a tiny woman in her 30's, dressed in a bright print dress and headscarf. Her name was J*. She was Congolese. She spoke very little English, so another refugee translated as she told me her story. J was a university student in Congo and she participated in some peace demonstrations. Somehow the police got her name, and she had to hide. Then her family in the countryside was attacked: her sister was raped, and her brother was beaten so severely he developed a seizure disorder. This may have been collected to her political activity, or it may have just been a random attack by one of the DRC's many warring rebel factions. She fled to Uganda with her brothers and sisters and was sent to a refugee camp. At the camp she worked her plot of land like the other refugees. Last year she developed fibroids in her uterus. She was sent to Kampala where they told her she'd have to have her uterus removed. She refused because she wanted to have children some day. They removed only the fibroids, and she was sent back to the refugee camp after only a week. She was still recovering from the surgery and couldn't work to grow her own food. The only food they gave her to eat at the camp was maize flour, which she said upset her stomach. She became extremely ill and weak and came down with malaria. She went to the camp clinic where she languished: the doctor was in Kampala and nobody was looking after her. Other refugees found her there, and they took her to Kampala to get help from Inter-Aid (UNHCR's implementing partner in Kampala and responsible for providing services to urban refugees including healthcare) but their clinic was closed for the Christmas holidays. Finally she got help in January. But in March she developed severe pain in her uterus again. She went to Inter-Aid where the doctor said there was nothing wrong with her, and diagnosed her with a mental illness that caused her to invent her symptoms. He instructed her to return to the camp. She didn't believe him, and went back to her original doctor and to Mulago hospital. There she got a sonogram which revealed that the fibroids were back and she needed to have another surgery, this time to remove the entire uterus. She came to RLP because she is afraid of having surgery again if she is going to recieve the same shoddy post-operative care. She says she almost died last time, and she's terrified. She is reluctant to put her life in the hands of people she didn't trust, and who had almost let her die once before. I took down her story and her details, and typed it up for Bernadette. I have no idea whether RLP can help her. She doesn't have a "case" in the traditional legal sense. But our advocacy rarely goes through traditional channels. I know we often advocate for particular clients with Inter-Aid and UNHCR, trying to pressure them into providing the services they are legally supposed to be providing. They comply not because they are frightened of being brought into court, but because actually providing the service becomes less trouble than having to come up with creative reasons for denying it. Sounds pretty cynical, but I don't think it's inaccurate. They are under a lot of pressure to keep to a budget (despite the fact that human need does not politely conform itself to funding priorities), and to be working toward an ultimate "solution" to the refugee "problem": get refugees back home. Providing them with too much care is not going to encourage that. Never mind that they are fleeing very real violence that does not show signs of abating any time soon. Never mind that since goverments have committed to protect them, they are actually entitled to recieve a certain extremely basic level of support and assistance. We wouldn't want them to get too comfortable and forget that they are beholden.

J's story isn't really all that bad. She got refuge, land to farm (never mind that she was a student and had never picked up a hoe in her life before fleeing Congo), and (some) medical care. This is not a case of clear-cut injustice. Instead, it's a about a woman who used to have control over her life and her destiny who is now totally dependent on the whims of a huge and ineffective international beurocracy. I don't know what will happen to J, or what a "happy ending" would look like for her and her family. But I hope she finds it.

*Name and some details changed.

a strange day

2006-06-06T06:28:00.000-04:00

This morning we woke up to an absolute deluge of rain. If sounded as if a swimming pool was being dumped on the roof. We couldn't take a boda to work, and our taxi driver Jamil called at 6am to say he couldn't make it. This was a blessing in disguise: since the roads here are dirt and turn directly to mud at a moment's notice, when it rains in Kampala nobody without a car leaves the house. The office would be deserted. So my fellow interns and I rolled over and went back to sleep until about 10 when the rain let up. We woke to blinding sunshine, had a leisurely breakfast, and walked up to the top of the road (the water had already been absorbed into the amazing sponge-like earth, and it was as if the rains had never occured) to catch a taxi. We found one who agreed to take us to RLP for 7000 shillings (about 4 dollars). Everything was going fine until the driver suddenly pulled over to the side of the road in front of two police, or possibly millitary, men with huge guns. He pretended to ask for directions to our office, but when the police/soldiers asked him for his license and registration he didn't have them. One fat policeman, extremely relaxed and leaning on his enormous gun, stuck his face in the window and looked us over. He asked us for our names. Trying to be friendly and calm, we told him. "I'm Aliza." "I'm Balkees." "Hi, I'm Sarah" <> . We asked if their was a problem, and if we should get another taxi. He said maybe, but when we made to get out of the car he said, "No no, you stay in the car." It was said politely, but it was unmistakeably an order. We obeyed. The driver started saying "you pay money," and what was really going on became readily apparnet: we were being set up for a bribe. We passed him 5000 shilling, which he gave to the police officer for his "fine." Then we were on our way. We were pretty sure, considering he had driven us straignt to this police post, that the whole thing was planned in advance. Furious, we had no intention of paying him the full 7000 on arrival at the office. Balkees texted Moses, our boss, asking him to come down and meet us in front in case there was trouble. But he never got to the office: about 10 minutes later the driver ran into and overturned a boda boda. The woman sitting sidesaddle on the back of the boda fell to the road. Fortunately her legs were on the other side so they weren't crushed. She just landed hard on her butt and bounced. I saw her get up and shake herself, then start rubbing the dirt off the back of her skirt. The driver wasn't hurt either, he managed to break his fall with his feet. But the boda was in bad shape with cracked lights and mirrors, and the seat totally broken off. The driver leaped over his mangeled bike and started yelling at our driver. A nearby policeman came running over as well. We sat there stunned in the backseat thinking "now what?" We all had the same thought at the same time: get the hell out of this taxi. We leaped out and took off down the street. Then I realized: I had left my helmet in the back seat. I really did not want this unscrupulous driver getting ahold of my 40,000 shilling helmet. I ran back, opened the back door, grabbed the helmet, and thrust the 2000 shillings (the balance of what we owed him) into his hands. We left him stitting in his car, surrounded by stopped traffic and an angry crowd. Once we had gotten a few blocks away, we found some bodas to take us the rest of the way to work. We arrived slightly shaken, but with one heck of a story to tell our co-workers.

Work was great, and my English class went fabulously. We broke the group up into two levels, and I took the more advanced students and we sat around a table in the conference room. Genevive, the undergrad intern, took the beginner students. outside on the patio. She was so excited to be teaching on her own for the first time. I listened throught the window as she had them repeat names of fruits and vegetables. It sounded like she was doing a fabulous job, and she was buzzing when the class finished. I really enjoyed teaching the more advanced students because I wasn't hampered by my lack of French. I also liked the format of us sitting around a table and talking like adults. It was very different from the teaching style I used most often in Japan: me bopping around in the front of the room, clapping my hands and gesticulating, coaxing a chorus of English phrases from my students like an orchestra conductor.

After work, Genevive wanted to show Balkees and me a shopping center she had just discovered with a deli, a wine shop, and, the icing on the cake, a patisserie with chocolate croissants. It's in Kabalagala by the American embassy. We walked through town to get to the Matatu (taxi bus) stand. Every journey in Kampala is a bit of an adventure, there is no such thing as simply strolling down the street. The "street" itself is either heavily rutted dirt road shared by pedistrians, goats, cows, and bicycles, or a road made up of more potholes than pavement with sporadic areas along the edge that could be considered sidewalks except that they are used without a second thought by taxis and motorycles to bypass stopped traffic. Nevertheless, schoolkids and ladies in skirts with cheap plastic high heeled sandals walk along, calmly dodging the constant traffic and weaving around the crevives that frequently yawn along the side of the path. All of the sudden, down this type of road, came a young man running at full tilt, pursued by an angry mob. Someone grabbed the back of his white collared shirt, but he kept on going. He ran right out of the shirt, turning it inside out as he shed it like a second skin. "Oh damn," said Genevive "they're chasing a thief." Then the crowd was upon him, and he was corralled against a brick wall and hidden from sight by a mass of assailants. Genevive said "they'll either beat him unconscious, or kill him." Bakees and I stared at her, uncomprehending. She said, "the people know the police here won't do anything to stop crooks. So they take things into their own hands. What happens to him will probably depend on how much he stole." She told us that when they first arrived they were told in their study abroad program orientation that they needed to be very careful about accusing someone of theft on a crowded street. They could inadvertantly cause a young man to be beaten to death over a few hundred thousand shillings. We stared in the direction of the mob. I made a few uncertain steps towards the crowd (aiming to do what? To throw my body between the man and his assailants?). Then I looked back at my friends, who had already turned and were continuing on their way. I followed, filled with relief to be shown how to react. My thoughts and emotions were completely disordered. How should I feel after witnessing this? I searched the backs of my companions for clues, and found none. To be honest, though the unsaid words "we should help him" echoed in my head for hours, I hadn't even seriously considered resisting the flow. The whole thing had a surreal quality like something I was watching on TV: completely unconnected to me, and completely unsucceptible to being influenced by my actions. I know this wasn't actually true. I know that when I walked away I was making a choice. Still, I don't know what I realistically could have done. What would have happened if I had waded into that mob of kicking and punching vigilantes? It wasn't my country, it wasn't my place to intervene. I don't know what happened to the young man, and I don't know whether I fully believe Genevive's overly-dramatic prediction of his death. I think that it's possible the director of her program told his charges the worst-case-scenario in order to scare them. I've heard about mob justice in Uganda before, but I'd always heard that people were beaten only severely enough to teach them a lesson, or that their clothes were taken and they were forced to walk home naked: punishment by humiliation, not death. Then again, maybe that is just the cute anecdotal version provided by guidebooks to give the readers a taste of "local color." Maybe the reality is far harsher. Based in what I saw today, I really don't know.

2006-05-31T13:03:00.000-04:00

bluffing

2006-05-31T13:02:00.000-04:00

2006-05-31T12:58:00.000-04:00

The groom's aunties

Dancing aunties, bluffing, and cows in check form: an African wedding

2006-05-31T12:22:00.000-04:00

5/27: Woke up from vivid Larium-induced hallucinations, happy to find myself in my round hut-room, safely tucked under a canopy of mosquito netting (but with a huge itchy welt on my leg).

First we went with Bernadette, her sister Eve who’s 7 months pregnant, and their father to the family home where Bernadette’s mother dressed us in Gomesi , a traditional Ugandan dress sort of like a mu-mu but with high pointy shoulders that flanked our heads on either side. Bernadette called them our “guards.” Mine was lavender, tied with an thick orangeish sash. Genevive’s was gold and black. Bernadette’s was a bolder purple, with blue flowers. Bernadette looked gorgeous, but Genevive and I looked like a pair of wilted 80’s wallflowers at the prom. Still, everyone kept telling us how “smart” we looked as they exclaimed over the novelty of muzungu’s (white people) in the native costume. We arrived at the bride’s house around midday, about 20 minutes before the wedding was scheduled to start. Of course the caterers/ party planners were only just beginning to set up. We sat under the rented awnings and chatted and watched them festooning a portable alter with gauze and purple ribbon, blowing up balloons, covering folding tables with white cloth, and moving chairs from one side of the yard to the other, and back again. Everything was done at bottom speed. Two and a half hours later the guests had all trickled in and they had finished (or rather petered off working on) the decorating, and the wedding was ready to begin.

