A recent conversation about "domestic" iguanas escaping into the trees of Santa Barbara and geckos living on the walls reminded me of a night in Kenya I will never forget: The Night the Termites Came to Town.
It's only fair to directly quote the journal I kept during my year living and teaching in Kenya:
Friday 8th November (1996)
Monday was "Attack of the African Rain Dudu" night--the little-known sequel to Hitchcock's The Birds. During an afternoon conversation, Bharti [my tough Indian landlady] offhandedly joked and said we'd all eat at my house tonight, and I said, "Fine!" (but there's a Murphy's Law in play whenever Bharti, consummate Indian wife and mother, is around: that I will look stupid and do things wrong). I tried making focaccia [Kenya-style], and didn't follow directions [duh]. My spaghetti sauce was blah. I even almost ruined the noodles.
In the midst of preparation for my guests, it began raining hard, and big flying bugs materialized near the kitchen window. Soon, there were multitudes coming through a crack at the side of the window. I wisely thought, I will open it, and let them fly out.
Yikes! So many flying, flapping buggies were in my face and hitting the wall and then crawling around as I shrieked and hit them with a curtain and avoided squishing them underfoot,. I found even more in the living room and hallway, pouring into my porous house. It was an insect invasion like no other I had experienced.
In a flash of inspiration, I figured out they were attracted to light, and I turned on the outside bulb and extinguished all lights inside. I opened the front door, and many flew out.
The ones remaining appeared to lose their wings, crawl around, hump each other, and inexplicably disappear. Their wings, however, were ubiquitous. I joked with my fourth-grade students the next day that I could have stuffed pillows with dudu wings.
"You should have fried them up and eaten them, Miss," a student offered. "They taste like peanut butter."
Which might have been better than the spaghetti I served my guests that night.
That they were "dudus" and tasted like sandwich spread were the only details offered by my students about these winged invaders. [I learned later that these were your garden-variety termites, the ones who build admirable mounds above ground. Here is a similar account of Termite Horror from a San Diego Zoo conservation program specialist].
It's not unusual for me to find an errant dudu wing tucked in an journal or bag I used during my time in Kenya...
Showing posts with label Africa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Africa. Show all posts
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Beer is Nice in Oregon, and So Are the People
I just blogged about preferring to crash at your place, didn't I? Be glad we didn't land on your doorstep the other night, when we derailed from our overnight train (Portland--->Oakland) in Eugene after Big Sis lost her lunch on the seat next to her, and in the aisle, and on her shirt and on my jacket AND in the plastic Amtrak kids' goody bag with the box of crayons remaining inside.
No one on the train even looked horrified. Or made that face of ewwww. I don't care where they were from; I am giving the credit to Oregon. Because besides the guy on the road who flipped off my sister, everyone in Oregon has been remarkably kind. Not disingenuous, sticky-sweet ingratiating, but nice. Like it's normal to be concerned about people and willing to go out of one's way. Even the strung-out looking woman we encountered today near the "Parole/Probations" building who was fighting with her boyfriend thoughtfully shushed him with a "there are little kids!" when she saw us coming.
When it seemed a better solution for everyone concerned that we get off the train in Eugene and hope that the 24-hour waiting period wasn't the same as incubation for next kid's bout of flu, the conductor helped reserve us places on the next night's train, and a helpful man at the depot pointed out that the Hilton was within walking distance. "It might cost you $50, though," he warned me.
If only! At least Big Sis thought the joint was "like the Disney Hotel," (where we've never stayed), and she could have a bath and throw up somewhere with towels and laundry that doesn't belong to any of our friends.
We woke up in Eugene the next morning feeling A-OK and with a day to explore before we re-boarded the train. More Oregonian helpfulness: when the hotel manager saw me plugging my cell charger into every available outlet before determining it didn't work, he promised me a functional one from the hotel's stash of left-behinds. And the bellhop offered us a ride to the train station, only three blocks away, but saving this Mama/Sherpa the agony of three blocks of whining as my daughters dragged their suitcases.
Which reminds me of a story about when I travelled to Morocco and joined a truck camping tour. Our group mates were to meet at the Iqbal Hotel after taking the plane or train to Casablanca. I arrived by air and caught a cab to the hotel. In the hotel bar that evening, members of our tour got acquainted and compared travel stories. Our Canadian friend Matt shared that he had arrived by train and hailed a taxi outside the station. His driver pointed out various Casablanca landmarks en route to our hotel, conveniently located...across the street from the train station.
"Hey...!!" exclaimed Matt to his cabbie, when he looked outside the taxi and noticed both the Iqbal and train station in his line of sight. "You didn't tell me the hotel was across the street!" The driver shrugged and demanded his fare.
Sometimes the ride is worth it (and the story to tell, too).
So glad we didn't drive to Oregon. So glad we waited a day to sleep on the train. So glad to be on this trip with my daughters.
Even if the unexpected costs of this trip make me want to throw up a little.
No one on the train even looked horrified. Or made that face of ewwww. I don't care where they were from; I am giving the credit to Oregon. Because besides the guy on the road who flipped off my sister, everyone in Oregon has been remarkably kind. Not disingenuous, sticky-sweet ingratiating, but nice. Like it's normal to be concerned about people and willing to go out of one's way. Even the strung-out looking woman we encountered today near the "Parole/Probations" building who was fighting with her boyfriend thoughtfully shushed him with a "there are little kids!" when she saw us coming.
When it seemed a better solution for everyone concerned that we get off the train in Eugene and hope that the 24-hour waiting period wasn't the same as incubation for next kid's bout of flu, the conductor helped reserve us places on the next night's train, and a helpful man at the depot pointed out that the Hilton was within walking distance. "It might cost you $50, though," he warned me.
If only! At least Big Sis thought the joint was "like the Disney Hotel," (where we've never stayed), and she could have a bath and throw up somewhere with towels and laundry that doesn't belong to any of our friends.
We woke up in Eugene the next morning feeling A-OK and with a day to explore before we re-boarded the train. More Oregonian helpfulness: when the hotel manager saw me plugging my cell charger into every available outlet before determining it didn't work, he promised me a functional one from the hotel's stash of left-behinds. And the bellhop offered us a ride to the train station, only three blocks away, but saving this Mama/Sherpa the agony of three blocks of whining as my daughters dragged their suitcases.
Which reminds me of a story about when I travelled to Morocco and joined a truck camping tour. Our group mates were to meet at the Iqbal Hotel after taking the plane or train to Casablanca. I arrived by air and caught a