Someone phoned the groom’s party to let them know they were ready, and they rolled up in their rented bus. They’d come all the way from Acholi land yesterday, a 12 hour trip. They are Acholi, one of the many tribes in Uganda, while the bride’s family and Bernadette’s family are Ateso. Acholi are apparently tall, dark, and broad. Bernadette said, “they can pick you up like you weighed nothing, you can only kick your feet in the air.” The family (about 50 strong) got off their bus and lined up behind the alter, which turned out not to be an alter after all but a gate marking the entrance to the yard. The bride’s family greeted them there, and cut a ribbon tied across the entrance through which they filed in. As the passed through the arch, one of the women produced a loud, high-pitched staccato note “ai-yai-yai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai,” and the other women joined, raising their hands in the air and shaking them, showing their joy at welcoming the family of the groom. A band struck up playing, with marimba and bongos and a shell-beaded shaker. Then the Emcee took the mike and began, saying, “Some people have interrupted our meeting. Who are these intruders, and what do they want?” A young man stood up from among the groom’s party and took center stage with him. He answered: “We have come for a flower. We have seen it flying over on a plane. We Acholi think when we see something beautiful, it must belong to us.” The crowd laughed, especially the Acholi tent. “We have determined that we will not leave this place without the flower that we want.” The emcee responded, “Look around you. We have many flowers. Maybe you want one of them.” The young man responded, “Those are only representations of flowers. The flower we have in mind is different. It walks and talks.” (laughter). The emcee: “A flower that walks and talks? It must be incredibly expensive.” (more laughter). The emcee and the young man agreed that the bride’s family would bring out all the walking, talking flowers they had, and the groom’s family would look to see if their flower was among them. Bernadette explained to us earlier that this “bluffing” is a traditional part of the ceremony. The idea behind it is that if the groom’s family can identify the bride it means that they know her and it isn’t some fly-by-night marriage. Bernadette was one of the bluffers. Her family teased her that she might get picked, and asked “are you ready to get married today?” First they brought out the youngest girls, all dressed in white. The family looked them over and announced that their flower was not among them. Then they brought out the young women of the family, all dressed in beautiful gomesi . The groom’s family said “we see many beautiful flowers, but not the one we want.” Finally they brought out everyone again, including the bride. They all kneeled before the groom’s family, and the young man who was representing the family bent down to her and said “ah, the flower. It is here.” She looked really embarrassed, but pleased. Then they all filed out again. The emcee got up to speak, the band struck up, and the Acholi women got up to dance. They were all stalling for time while the bride changed into her wedding dress. Then she was ready, and it was her turn to identify her groom. She held a corsage and they brought out two young men. She pinned the corsage on the right one, and the women cheered “ay-ay-ay-ay-ay” again. And they were married. Or rather, married under the traditional custom: since they are Christians they will still have to go to church to consecrate it. But this was the real wedding. Then the groom's family presented the bride price to the bride's family. It was a 15 cows, a number of sheep and goats, and some cash, but "beause we didn't have room for all the cows in our bus, we brought a check instead." Then time for more speeches, and more dancing. This time the bride’s family was able to join, since the two clans were now united. Then, at long last, it was time for the food. The caterers had brought it out, and it was fabulous. Matoke, peanut sauce, rice, chicken, goat, pork, intestine of something, beans, tons of sauces, and my favorite millet bread. The power was off, so there was nice sun-warm Nile beer to wash it down. We ate with our hands in the traditional manner, right hand only of course. Then the band struck up for real, and it was time to get down to the *serious* dancing. This was different from before, where the women got up to dance for a few minutes to express their happiness. This was a full-throttle, booty shaking extravaganza. Of course Genevive and I were heartily encouraged to give it a try. As usual, my fellow muzungu turned out to be much more adept at shaking it than I. Genevive was soon wiggling and bopping to appreciative calls from the women of both families. I, on the other hand, was instructed to “move your feet more.” “Hmm, try loosening your hips.” “More butt! More butt!” I finally discovered a group where I fit in better when the kids started following me around jumping up and down and waving balloons. They pursued me around the compound in a kind of crazy congo line, slow then fast then slow again, and every once in a while I turned around abruptly to chase them as they ran away squealing. By the time we left at around midnight, Genevive, Eve, Benadette and I were covered in sweat and drooping with exhaustion. Meanwhile the party was just getting started. Big jugs of the local brew were brought out, to be drunk by ten men at once using impossibly long straws. All the neighbors who hadn’t been invited but who had been idling on the road all day to watch the proceedings began to make their way in through the gate, perhaps taking advantage of the cover of darkness to allow them to join in the festivities. We made our last rounds, said goodbye to the bride and groom (Pauline and Charles) and the dancing aunties who cackled appreciatively and waved. Then we made our way home to Bernadette’s where her mom was waiting to help us take off our gomesi and hear about what we thought of the ceremony. “Mom, you should have seen those Acholi women dance,” said Bernadette. Then home to bed, the music of the wedding still echoing in our ears.

Siroti by bus

2006-05-31T07:34:00.000-04:00

5/26 Only one week in Uganda and already I'm attending an African wedding! By the way, I do feel very much like I'm in "Africa" though some people might not agree with the use of a term that attempts paint the whole continent in one broad stroke. I know it's huge and diverse, with more differences than similarities. Still, everyone here refers to the "African" rather than the "Ugandan". I get the impression that "African" is a cultural term though it may be referring to the specific culture of the area (Kampala and a 50 mile radius?), the region (East Africa) in general, or to some concept of the continent as a whole, while "Ugandan" is pretty much only a geographical and political term. This could be also because Uganda itself, like most African nations, is a colonial creation reflecting little of actual cultural groups. Ugandans come from dozens of tribes, all speaking different languages, and many overlapping into neighboring countries like Sudan or Congo. So I'll use the term for lack of a better one, keeping in mind that what Africa means to me and what it means to Africans are probably vastly different things.

Anyway, the story of how I got to attend the wedding: I went to talk with Bernadette, a young lawyer in th RLP office yesterday about freedom of movement for refugees, and as often occurs in the office, we started chatting about wholly unrelated topics. WE talked about the weather, the dust in the city, the constant boda boda traffic, and she mentioned she was going out of town for the weekend for her friend's wedding and invited me to come along. Heck yes. We left from work on Friday: myself, Bernadette, and another RLP intern named Genevive.

So here I am in Siroti, a smallish town to the East of Kampala in the Teso region. It's a lovely place: very few cars or motorcycles, just the silent solitary headlights of bicycles approaching in the night. And stars. So many stars the sky looks clouded with them. The ride here was amazing. We passed vast open plains, vividly, violently green. Rising out of the plains were flat-topped trees, looking like an army of French waiters holding aloft plates on upturned palms. All under a brilliant sky containing every possible shade of blue, silver, and gold reflected in pastry-thin layers of clouds. Rays of light streamed down and touched the earth like a Goya painting (but done in the color palette of Cezanne). I stared out the window for six hours while Africa flowed past like a river, little snatches of life just glimpsed as they drifted by: Women in bright high-shouldered print dressed walking perfectly straight with bundles on their heads; kids playing in red dirt yards, laughing and chasing each other; young boys picking rice in a low lying square paddy, the water holding a perfect reflection of the sky framed like a window in four pieces; small plots of corn flashing their rows; two huge yellow finches chasing each other through an obstacle course of bushes and tall grass; young men holding up meat on skewers to eager bus passengers; old women with headbaskets full of bananas beckoning us to pluck and eat; tea plantations, right next to fields of sugarcane (bring in a cow for milk, and you're sorted); small cylindrical houses of earthen brick with cone-shaped thatch roofs; thirty or more people standing by the side of the road staring at a taxi that went into a ditch; sunset brilliantly reflected in the fabulously textured sky; darkness and far away lightning glowing softly on the horizon; lightening bugs dotting the hedges on the sides of the road.

We arrived and walked in darkness down a smooth road to Bernadette's dad's guest house. I'm staying in a round cottage the exact same shape as the ones dotting the countryside (except mine has running water and generator-powered lights). Bernadette's dad served us an unbelievable spread for dinner: rice, local chicken, gravy, cabbage, greens, sweet potatoes, millet bread (delicious - soft and moist, rich and nutty and only slightly sweet), and for dessert, roasted white ants. I ate a few handfuls, they taste like oil and salt, but with a black earth aftertaste. Then I showered all the red road dust off my skin and got into bed in my round little room under under the mosquito netting.

RLP first week impressions

2006-05-26T02:52:00.001-04:00

My fist week at Refugee Law Project is almost finished. I'm sort of getting a feel for the kind of work I'll be doing here. I'm working right now on a legal argument about freedom of movement for refugees vs. IDP's. Refugees are supposed to have freedom of movement, but in Uganda they have to go to camps if they want aid. They have to ask permission every time they leave, which is a really cumbersome process since they may have to walk miles to the camp's administrative center to get the permission. This means they can only sell the food they grow to people who come in to buy it, and as a result they get taken advantage of. Also conditions in the camps aren't great: everyone is given a plot and expected to farm it, they aren't given food or anything else, they have to grow their own and buy other things they need with the money they make off surplus crops. But not everyone knows how to farm, many refugees were teachers or doctors or students in their home countries. Also the camps get attacked a lot, they aren't very safe. So many people leave the camps and live in towns. They often do better economically, but they aren't considered refugees by the government. In contrast, the government has a sort of bill of rights for IDP's and they are not restricted in nearly the same way. This is just what I've been able to glean so far. It's an interesting topic, but I feel a bit overwhelmed by how knowledgeable everyone here is.

The typical routine so far: get up, call a motorcycle (boda boda) to come pick me up. Go down to the gate to meet him. Harrowing ride to work, though I'm getting more used to it. RLP is in a small building in Old Kampala, two floors, strangely split in two like a duplex but connected by a sort of balcony walkway on the 2nd floor. I work in the research dept office with the other interns. We have sort of taken it over. There's one computer but we all have laptops, 2 internet cords (we share) and three comfy ergonomic chairs with wheels and one hard wooden model. I feel a bit spoiled saying "gah, only two internet cords, what hardship," but it's really inconvenient!! Downstairs is the front desk and sort of a waiting area where a lot of refugees are always sitting, waiting to talk to the lawyers. They also hang out on the front patio and steps. I try to spend some time there every day talking to people becaue I'm going to teach an English class starting Tuesday and I want to get a feel for who they are and what their level is. Everyone says hi to me now. The biggest hurdle so far is I don't speak French or Swahili. I didn't think I was going to need them in Uganda, but most of the refugees are from Congo, Sudan and Burundi and speak French and Swahili. Ugandans speak English, Luganda, and a bunch of other tribal languages, but English is sort of the common denomiator. I'm trying to covert my Spanish to French, and Balkees, another intern, is helping me with that. Once I make the connections between the roots of words and sentance strutures, French stops sounding like a bunch of nosense syllables. But it's a process. And the pronunciation is a bitch. I might have better luck with Swahili.

It's a beautiful day today, about 70 degrees with a clear blue sky. There's a primary school across the street, and the kids are out in the field. They all have blue and white uniforms, just like my kids in Japan. All the girls have identical shorn heads. They are so cute. You don't see that hairstyle much on grown women, though I think it's really beautiful. I guess after being forced to wear a regulation cut for so many years while they're in school they can't wait to get creative with braids and weaves and colors.

This weekend I'm traveling to a small town in the East of Uganda, near the Kenyan border. A young woman from the office, Bernadette, is attending a freind's wedding, and she invited the interns along. I'm excited to get out of the city and see a bit more of the country.

First day of work in Kampala

2006-05-22T10:13:00.000-04:00

I'm just finishing up my first day of work at the Refugee Law Project. I'm going to be teaching an English class to refugees, designing a rights presentation and a pamphlet to distribute, and working a project having to do with the repatriation of Rwandan refugees, and also perhaps also something to do with protection issues in refugee camps or freedom of movement for refugees. I'm excited, I'm going to learn so much.

Kampala is really nice, it's way less urban than I imagined. The dominant colors are ochre red (the earth, the roads, the dust) and an extremely brilliant green. There are also some white buildings set into the many hills that make up the city. I'm living on the outskirts of town, in a big house with a garden, a hot shower, and electricity every other day. It's a lovely house, much nicer than I expected. The inhabitants are a motley collection of expats: an Englishwoman and her half Ugandan daughter, a random Australian bloke doing some sort of work in refugee camps in the North who comes and goes and takes hour long baths, another Englishwoman working for some sort of Christian organization, Myself, Balkees, and Noah the three RLP interns, David and Sunday the guards, Karen the housekeeper, and Rania the German Shepherd.

Feeling a bit wocky

2006-04-27T20:23:00.000-04:00

My entery for NYU's "law school sucks" poetry contest:

Examwocky

‘Twas finals and the library drones
Did groan and grumble in the stacks:
While laden were the sunny groves,
With lounging undergrads.

“Beware the exam clock, my son
The seconds fly, the minutes whiz!
Beware the mental block, and shun
The dreaded issue missed!”

He took his highlighter in hand
Long time an outline there he sought
Till at last his head fell to his hands,
Despairing of a thought.

As vines grew rampant in his mind,
The Exam Day with tongues of flame,
Came streaming through the window blind,
And chortled as it came!

Point one, Point two, he muddled through
The weary keys went clicker-clunk!
Till time was read, and quelling dread
He went out to get drunk.

“And hast though slain the Dread Exam?
Come raise a glass, let’s celebrate!”
“O let me be, oh woe is me!
I left out sub-part eight.”

‘Twas finals and the library drones
Did groan and grumble in the stacks:
While laden were the sunny groves,
With lounging undergrads.

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

Update: I won the contest :) What am I doing in law school when poetry's where the big money is?

pics

2006-04-18T22:06:00.000-04:00

Some pics from Japan:

If you want more (and why wouldn't you?!), here are links to my favorite photos to date mixed in with some funny / random shots as well.

Best of Japan

Best of Travel Photos

The quality's not great on these images because I made the album on KodakGallery and they cut down the sizes on all of them :(

Come to Osaka, fools!: Osaka 5 (Summer 2005)

2006-04-15T21:55:00.000-04:00

A letter I wrote to a friend trying to convince him to move to Osaka:

I don't know mate, that's a tough one! Hong Kong
would be a whole new adventure, a new language to
learn (or not learn) a new set of rules, etc. It
sounds like an exciting prospect. I try hard to fight the idea that what's best for me
is also best for other people. But I'm still going to
try to convince you to come to Osaka!

Osaka has is all: the party, the energy, the edge, the
tension of cultures meeting and clashing and sometimes
melding, the sense of something new being created and
destroyed every night. It has the youth and all that
it implies: all those cutely earnest youngsters in
their best hip hop gear, along with the truly talented
artists, rappers, singers, djs, break dancers, etc.
and it has a solid representation by the older
generation: some of the warmest most outspoken, fun
loving, quirky people in Japan, who all adore Osaka
and all its flaws, who will come up to you on the
street and hand you an orange, some soybeans and a
snack pack of seaweed, and who will aways always
ALWAYS try to talk to you in a bar or restaurant;
thick Osaka-Ben flying like mad, careening perilously
past broken teeth.

Osaka has this cool funky underground feeling, like
there are all these amazing things going on right
under your nose, on the 8th floors of office
buildings, in converted warehouses down by the port,
in makeshift studios under the train tracks, behind
unassuming interiors lurk hidden treasures. And no
I'm NOT talking about "snack bars"! [note: "Snack Bar" is
the Japanese euphamism for a hostess club] I'm talking about
the Taiko center where I take lessons every wednesday
night that's a hub for young and old japanese people
(some are in their 70's) to get together and beat on
big drums, and then maybe go out for beers at this
cool place that's literally carved out of the concrete
of the underpass. You'd walk right by it and not even
know its there. But there are jungle trees inside,
and a cat, and for some reason a life size model of
Elvis. I'm talking about going on a whim to hear one
of my private students play in a band, at a bar I've
cycled by a hundred times and never entered, and
finding six old Japanese guys jamming on electric
guitars to a packed house, followed by a Japanese
African drum and dance troupe (those ladies can shake
it, fake afros and all!) Then going straight to
another bar to hear my friend's funk band and watch an
amazing young Japanese woman, still a high school
student, sing like Gloria Gaynor. [This all
just happened to me this Saturday night. The week
before that I took a secret elevator hidden behind a
red velvet curtain at a club, and the door opened onto
the changing area of the transvestite dancers who,
instead of being angry, they let us help them put on
their makeup. I can't even imagine what next weekend
will bring.] I'm talking about the random pottery
studio set up in the middle of a small farm (which is
of course surrounded by stores, fish flake factories,
family style diners, mechanic shops, etc, etc, on the
outskirts of Osaka) where I just went for the first
time this week to learn Japanese style pottery. I'm
talking about so much energy and creativity it's
amazing the city can contain it all.
And apart from the musicians, the artists, the
dissatisfied youth, the fashionsitas, the
counterculture, theres also a tremendous ammount of
creative spirit in the merchants, the shopkeepers, who
are really the heart and sould of the city. I mean
the tako yaki stand lady who always gives an extra
ball, the old man who wanders around with his cart
singing about the quality of his warabi mochi , the
guy trying to entice me into his eel shop with almost
a jazz riff on Irasshyamasen (sah sah sah, irasshyi!
IRA-ra-ra-shyai! SHYAI!), the old laides, bent over
90 degrees from a life of planting rice, still going
about their business, chatting and cackling away to
one another as they push their little carts ever so
slowly through the grocery store aisles.

Whoa, I feel a bit drained. I want to write more, but
I'm afraid if I do I'll never stop.

I hope this helps, or at least helps to complicate
your decison a bit more!
Good luck to you! I envy you your possibilities. And
I truly envy you the possibilitiy of spending next
year in my Osaka.

"In my country we call that child abuse", senior citizens with sticks, and I eat my words (deliciously) on Japanese curry: Osaka 4 (Spring 2005)

2006-04-15T21:49:00.000-04:00

This is a letter I wrote to my sister near the end of my time in Japan. It's kind of boring, but it talks about my job, for those interested in what it's like teaching in a Japanese elementary school.

Well, let me tell you about my day, if you want a rough idea of what my life is like here. Today I woke up on my futon on the floor, turned on my portable heater, made myself a fruit salad and checked the weather online, then biked about 30 minutes to my elementary school which is in the center of town surrounded by pachinko parlors and love hotels. I love the kids there, I have been with them since the very beginning and they are so freaking cute... they all swarmed me and tried to warm their cold little hands in mine this morning (Japanese kids for some strange reason are not allowed to wear coats, hats, mittens, scarves to school. Oh and they wear tiny little shorts (boys) or skirts (girls). Poor little bastards! Anyway I taught them "Who are you? I am Kyoko. Who is he? He is Yuusuke. Who am I? You are Sarah". For their age level, all that grammar is a LOT to master. These kids are 3rd grade to 6th grade, but I've been working with them once a week for almost 2 years now and they have learned so much! They are way better than my junior high school students. We played "old maid" or babanuki in Japanese, each kid got a playing card and had to approach other students and ask one of those three questions. Then they switched cards. There were 2 old maid cards. Believe it or not, they totally loved it, and I walked around the room and listened to 40 Japanese kids enthusiastically speaking English. Felt like a fairy tale. I wish every day could be Wednesday! I taught two classes in the morning. At lunch I didn't eat school lunch with the teachers at elementary like I usually do (was a bit bummed because it was yummy japanese curry). [Note: in an earlier post I disparage Japanese curry. How young and foolish I was. Japanese curry is the best. My favorite shop, if only for the name, is a chain called "T&A Curry House." Oh Japan and your frequent inadvertent sexual innuendos. If only you knew the joy you bring to my life.] The Junior High I go to on Wednesday afternoons was having exams and some of the teachers invited me out to lunch. It was two teachers that I teach with, and two other randoms who came even though they don't speak any engish. Don't know why, maybe they wanted to see me eat? I also got to talk with a girl at the school who just got accepted to an English intensive high school with the chance to go to the US for college. I was really proud of her, I hope she succeeds. Tried to give her some tips on how to practice English without paying for it and without getting an American boyfriend! Suggested tapes, comic books, TV and movies, etc. After school biking home I visited this wicked used Kimono shop that I found last week. I was just there to make a map for my friends so they could find it too, but I looked inside and found another gorgeous one, for only $7! Its 100% silk, so beautiful. They sell the sashes too (obi) but I didn't find the perfect one, I'm going to keep looking. Now I have four, which is a bit excessive, but I am hoping to give some as gifts. Though definitely keeping this one for myself, I'm so in love with it. There is an international house that hosts a Kimono event every so often where old ladies from the community come in and bring their Kimonos and dress interested foreigners in them. So I'll bring it to that and have them dress me in it. Then I did some more errands (went to the post office and the camera shop) went home briefly, and biked to Starbucks (well one of the many) to meet my friend Peyton for dinner. We take a Taiko drumming class together Weds nights. Taiko is traditional japanese drumming, you use these huge drums and beat them in unison, it sounds and looks really cool. It's definitly the most bad-ass of the traditional Japanese arts. Far from the tea ceremony or calligraphy! The lesson is so much fun it's me and Peyton and all these old grannies who are just taking Taiko for the first time too. Japanese old people are so active I can't imagine that many senior citizens in America taking up drumming at the age of 70!. Some of them are not the most rhythmically gifted people in the universe however... :) After Taiko I left my bike because I have to go back to that area tomorrow anyway to teach some private lessons (one in Spanish, to this bohemian musician type who loves latin music and wants to move to Cuba, that's really fun, and one to a kind of scary right-wing nationalist type guy who I am thinking about dropping as a student, but who's been a real education for me in that part of Japanese society.) Tomorrow the school I go to on Thursdays has tests, so I don't have to go in. So I'll sleep in, and probably read in bed, and i don't know what else. It'll be a lazy day. maybe I'll go out for lunch, go to park and watch the teenage bands who always set up there, or just bike around trying to spot the dog dressed in the weirdest outfit. depends on the weather... and hopefully Ken and I will get something accomplished in planning our trip to Vietnam. So there you have it, a day in the life. :P

India Diary (Spring 2004)

2006-04-15T21:35:00.000-04:00

India. First day. Not quite sure what to write, but I have a lot to think about. India so far isn’t what I expected it to be. I’m living in a L’arche community called Asha Niketan. [Note: L'Arche has established homes for mentally disabled people around the world. Asha Niketan, like all L'Arche communities is a pretty incredible place because there is absolutely no hierarchy. Non- disabled people live here as well, as volunteers, and help make sure everything goes smoothly and deal with logistics. But no member of the community is superior to any other, and all decisions are made by consnsus. Wow.] So no markets, no beggars, no cows, no piles of spices and swatches of bright fabric. No giant religious icons and no rivers. A two story house with tile floors and bright shutters. Morning and evening prayers. Dinner seated on mats, eating with our hands from large metal dishes. Worry over a teenager who ran away from the day care yesterday and hasn’t come home. Lots of time to think. Some things to ponder: a woman in the prayer meeting talking about her relationship with God (think she meant a Christian god, but not sure) said she’s been trying to “make it happen” by meditating, praying, disciplining herself, etc. When she has recently come to realize that the relationship has been gifted to her, it’s not something she can create on her own. I thought this can apply to other things besides religion, like relationships with other people and also experiences. Trying to make things the way we think they should prevents us from experiencing them as they really are. This is something that’s been on my mind a lot lately, especially since Thailand where I felt sickened by the very hedonistic approach to life of many of the backpackers we met, all trying to get as much as possible (mostly drugs, sex, alcohol, but also experiences, accumulating places as if they were souveniers, polishing the names like shiny gold trophies “kao pha nang” “Lao” “Angor Wat”. A very consumerist attitude as if “here I am Thailand, I’ve paid my entry fee, now show me what you’ve got!” The experience of a place and a culture and a people becomes one more product. I was doing it too. We had 20 some days to see and do and eat as much as possible. So we had to decide: do we stay here one more day… or move on to see what some other place has to offer? Where can we get the most enjoyment? How can we get the best return on our investment, the largest piece of the ‘Thai experience’?” Anyway hearing what Katherine said at the meeting made me see that I’d been trying to artificially create a relationship with Thailand, trying to make it conform to my expectations of what it ought to be. I don’t want to do that with India. First of all I need to discard the illusion that I can experience India at all. A huge country with billions of people, hundreds of different cultures, and in two weeks at that! I need to decide – do I want to read the first paragraph or do I want the cliff notes?

Monday 3/22 I had a wonderful day today. Morning went to work at the daycare. It serves a large group of mentally handicapped kids from the surrounding community. Kate prepared me beforehand for some of the things she finds objectionable: rigid structure, lack of warmth from some of the caretakers. Unwilling ness to change or try new activities, even some raise hands and threaten to strike the children. But I found all in all a very nice and welcoming environment. Also they deal with a lot of kids who need a lot of attention. I still did observe the things she spoke of though. I was really glad Elanor was there. She is a community leader in Bangladesh, an older Irish woman, very no-nonsense type who’s been with L’arche for years and years. So she was able to say the things Kates been trying to say for a while, and people had to listen. Like at story hour “lets move these (wheelchair, or in this case just chair bound) kids into the circle so that Everyone’s included”. Said in a cheerful voice, but no mistake, it was an order. Also she encouraged the kids to act like the animals in the story, applauded them enthusiastically, and put a lot of energy into making Kate’s parachute idea a success while some other workers stood around and probably hoped it would fail (less work for them). Elanor was laughing and shouting and directing the kids to shake the parachute, and even got under it with us all when it became a tent. After daycare I took off to wander the streets of Northern Calcutta (the oldest part of town). Started at a Jain temple then walked my away down to a jam-packed street with lots of vendors, metalworks, trams, cars, carts, sweet shops, etc. Just wandered about down many narrow streets, thru markets, by the crumbling remains of statuesque colonial buildings. Waved to by teens, shouted to by children “hello hello!” (reminded me so much of Japan!) generally smiled at by women, sometimes scowled at by ancient wrinkled men. I was reluctant to take out my camera because every time I did I drew a crowd. But I did manage to get some great shots of Calcutta street life. I love how life is lived on the streets in this city. Everyone’s just hanging out, sleeping even, chatting, sitting surrounded by piles of vegetables, drinking tea from little clay cups, pissing, watching the world go by. And I was the afternoon’s entertainment for a few! I felt very capable after choosing a spot basically at random (how to choose one among so many options—maximize maximize maximize!), committing to it, getting myself there, then easily figuring which way to walk to get to my next destination (setting sun, shadows showing west) walking there, taking a long time but enjoying the journey. I didn’t see a single other foreigner after leaving the Jain temple, and I was walking through what I felt like was a little slice of daily life. Every small street I went down people looked up and me in sort of surprise, as if I had parted a curtain and caught them at something. I’m loving the feeling I’m getting that this is a city where people live, where they go about their daily, real, regular lives. Don’t know why this surprises me so much, but somehow it does! Last night I went on an outing to the park with Kate and Muneshwar where I got the same feeling of life, it reminded me of summer evenings at City Park in Iowa. Families with kids, couples strolling, teenagers on dates, etc. Muneshwar was all dressed up – pressed collared shirt, trousers, black shiny shoes. I had a great time.

3/23 Today was much rougher for me at daycare. The same worn out puzzles as yesterday (and I suspect the last few years) that the kids were forced to sit on mats and do first thing. No wonder Rita looks so bored and despondent. Tried really hard to engage her today. Of all the kids who are mobile and conscious, she seems the saddest. She’s autistic, very difficult to communicate with, but seems very much to want attention and to want to please. She always helps with dishes. She’s a very good child, but also very frustrating. Today she kept taking out her braid and hanging me the elastic with a grunt. She wanted me to braid her hair again and again. I would have been happy to do it, but looking closely at her hair I found it was absolutely crawling with life (lice!). Fear and disgust won out of compassion for a while and I found myself snapping “neigh neigh (no! No!) at a mentally impaired twelve year old child who just wanted to be touched and loved. I felt sick with myself, and also felt incompetent and impotent for not being able to handle her. I sort of made up for it later by swallowing my fear and picking her up and tearing around the yard with her squealing and laughing in my arms. That was great. But any time I paid attention to any other child she would retreat back into her shell or lash out at the other kids. I was pushing her on the swing, feeling good because I was making her laugh. I felt so good about myself I didn’t notice Bappi was standing right in front of me grabbing his crotch, desperate to go to the bathroom, and he’d been trying his best to communicate it to me for probably at least 15 minutes. By the time I caught on and got a male assistant to take him, it was too late. He bit me later, and I fully deserved it. So my fantasy of making a difference got a bucketful of cold water dumped on it. What can I expect when I show up for one week, play some games, tickle some kids, and thing I’m going to transform lives? Also frustrating: Akash shat himself and Kate got sprayed with water from the toilet brush all over her face when she took Rhea to the bathroom. I felt bad, but was secretly thanking every single one of my lucky stars that it wasn’t me! I was so glad to see the kids off at the end of daycare - and it was only three hours- and sit down to lunch (after an extremely thorough scrubbing of my hands. I am unsure whether the permanent daycare staff (all Indian) are failing the kids in some way or whether they are absolute saints for doing what they do day in and day out. After daycare the day got better. I had a good talk with Kate about how were were feeling, and talk a walk around the Mother Theresa compound (“home for the non-criminal insane” and all .) Also saw the workshop and hung out with the guys there and bought sweets on the way home with Beppi, and did yoga with Elanor before dinner. Then picked up Natalie at the airport in the evening.

3/24 Fantastic day! Did so much and saw so much without ever being stressed or feeling pressure to get it all in. Everything just sort of fell into place. Kate took a day off and she, Nat and I left after breakfast. We bought our train tix for the rest of the trip and got some money exchanged at the bang (the most inefficient, antiquidated, time consuming … grumble grumble). Then went to the Indian muyseum where we saw really cool old Buddhist statues and carvings jand semi disturbing semi comforting natural history exhibits. Then to New Market for some shopping and ate Dosa for the frist time for lunch. Then went to FabIndia, a cool free trade clothing shop where I got two Indian Kurtas (sort of ashirt/dress) so I don’t have to keep wearing Kate’s for the what is it now, sixth day? Then to Kali Temple, which was wicked! I can’t really describe it. Kali is the goddess of chaos and destruction, which sort of gives some idea of the experience. Had to go one at a time so someone could watch the shoes. waiting in a long line pushing and shoving, shoes off, wet slimy floor, herded up to the flower / incense / sweet sellers, supposed to buy some sort of offering? Then the crowd pushes us up to the statue of the god itself, which is in this sort of sunken room, I am stopped at the threshold, but with an offering am allowed to sort of lean over and look in. Make to get out the camera… NO! ok ok, sorry sorry… backing out… but trying to take in everything: the small crowded room, the chain of people snaking around the base of the statue of the god moving rhythmically to some unknown beat, the god itself: no face, no body, just a pair of slanted black eyes on a red background, the shuffling feet, the music and incense in the air, the feeling of being thisclose to the pulsing heart of something . … Then its out again into the late afternoon sunshine, a smear of orange dye on my forehead to meet Natalie and Kate fending off beggars and guarding my shoes. After the temple, we hopped on a bicycle rickshaw and went to the West Bengali film center where, by total dumb luck, we managed to see an outdoor performance of Indian classical music, and get tickets to a Bengali film “Alao- a ray of hope”. We met the mother of one of the lead actresses on the way out of the cinema. Bengali people seem very proud of their distinctive culture and language. Everyone we met at the cinema wanted to talk to us about this topic, the cultural heritage of their region, and their long tradition of art, poetry, and nowadays good cinema (contrasted with Bollywood). They all seemed really happy to see foreigners taking an interest in Bengali film. Then we went to Park Plaza Hotel for a drink, Kate’s first luxury in months, and to watch the end of the India Pakistan cricket match. The hotel bar was very swank, Kate seemed very disoriented having been living at Asha Niketan for so long and not having been to any place remotely like this since coming to India. We felt a little disoriented too – so much genteel wealth and privilege after so much squalor and chaos and vitality. There was restrained applause when the match finished with an Indian victory, while outside the streets were going mad with flags, drums, car horns, impromptu parades, and makeshift floats (20 people in and on top of and barely hanging onto one small car, trailing banners and runners behind). Also child beggars out in full force. Sharp contrast to the small children we met in the bar who said to us in almost perfect English “My mother’s doing a dolphin research project. She’s on TV on the discovery channel”. The same childlike eagerness to engage, extremely different circumstances. We got home through all the madness with the help of a taxi (windows rolled up) and hung out a bit with Sujit and Senjuay and Muneshwar on the second floor landing overlooking the celebration on the street through the window, wincing a bit at firecrackers, and having fun taking silly pictures with my camera. I feel like it was a charmed day. 3/25 Today was much better at daycare, though unfortunately not many kids were there. I spent a lot of time with Charlie, a boy with Cerebral Palsey who is confined to a chair and has very stiff arms and legs. I sang along to nursery rhymes, moved his hands and feet a bit. He tried really hard, lifterd his head multiple times, I applauded, think he was pleased because he was making clucking sounds with his tongue. We were definitely interacting. He apparently understands English and can say a few words thought speaking is difficult. Also a man from the community who’s an artist came and did coloring and painting with the kids. They absolutely loved it! It was such a difference from the puzzles (or coloring in a bunch of squares with us supposedly policing them to make sure they stay within the lines – what they hell!?) After daycare Nat and I had to run some errands, got money, bought a shawl to cover my arms and head, and got photos burned to CD. We got home by 5:30 to join the artist and the core members doing sculpture. Sculpture class was also so cool. Of course I was just dying to get my hands on the clay, but it was surpisingly difficult to keep it at the right consistency. I made a head and a foot. Next to me Muneshwar was in deep concentration making a gorgeous abstract piece that far surpassed all the other clumsy bears, bulls, snakes, pots, etc., mine definitely included. He’s really an amazing artist, and he also paints, mostly faces, and goes to art school (though he complains he should get paid like the members who go to the workshop!) After the art lesson it was time for Rajej’s birthday celebration. I don’t think I can do it justice here. But it was the most amazing thing to see a little boy all dressed in white like a prince, supposed to be seated in a sort of throne made from a chair draped with colorful cloth and surrounded by plants. But he’s so excited he keeps getting up and jumping up and down, commanding the center of the floor! Soon he has everyone dancing. Crazy jerky kinetic motion (Kate and me), older female assistants swiveling their hips and twirling their hands, some core members performing surprisingly skilled Indian dance moves worthy of a Bollywood music video. Everyone gave something to Rajesh, whether a dance, a speech, a song, or even just a handshake and a pat on the back. I don’t think I have ever been in a room so filled with love. Sincere love, friendship compassion, and people simply desiring to make an honest connection with one another. My mouth ached from uncontrollable grinning, and my eyes struggled to hold back tears. To be honest, up to that point I had not fully believed in the inherent dignity and worth of every individual, regardless of mental or physical capabilities. But as I watched the Asha Niketan community celebrate the life of a young man it seemed so crystal clear. Since then that clarity has slipped away a little, especially when I’m walking down the street pestered by dirty boys calling “hello hello madam yes please where are you going now?” But I hope I will be able to bring it back by holding onto the memory of the birthday party. After the party, we were invited to dinner with the missionaries of charity brothers, brother organization to Mother Theresa’s group. It was excellent food (chicken! Oranges!) and interesting to talk with the brothers. I can’t imagine being a nun or (what’s the male equivalent? Monk?) To put you life entirely in someone else’s hands, to be shipped off anywhere in the world and be expected to dedicate yourself to serving others. All that in addition to having to really really believe in an organized religion… Talked to a brother who’d been in Guatemala, he really wanted to go back, he spent years there, learned Spanish, learned the culture, and now he found himself sort of stranded in India, forced to start all over again. After dinner things got a little bit carried away with my digital camera. It’s a bit of a liability because the core members all want to play with it. I don’t mind, but then it starts to be all about the camera, and all about me because I can control it in and decide who to give it to. Me and the camera are the center of attention, and that’s not what I’m here for. Also it’s obvious to the assistants, if not to the core members, that it’s a very expensive camera (though it’s the cheapest model in Japan), which they keep commenting on. I think the head of Asha Niketan was upset with me for letting things get out of hand since Rham Babu has a history of becoming violent when something he wants is taken away from him. I feel really bad because that’s the last thing I wanted. I wish I had handled the situation better.

3/26 Last day in Calcutta. Daycare today was lots of kids! I felt very sad to be leaving because I’ve really grown attached to them this past week. I think I’ve made connections with a few, though they’ve probably meant a lot more to me than I did to them. Rita hugged me a bunch of times today. Also Tanvir and I had a lot of fun. I made sure he got to participate in the parachute. Kate’s parachute idea went really well, everyone was laughing and having squealing with excitement. I had to hold Tanvir the whole time, sort of supporting his weight with my thighs and knees, so he was in a semi-upright position. Plus keep one hand on the parachute to keep the handle from being wrenched out of his hand or from hurting him if he was unable to let go because his hands are so rigid. I also sat with Chenook at lunch and helped him eat… after he peed all over himself and I had to pull his pants off and get him cleaned up. I was proud of myself b/c I didn’t actually have to do it, his mom was there, but I didn’t want to treat her like some people here seem to: “you’re responsible for creating this kid, you clean his messes!” Once I’d made up my mind it was actually easy, no problem, even when he wrapped his sticky piss and dirt covered legs around my waist. Just smiled and kept going. After daycare we went to the net café, and before we knew it it was time to leave. When I left the house, Bepppi at first turned his head away, but when Mantu scolded him he smiled, bowed, and kissed my hand! Kate walked us to the taxi stand we said goodbye. I was very sad, if not tearful. I can never seem to muster the right emotional pitch for those intense transitional moments. I should have been bawling, I may not see Kate again for years. But it never fully hits me at the time, and I always feel like I’m faking it just a little bit. I wonder if it’s just me or if other people feel this way too. We took the night train to Varanassi, and had not problems. It was quite comfortable, even the squat toilet was kind of fun, what with the car rocking back and forth and the tracks flashing by below the open hole!

3/27 Varanasy. Had a tough time finding the hostel Vishnu and wasted a lot of time in an autorickshaw that took us halfway to Sarnath instead of to the pier where we wanted to be. Oops! Then once we got almost to the pier we had to transfer to a bike rickshaw, but soon the narrow streets and bovine congestion became too much even for the bike and then had to walk/stagger dragging our bags up and down uneven ghat steps. Vishnu had a room but it was dark and windowless and right by the kitchen. So had breakfast (lemon pancake – yum!) and went to see the Sisters. They fixed us up with a boatride to the hotel Temple on Ganges which had a very nice room with a great view of the river. Then had a long and intense nap! Then we were off the see the temples. We did a grand tour of Hanuman, Durga and Tulsi Manas temples. The sun was just setting, and the air was hot and wet. Huge crowds, music, incense, shoving and shouts and confusing gestures, oh no where are my shoes, oh crap we’re in the men’s line again! Vendors were pushing flowers, sweets, and other offering, masses of people pressed forward, surged towards the alter and other specific holy spots where they exchanged offerings for a handful of water to drink and splash on their head, and a smear of orange colored paint/powder for their foreheads. I sampled a tiny bit of the water – stupid, could have come straight from the Ganges! After three temples, the last one with animatronic figures acting out scenes from the Vedas, we went to dinner at a Lets Go recommended restaurant and got Masala Dosa and Uppadam (Indian Okonomiyaki!). Both yum. Then had dessert at an expensive and highly sketchy bistro (“your beer is coming… just as soon as we smuggle it into town, check the security cameras, and sweep the room for bugs/undercover police) to kill time before the start of a bollywood flick called “Woh". The movie was crap of course, the ticket seller even said so, but that’s what we wanted. We were apprehensive at first that it wasn’t a REAL Bollywood, so were delighted when the lead actor randomly burst into song after about fifteen minutes. Jackpot! We only made it through half of the movie though because we were so so so tired. 3/28 Today at 5:45am we took a boatride on the Ganga. It was fantastic! I took a ton of pictures of beautiful ghats lit bp by the rising sun, solitary fishermen, meditatiors, crowded steps, bathers, washerwomen, kids swimming, old swamis with long beards, the burning ghat where cremations take place. And beautiful old crumbling palaces and homes lining the riverbank. Afterwards we saw the golden temple from the roof of a silk shop (we were turned away a the entrance because we weren’t Hindu) and had a huge and salty lunch at a crowded vegetarian restaurant. This wasn’t a Let’s Go recommends, this was a “This place looks like its popular with the locals”. Then we went to Sarnath - again. But this time on purpose – to seethe spot where Buddha delivered his first sermon. We even saw what was supposedly the very same tree he sat under when he received enlightenment (or at least a tree grown from a sapling taken from the original). We also saw cool ruins of early Buddhist monasteries and temples, pluss a current Jain temple marking the spot of the 11th reincarnation of their god. We also had a funny intercultural experience in a little shop we went into because it had Japanese writing outside. Inside we met an Indian man who’s married to a Japanese woman and runs a shop catering to Japanese tourists and their endless quest for Omiyage (souveniers to bring back as gifts for friends and co-workers. Very important part of Japanese manners). This man had great business savy and definitely understands the Japanese. The shop was spotless, had air conditioning, and possibly the nicest bathroom on the subcontinent. He was very kind to us, spoke to us in Japanese and English. He also offered Japanese or Indian tea. The shop sold lots of Buddha figurines and chains made of brown jade. We thought this guy is a genius – of course Japanese people will come to Sarnath (and Chinese and Koreans too) to see this famous Buddhist site, and they will want to buy Buddhist memorablilia. Also they will be very comforted by the shop and the shop owner who knows how to treat them, speaks their language, and uses a no pressure sales technique. For us too it was such a relief from slimy vendors “yes madam yes verygoodprice” we were tempted to buy out the whole store. Good think there was nothing there I actually wanted. We came back later so Nat could buy a painting and the place was full of a busload of Ojisan and Obasan (grandfathers and grandmothers) all carrying thick stacks of American currency. Meanwhile Nat had brought along a wad of Japanese Yen! After Sarnath (and the worst autorickshaw ride ever! We had a nap then a stroll along the ghat to see the ritual offering of lowers and incense to Ganga. Apparently we’ve come near the end of a 9 day cycle of festival, offering, and fasting. Then we had a really nice dinner at the Sisters house. I’ll have to describe them later, because if I get started I’ll never stop! Then we went to bad early because we found ourselves totally exhausted again.

3/29 Last day in Varanai. We were sort of killing time until the 5:20 train. We did Yoga in the morning on the rooftop terrace of our hotel. Beautiful sunrise again over the river, and fresh breeze blowing. One of the sisters came by with letters for Japan and we invited her to have breakfast with us at the rooftop restaurant. I had a nice museli with Curd and bananas – antidote to all the potatoes and white rice and salt! Yogurt also good for the stomach, though I haven’t really had any troubles. Then I got my photos burned to CD which was a huge hassle but a huge relief because I’d run out of room on my camera and had to delete an old picture every time a wanted to take a new one. Then we did a bit of email and some Omiyage buying for our teachers back in Osaka. When I checked my email I got tons of responses to (finally!) sending out my Thailand photos, which was really nice. Then we went to the museum at Benares (another way to write Varanasy) Hindu University but had no luck listening to Sitar music. Then we had lunch at a Western café called Bread of Life. Felt a little guilty, but the Tuna Burger was so good! Then we went to the train station and caught the overnight train for Agra.

3/30 Ok food now seems to have become a dominant theme in my diary! Asha Niketan’s fare was pretty unremarkable: low cost ingredients, potatoes at every meal, tons of rice, chapattis if we were lucky. Meat only once or twice a week. But it was a lot of fun to eat: big silver dishes passed around, sitting in a circle on the floor, eating with our hands. Though the hand eating took some getting used to , especially with the constant fear of contamination, the black dirt caked permanently under my fingernails, never feeling 100% clean no matter how many times I washed my hands with industrial dish soap. It was also pretty unappetizing to observe the rice-massaging, and finger slurping and scraping habits of my dinner companions. Anyway, since Asha Niketan eating has become much more of an adventure. Every meal is a potential case of food poisoning. But there are so many choices! So many unfamiliar names and intriguing combinations. Ordering food is like a little drama in three acts: the decision (often anguished), the waiting (regret, hope, fear), and the climax/denoument (does the food live up to expectations? Any after effects?) Last night on the train we had high hopes for the train dinner. There’s something about sitting down and having food brought to you that is very appealing, especially when I don’t have to make up my mind about what to order. No chance of getting the wrong thing. I guess I enjoy the feeling of being taken care of. Anyway if was a bit of a disappontment: way too much salt in the curries. I slept really well on the train, but we were late in getting into Agra by about 2 hours. We missed sunrise over the Taj, but got a great view of it from the roof of our hostel. There was more food drama at breakfast, but ended up scrapping with delicious banana crepes. Then set out for Agra Fort. It was very cool to just wander through ancient courtyards and along spectacularly carved balconies and ramparts. There was a great view of the river bed, a broad flat dry plain, and the Taj in the distance. I imagined being a soldier or king in ancient times looking out over this same vista and seeing advancing armies, or playing chess in cool evenings on the terrace reclining on silk cushions and watching harem girls dance to dense drumbeats. Then we went across the river to see the “Baby Taj” and to see the Taj itself from the back side. It was a great view and I got a good picture. But I still want to go in! After much debate, we decided to let our autorickshaw driver take us along for a scam. We agreed to look at one marble shop in exchange for delivery to baby taj, taj back view, and main market, all for 70 rupees, waiting included. The marble shop was kind of fun, everything was way out of our price range but we got to see how the make the inlaid jewelry boxes, tables, coaters, etc and also got to observe an interesting sales pitch. It was only about 10 minutes. But then the driver got tricky and tried to take us to another store, and we got testy and said no just the market please. Turns out when we got there that the market is closed on Tuesdays, just a bunch of closed up shops and stalls, which he conveniently forgot to mention beforehand. So we sort of got scammed anyway. Think he intended to use the closed market as leverage to get us to agrree to go with him to other stores. But after much impassioned shouting and hand waving we ended up getting him to take us to our chosen restaurant, Zorba the Buddha and had an excellent lunch including Banana Cinnamon Coffee and absolutely heavenly nan made with yogurt. Let’s Go steered us right again. Surprised to see our driver waiting for us when we left the restaurant, offering to take us to another destination. Thought he’s had enough of us and definitely thought he would have picked up that we’d had enough of him. Then we went back to the hotel after more fighting with Rickshaw wallahs – getting OLD!- and showered before heading off to the Taj. We wanted to look our best for India’s most famous attraction! The Taj was nothing short of fabulous. Everything they say about it is true, and then some. I was walking around the whole time with “I’m at the Taj Mahal...I’m at the Taj Mahal…I’m at the Taj Mahal...” running through my head! It was also surprisingly peaceful and serene.

The entry ends here because the my diary was stolen before I finished typing it up (no not in India, in freaking Japan!) I was riding my bike with my purse in the basket, and two kids pulled up next to me on a scooter and snatched it. I was livid - went chasing after them down the street screaming in Japanese... I'm sure it was a funny sight. They were too fast though, and got away. I lost my camera, a bit of money, my hanko (gasp!) and my diary. But at lesast they didn't take my vegetables. The story of my encounter with the police (who took the whole thing very seriously) will have to go mostly untold. But it involved my mugshot (full body: front, side, and back), description of my "mini skirt", photos of me at the scene of the crime and numerous versions of a statement that they kept trying to get me to sign even though parts of it were completely false and practically called for life in prison for those poor stupid kids (who did eventually get caught, but did I get my stuff back?...noooo!). I said I wouldn't sign it until they took out all the stuff about the poor foreigner whose impression of Japan was ruined, and how I implored the court that they be punished severely. I didn't want contribute to ruining their lives. They probably ended up screwed anyway, they'd been doing this to a lot of other people. One conviciton in Japan, even as a youth, is all it takes to ruin your future prospects. I never did find out what happened to them though.

Showdown in North Korea, silkworms taste nothing like silk, bloody fangs and mickey ears: Osaka 3 (November 2003)

2006-04-15T21:32:00.000-04:00

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve written. A lot has happened, including a trip to Korea, a soccer tournament, and a crazy Halloween. Starting in order of occurrence:

KOREA
I went to Korea in mid-October with my friend Jan Marie, who’s a Kiwi (that’s a person from New Zealand, or ‘Noo-gee-ran-doh’ as it’s known to our students here). We decided to go very much on the spur-of-moment, we had a three-day weekend, which we extended to five days by taking some of our holiday. The flight was really cheap even though we bought our tickets so late because Korea is only two hours from Japan. We flew into Seoul, which was like a breath of fresh air after Osaka. There were mountains all around, and actual trees in the downtown area. Amazing. In Seoul we spent several days touring the city, visiting some beautiful palaces and also cool markets where they sell everything from spices and jade to fake gucci and leather jackets, alongside preserved snakes in giant jars of wine. I bought a real backpacker backpack for $30, which was filled to the brim by then end of the trip with all the other stuff I bought. At the hundreds of stalls that line the streets we sampled strange foods like compressed fish paste on a stick, candied sweet potatoes, and of course kimchee. Kimchee is like Korean ketchup, it’s everywhere and goes with everything. It’s really sour, salty and spicy, which as far as I could tell are the big three flavors of Korean cooking. By the end of the trip I was calling them the unholy trinity because my stomach had started to pickle from the inside out, but in moderation Korean food is excellent. As part of our culinary adventure, we tried to eat “one of everything” from all the vendors we passed, and this included silkworms, which are boiled in huge vats by the hundreds. I purchased a little paper Dixie cup full of them, and we ate them by spearing them on toothpicks and popping them between our teeth. They explode a little bit in your mouth and taste like kind of like dirt (sort of like gushers candy, only infinitely more disgusting.) To be honest we only got through half of the cup. But I’d still say that it was a good effort.

THE DMZ
But the coolest thing that I did in Korea by far was touring the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) on the border with North Korea. We had to go through a lot of effort to book the tour because there are only two tour agencies authorized to go into the DMZ. There were multiple, painfully-long-and-expensive international phone calls conducted in extremely broken English and Japanese. But it was completely worth it, because at the end we got to cross the border and actually be IN North Korea. (Technically.) (For about 5 minutes.) We crossed the border inside what must be the most heavily guarded empty room on the planet. The guard-posts of the two nations are about 100 yards apart, and the building is located right in the middle and shared by both sides. It’s the same room where they signed the armistice to end the war. Both North and South Korea can have visitors go into the building, but never at the same time. (Because North Korea is a closed society, its people are not allowed any contact with people from outside. There are actually many Korean families that have been split apart, and family members have not been allowed any contact with each other since the country was divided.) On both sides of the borderline, there were guards, all extremely well armed. The most impressive were the sentinels: on the South Korean side there are two at all times. They stand perfectly immobile facing the border line, with exactly half their body behind the side of the building (to provide less of a target) and their arms rigid with hands a few inches away from gun holsters, ready to draw and shoot at any instant. Their North Korean counterparts were similar, though their pose was not quite as dramatic. They have been staring each other down like that for almost 50 years. Inside the armistice room itself there was another guard who was standing like a statue in front of the door leading outside to North Korea. He was wearing black aviator sunglasses, a pith helmet, and big black shiny boots, and he didn’t move an inch or change his facial expression even a tic the whole time we were in there. The soldier was for our own protection they said. I guess some tourists just might be stupid enough to try to dart out the door and grab a handful of North Korean soil or something like that. This would not have been advisable, as these people are definitely NOT messing around: the next stop on the tour was the site of the infamous “tree-trimming incident.” This was the spot where there has once been a tree, located between the two countries and belonging to neither side. Some South Korean soldiers tried to trim it one day, which apparently angered the North Korean soldiers so much that they marched out and hacked the tree trimmers to death with their own axe. The next day the South Koreans put the entire nation’s military on high alert, informed the Americans, the French, etc., and then sent a huge, heavily armed force out into the DMZ to chop down the offending tree. You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried. We finished up the tour with lunch in the mess hall that serves the U.S. military personnel who are stationed on the base. Aside from being obscenely excited by the Shakey’s buffet-style carb-fest (pizza! spaghetti! mashed potatoes! macaroni and cheese!) we also got to talk with several of the American soldiers. The most striking thing about them was their age: mostly they were between 18 and 22. We left the DMZ feeling slightly shaken, like we’d just come back from an alternate reality where the normal logic we take for granted in our daily lives didn’t apply. We were quite relieved to get back to Seoul’s city streets and forget that just a few miles away this life-or-death game was being played out by boys the same age as our little sisters.

All in all, Korea was fantastic, and I would highly recommend anyone who has the chance to go there. The food is great if you don’t overdo it and there are some amazingly beautiful places to see and great cultural things to do (I don’t have time or space to do justice to the show we saw which was sort of a Korean version of “Stomp” except funnier, and with kitchen utensils). The culture also was a lot of fun for us to experience because it could not have been more different from Japanese. People were much more straightforward and down-to-earth, and their fashion also seemed much more in line with what we are used to in the West. We saw very few women in torturously high-heeled hooker boots, and not even a single man was sporting an orange mullet-perm, the preferred fashion statement of the hip young Japanese male. I really could go on and on about Japanese ‘fashion’, but that will have to be a subject for another email!

ALT SOCCER TOURNEY
The soccer tournament I played in the weekend after Korea was also a lot of fun. The first one was organized by some JETs a few years back, and it’s grown so much there are teams of JETs from all over the country, including people who traveled fourteen hours to get there. We only had to travel seven hours, which was plenty. We actually chartered a bus to transport all of us girls. We had high hopes for this tourney: our boys team won the entire thing last year and this year as well, and we were hoping that our girls team would do the same. Osaka has the highest concentration of JETs in the country; there are 58 of us within the city limits alone, and another 140 living in Osaka prefecture, so it’s easier for us to make teams, and get together once a week to practice. Both our A-team and B-team ended up doing pretty well (I played on the B-team, as any of you who have seen me kick a ball could probably have guessed) but we were both knocked out by a team called the ‘Onnabelievables’. (Onna means woman in Japanese.) Our team name, by the way, is ‘Ohhhh-SAKA!’ which sort of sounds like “Oh….Soccer!” when said properly, though it’s still pretty stupid any way you pronounce it :P. Even though we didn’t win, the tourney was a great chance to get out of the city and see some more of Japan. The matches took place in this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere, and we stayed at a beautiful Japanese-style hotel, and played on gorgeous fields completely surrounded by mountains and trees in fall colors. It was also a great chance to meet other JETs from all over and compare experiences (and conclude that we are pretty darn lucky to be living where we are).

HALOWEEN: THE GAIJIN TAKE OVER THE INSTITUTION or EVIL DEAD MICKEY'S REVENGE
Even though I’m still not even into November, Halloween will have to be the last thing I’ll talk about because this email is already way too long. Halloween in Osaka was… well… let’s just say it may well have been the best and bizarrest Halloween ever! Expats here seem to go all-out on certain holidays, no matter how much we try to assimilate to Japanese life the rest of the year. Maybe it’s a way to assert our own culture and rebel against the restrictions placed on us here, even if only for one night. Then we can willingly return to our normal day-to-day Japanese existence (an example of “liminal time”, for all you cultural anthropologists out there). Whatever the reason, the Halloween celebration organized by Osaka’s expat community is all-out madness and anarchy, carried out against one of the most cherished symbols of Japanese organization and efficiency: the railway system! Osaka’s complex network of trains and subways is a very important part of life here, and most people spend up to several hours a day commuting to and from work (not me, I bike everywhere, but that’s another story). On the train there is a very strict code of conduct that as far as I know is not spelled out anywhere, but is nevertheless easily observable, violation of which will earn you furtive yet disapproving glances (a main technique of Japanese social control… surprisingly effective.). Rule number one is: do NOT eat on the train. But can’t I take just a little nibble of this candy ba…NO! Don’t do it! Don’t even think about it! Don’t even LOOK at the candy bar. And for god’s sake don’t eat anything requiring chopsticks…. Oh no, you didn’t… you didn’t try to eat ramen noodles on the… oh god, you did. Rule number two: don’t talk. Don’t talk to the friends you came in with, don’t talk to yourself, and whatever you do, don’t talk to the people sitting standing or wedged next to you. The reasoning behind this rule is actually pretty logical: Japanese social interactions are governed by a lot of rules about politeness and hierarchy. It would be way too difficult to have to try to apply these rules for every new group of people on every train car. Furthermore, Japanese trains are ridiculously crowded, and people would probably rather pretend that they are not in contact with ten other bodies, without being reminded of this fact by having to make conversation. Being on the train is kind of like taking a break from socialization. People mostly just go into auto-pilot: they stare straight ahead with blank expressions on their faces, or they sleep. For a Japanese person this must be a relief, but for a westerner it can be stressful. Because while no one will talk at you, or even look at you directly, you are still being observed. You are interrupting the normal flow of the train routine by your very presence (and you are probably unwittingly committing some horrible social faux pas on top of that). There is a lot of pressure to conform in this situation, but conformity is often impossible because of the very fact that foreigners are bound to stand out, no matter how well we try to behave. Anyway, maybe because this is one of the places where we are made most conscious of our foreignness, on Halloween night, Osaka’s gaijin community completely takes over the city’s most famous train, the JR loop line. This is a train line run by a private rail company that makes a complete circuit of the city every 45 minutes. On the big night we turned up at 8:30 to the Osaka Station JR platform. The platform was already completely packed with revelers dressed in all manner of outrageous costumes. There were the standard fairys, witches, mummies, princesses, etc, and also many Japanese-inspired outfits: ninjas, samurai, power rangers, geisha, and Japanese school-girls, along with some Western-themed costumes: santa claus and elves, beauty and the beast (a Japanese girl and her gaijin boyfriend…) plus some costumes that expressed social commentary, however tastelessly: the child-molesting priest was a big hit. I went as “evil dead Mickey Mouse”. I made the costume all by myself for about $5 with materials purchased at (where else?) the 100-yen store. I had the white gloves, the little red shorts (with big yellow buttons pinned on), black tights, ears cut out of cardboard and taped to a headband, and the crowning glory: giant yellow slippers I was lucky enough to come across the day before, after having almost given up in despair. I also cut fangs out of white plastic, circled my eyes in black powder, and liberally applied blood to my face, mouth, and teeth. I also found a plastic Mexican “day of the dead” skull rattle, to which I glued little mouse ears, and I carried a plastic retractable dagger in my other hand. There was actually some logic behind this costume, however strange it may seem. Mickey Mouse is seen as a symbol of America, but he is also completely Japanese. He is the epitome of “genki”: the Japanese term for all that is perky, spunky, cute, and wholesome. Therefore he has been embraced in Japan as much if not more than he was ever loved by America. So why not have a little fun perverting this cherished cultural icon beloved by children and middle-aged single women everywhere? Back to the station platform, where several hundred gaijin, plus quite a few Japanese, waited in anticipation of the arrival of the 9:00 train: there were quite a few harried police officers there as well, who had obviously been advised in advance of the situation, but who seemed to have given up on all but the most basic crowd and damage control. The platform was packed. Peace was not maintained. Orderly lines did not form. People drank freely from beer cans, whiskey flasks, and various other colorful mixtures in 2 liter coke bottles. With the arrival of the train, everyone pushed and shoved their way onto the cars, inside which the chaos only intensified. Flasks were passed, strangers kissed, people were lifted into and out of overhead luggage racks. At every station great masses poured out of the cars, the goal being to get oneself and one’s friends, out, around the platform, and (ideally) back in the train again before the doors closed. My friends and I (about 10 other JET’s as well as three Japanese girls who play on the soccer team) rode the rails for about an hour and a half before retiring to a club, and a very good time was had by all. I usually don’t enjoy being one of large group of people behaving very badly, but I would not have missed this event for the world. It was a truly unique cultural experience! I’m here in Japan mostly to learn about Japanese culture, but it’s really surprised me how much I’ve been able to learn about my own culture here as well. There are some things you that are brought into much higher relief in the context of a foreign society.

Men with fans, the dollar shop of paradise, Colonel Sanders walks the plank: Osaka 2 (September 2003)

2006-04-15T21:30:00.000-04:00

My second letter from Japan, written about a month in.

"How is Sarah doing in Japan?", you ask. Well I'll tell you. I'm sitting in my apartment right now, waiting for a package from my parents to arrive. I am really excited to get this particular package because it contains several items that are difficult or impossible to get here (or get cheaply). My top two most desired items: peanut butter and floss. Do the Japanese not floss? If they do, they are perhaps buying it at a special secret floss store that I don't know about. The weather is finally getting a little cooler, which is a wonderful thing. This has been, without a doubt, the hottest and most humid summer of my entire life. And supposedly it's one of the coolest that Osaka has had in years. Apparently Japan is subject to extremes in temperature, something to do with the ocean currents. I think I mentioned this already, but all japanese people carry two things with them at all times: a towel and a fan. Even the men (especially the men!) can be seen fanning themselves vigorously on every corner and in every office building. This is accompanied by repeating "Atsui desu, nee?" (hot, isn't it?) at every opportunity. Well, at least this is one expression in Japanese I'm not likely to forget. But I guess I'm not one to talk since I go around with a water bottle practically attached to my left hand, and the Japanese expressions I use just about 95% of the time are "excuse me", "good morning", "I'm sorry", "good afternoon", "I'm very sorry" and "how much does this cost?"

I HAVE FOUND HEAVEN ON EARTH, AND IT'S A JAPANESE DOLLAR STORE
After much shopping, I finally have my apartment looking really nice. If I had to list my favorite things about Japan (which I'm not ready to do yet, but I'm sure I'll subject you to it at a later date) the "Hyaku-en" or "100 yen shops" would be near the top of the list. At these stores you can buy practically EVERYTHING for just 100 yen, which is about 80 cents. And it's not all cheap crap either. I've bought: nice dishes, olive oil, frozen vegetables, frying pans, bamboo placemats, a bike light, socks, tank tops, cute little purses, really nice floor mats, all manner of little boxes and baskets, plants, picture frames with glass, photo albums, a bulletin board, scisors, tape, nails, Q-tips, dish soap, towels, washcloths, a cutting board, paper towels, spices, pancake mix, a clock, a banana stand... and this is just what I can see from where I'm sitting. I have been pretty good about money so far, I haven't burned through my paycheck like some of the other JETs. But my o ne indulgence is definitely the Hyaku-en. Half the fun is checking out all the hundreds of differnet shops around the city. Some are chains and have basically the same stuff (but maybe with slight variations!) and they get new stuff all the time! Those who have ever been with me to PriceRight may have some idea of the gleam I get in my eyes...

On the work front: teaching is going really well. I have one junior high school that I am at 3 days a week, so I kind of regard them as my home base. There I am supposedly helping out with the English club once a week, and the other two days I've been invited to come to Judo practice and learn along with the students. It was that or Kendo (stick fighting). I'll start next week. I also participated last monday in the school-wide "swimming day" where all the kids spent the morning at the pool competing in races. I was on the female teachers' relay team. We practiced a few times before hand. The other teachers were very impressed with my ability to dive, to do a flip turn, and to swim a whole two lengths of the pool without stopping. Needless to say, we did not win, but we had a lot of fun. The best part of that day was that afterwards the kids were so much less shy around me, the difference was like night and day. Hopefully they will continue to get more talkative as t hey get to know me better. I've only been to one of my other three schools so far, it's an elementary school that I only have for half a day every week. But I really wish I could be there more, I had such a great day yesterday. Instead of forty kids sitting in rows of desks, there are only 20 kids in a class, and they all sit on floor in a big group. Furthermore, they are much less shy, and besides that they are so cute. I think I relate better to younger kids than older kids, maybe because I really enjoyed being that age (or maybe I never really moved beyond it?) Also it's a lot easier to get along without needing language skills. Silliness is pretty universal.

Speaking of young kids, I had my host family from the homestay over for or dinner about two weeks ago and I got another chance to play with Yuki and Taka. I spent all day getting ready (cleaning the floors, cooking, trying to make the place nice) and I cooked the Moroccan beef with prunes and almonds recipie that Douniel gave me. The food here, while really varied and interesting, does not rely very much on spices. In fact they only have one flavor called "curry" which bears very little resemblance to Indian or Thai dishes of the same name. It's basically a brown gravy with some beef thrown in... not terribly appetizing. So maybe they weren't prepared for the garlic, ginger, paprika, and cumin I served them. They were very polite, but I noticed them excessively patting the sweat from their brows with their hand towels when they thought I wasn't looking.

I wish you could see the view from the top of my apartment building. It's bright lights and flashing neon signs and the lights from cars and trains, all relected in the river that runs one block from my building. I'd also like to show you the view from the bridge that I bike across 3 days a week on my way home from Mikuni Junior High. I cross the river from the northwest, and I see the city in front of me, looking much prettier from far away. Also the setting sun is behind me, so all the bridges and bulidings along the river are glowing pink, and I can see kids playing baseball in the riverside park (one of the only green parts of Osaka), while adults stroll along. Or, as I saw one man doing today, just sit and watch the water with a beer in one hand and a tiny little dog in the other.

........................ Ok now it's four days later. The package arrived right on schedule with floss and everything. I had a really nice 3-day weekend since Monday was a bank holiday. I got up at 6am on Saturday to go stand in line and buy tickets for the world judo championships that were held in Osaka this year. The judo was really cool, we saw some really exciting matches, both mens and womens. There are no punches or kicks, just holds and throws. It's a lot like wrestling. On Sunday I went to a festival on in a neighboring town and saw these giant carved wooden floats weighing tons that big teams of people carried through the city streets. We missed the morning part where they do it at breakneck pace and mow down anyone unlucky enought to get in the way (four people killed last year). But the nighttime parade with the floats lit by lanters was quite nice too, and the hundreds food vendors selling everthing from bean-paste filled sweets to fried octopus balls (that's balls of dough fille d with octopus meat, not the octopus's actual balls, so get your minds out of the gutter.) On Monday I went to a "fiesta Mexicana" which was quite amusing. There were food stalls run by all four Mexican restaurants in Osaka, all staffed by japanese people in "traditional dress" and lots of cheap-quality, probably-made-in-taiwan "handicrafts". But there were also imported musicians and performers from Mexico, including a marimba band Anniela and I spent some time talking to whose members are a bunch of young guys who come here every year to play Osaka and Tokyo. I was reminded of (to reveal embarassing secrets from my past), our middle school bell choir's grand tour of the Reno, Nevada area, where we performed at the Roosevelt Junior High Cafeteria, the Motel 6, and other fine venues.

HANSHIN TIGERS: THE CURSE OF THE COLONEL
On Monday night I went downtown to celebrate because the Hanshin Tigers, Osaka's baseball team, just won the national championships! The last time the Tigers won was in 1985, and crazed fans thronged the streets and tossed into the river anyone who looked anything like the team's players. One player, the star of the team, was an American named Randy Bass. At that time there were far fewer foreigners in Osaka, and the only thing they could find that looked even remotely like Bass was a life-sized statue of Colonel Sanders in front of the nearest KFC. So they tossed the statue in, where it sank like a rock, never to be seen again. Legend had it that until the missing Colonel was found, the Hanshin Tigers would never again win another championship. Divers were even sent to recover the statue and break "the Curse of the Colonel", but they never found him. And for 18 years the curse has held. So this year, when the Tigers finally won again, the whole town went completly nuts . It was definitly a sight to see: Namba was packed with people, there were parts where I couldn't even move of my own accord, I could have picked up my feet and just been carried along by the flow. Actually there were times when I was even a little scared that I would be trampled if I fell, but most of the time I was just trying to take as many pictures as possible. All these Japanese people were acting completely un-japanese. They were all totally drunk (beer was being sold on the street for $1) and most were singing the Tigers' theme song at the top of their lungs. People were climbing up light posts, being held aloft by crowd and leading big groups in cheers, wearing crazy costumes (or no costumes!) and of course there was the aforementioned bridge jumping. This year it all seemed to be pretty voluntary: I didn't see anyone get tossed in. But there was definitely a bit of peer-pressure and probably a whole lot of alcohol involved in the decision. Incidentally heavy chains appeared a few weeks ago securing all the Colonel Sanders statues in the city firmly to their storefronts. But since there are now so many more gaijin wandering the streets of Osaka, they probably weren't needed. I definitely saw some gaijin making the leap, and some of the JET girls mysteriously turned up at our weekly meeting the next day wearing Hanshin jerseys that they said they got "for free" but refused explain why.

Fireworks alcohol and small children, climbing a mountain in clown shoes, mortification and cold tea : Osaka 1 (August 2003)

2006-04-15T21:04:00.000-04:00

I have been been here in Japan for just over two weeks. I have to keep reminding myself of this, because it feels like way longer. I have spent the past two weeks getting semi-oriented: I now know how to get to the Borad of Education, where to go grocery shopping, how to use subway (well sort of, there are about five different subway and train systems in this city including numerous private rail companies that compete wtih the state-run trains. This is sort of a telling illustration of what its like to live in Osaka: you have WAY more options that you could ever need, and this is both a good and a bad thing.) I also already have an apartment, a cell phone (called a keitai), and starting today, I have broadband internet connection at my house. I actually get free calls to the US for the all of August and September as part of a promotion by Yahoo, but since I did not bring my US cellphone with me I don't have many people's phone numbers. So send me your number please. I'll try not to call at 4 in the morning.

HOMESTAY, or I CLIMB A MOUNTAIN IN CLOWN SHOES
I had a great homestay with a Japanese family for two days when I first got here. I lived with a fantastic family who took me to varous historical sites in Osaka, and also took me to Nara, site of famous temples, a giant Buddha statue, and tame-ish deer that bow to you when you feed them. Since only the wife spoke English, I spent most of the time communicating with hand signals and animated facial expressions. As a result, I wasn't really prepared when we got to Nara for climbing the mountain. They told me that we needed good shoes for walking, and since I had only brought rather uncomfortable black leather ones, I borrowed the husband's "sport sandals", basically aqua socks, that were about 5 sizes too big for me. So I tromped around in a skirt and gigantic pink clown feet. We saw some temples, had some ice cream, and then they took me to the base of what looked like a very large green hill. "Here it is, do you want to try?" they said. OK, I'm game. We started climbing. Once we reach what I though was the top, another peak appears. This kept happening. About an hour, and about a gallon of sweat later (did I mention it was 95 degrees?) we reach the top. The boys are running along ahead like rabbits, the husband and I are climbing steadily, and the wife is bringing up the rear and dabbing herself with the hand towel that every japanese person carries with them at all times. Believe me, I am beginning to see how it can come in handy. Anyway, it was a great view when we finally got to the top. Also I found it kind of fitting that I was able to start off my Japan experience in the same way that I started off my Ecuador experience: looking down from the top of a peak that I had not been fully prepared to climb. The two boys in my host family (Takahiro, age 5 and Yukihiro, age 9) were so cute, and once I showed them how I could make my tongue into the shape of a "W" they were my best friends for life. Their parents were also awesome, they treated me to everything, including a great sushi dinner that we made at home, followed by endless glasses of sake and chuhai (japanese vodka made from sweet potatoes). Followed by fireworks in the front yard. Yes! I love this country. (Note: I learned later that Japanese people will ALWAYS try to get you drunk and blow things up. It's in the Constitution.)

I leave tomorrow for "summer English camp." All the ALT's (my job title, not even sure what it stands for: assistant language teacher?) from Osaka are being sent away to help out at the summer camps. [Time out here: I am pretty sure that most of you know that I am in Japan teachin English for the JET program, which is run by the Japanese government and brings over hundreds of english-speakers to Japan each year to help improve the english education in the public schools. But for those of you who didn't know... that's what I am doing. I expect to be here for a year, but I may decide to stay a longer.] Anyway, tomorrow I am going with 6 other ALT's to a camp about three hours from Osaka, it's in the mountains, and the weather is supposed to be beautiful and cool. The ALT's suppsedly get our own villa for the duration of the camp (two days). I'm really looking forward to it. We had the "opening ceremony" today where we had to turn up in suits and stand up and wave during the principal's speech. We also got to help the kids with the puppet plays they are preparing for a contest.

THE MOST MORTIFYING THING THAT HAPPENED TO ME IN TWO YEARS (EVEN WORSE THAN WHEN I ACCIDENTALLY CALLED THE VICE PRINCIPAL AN IDIOT (I MEANT TO CALL HIM A PERVRT)):
This country is really big on ceremonies. When I went for the homestay, we were supposed to arrive at 10:00am to meet our host families. Another ALT and I, Mark, went together taking the "JR Osaka Loop Line" which is run by a private company. The loop line is pretty easy as it just makes a circle of Osaka, unless of course you get on one of the trains that do not do this. Which naturally we did. We were going along fine, when suddly the train took an unexpected spur and deposited us at Universal Studios Osaka. Whoops. So we arrived 40 minutes late. We were really stressed and felt really bad, but we figured, not such a big deal, right? Wrong. Instead of just having us meet up with our host familes at the school, they had planned a whole "homestay program" which included, naturally, an opening ceremony. We arrived to see the two groups, ALTs and host families, sitting and staring at each other in complete silence from two opposing rows of desks. There were two empty desks with our nametages on them. Not good. With us there, the opening ceremony, which lasted all of 10 minutes, was allowed to start. We all stood up, said our names and where we were from, and then we were dismissed to leave with our respective families. Probably one of the worst experiences of my life... I wanted to curl up and die right there in my socks.

But, like I said, despite the rocky start, the homestay was great. I was one of only 8 people who signed up to do it, and I'm so glad I did. I am hoping to keep in touch with this family, I invited them for dinner next weekend where I will cook American food. Not sure yet what to make, but I'm thinking pasta with chicken. I wish I could make cookies, but it may be hard with our gas stove (no oven! I am really sad about that, I guess I won't be baking any bread this year.) Apart from the lack of an oven, I am really excited about my apartment. This is my first-ever real apartment, and I couldn't really think of a better place to have it. It's sort of like an efficiency, but there is a sliding door between the living/sleeping room and the kitchen. The kitchen is huge and also functions as a study room, I have my computer set up in here at the table. I also have a little entry way (very Japanese) where you remove your shoes and put on slippers. Also there's a bathroom, a shower room, and a washing machiene. I actually don't have a bed, I sleep on a futon which I keep in a special closet. It's really comfortable actually. I also have a couch I bought that I am really proud of, it converts into a bed as well, but its not as comfy as the floor. I have a little balconly, which doesn't have much of a view (people on higher floors have a spectacular view of the city and the river, but I can see it just by taking the elevator up to the top). It is still really nice to have a balcony and to get some fresh air. The front door opens on the outside too, so I get a good cross-breeze. I have both doors open now, and both fans going, and it's still hot as hell, but I am resisting turning on the AC because I'm trying to keep power costs down and also save the environment. I went a little decorating-crazy, and also am cleaning like a fiend, so I've got the place looking pretty nice. I spent an entire day scrubbing the walls (but they look so nice and white now!). I still have a lot of work to do, but I am really happy here so far. As to the other people I work with, there are seven other JETs living in my apartment complex. There are about 10 others living at a place about 15 minutes down the road by bike, and there are two other apartment complexes spread out around the city. All told there are 28 Osaka-Shi (Osaka City) JETs, and a bunch more in Osaka-fu, who naturally are called the "foos", and who live in the surrounding areas (sort of like the relationship between Menlo Park and San Francisco). Everyone is pretty much in agreement that the Osaka-shi JETs are some of the luckiest in the country. We live right in the city, we have our rent and travel subsidized so we don't actually pay more to live here than other people pay to live where they are. We also get great ammounts of leave time, and since we are employed by the Board of Education and not a particular school, we move around a lot to varous elementary, junior highs, and high schools. So we have lots of variety and are not stuck with one school and one class. Classes start in another two weeks, so I don't really know what my job is like yet. I'll have to keep you updated when I actually start. Well, I can't think of anything else to write right now. I guess I could describe the food (really really good! And cheap! I swear!) or the nightlife, but I'll save that for another time. Oh, I'll try to send a picture of my apartment as well in a separate email, I can take great picutres from my cell phone (and video..... and it only cost me $40). But I can only send the more low-resolution pictures because the files are so big. Still I'll give it a shot, though the operating manual reads like a Faulkner novel translated into Japanese, run over by a train, set on fire, and then translated back into English by a native speaker of Swahili.

2006-04-15T20:44:00.000-04:00

First Post: I'm procrastinating from studying administrative law to start this blog. Don't most blogs start with "I don't usually do something like this but..."? Well, that's true enough, but I think blogging is pretty in tune with my character (exhibitionist yet dorky) so I'll skip the apologies!

I haven't been doing anything terribly interesting for the past year: I've been in law school. Well it's been interesting to me and a select group of people who care about constitutional penumbras, expressio unius, mens rea, and consideration. But I'm about to take off for Uganda for the summer to work for the Refugee Law Project. I imagine that makes the presumption that anyone might actually want to read about my life slightly more justifiable. I'll do my best to keep it entertaining.

I'll post some of my previous travel writings now as well.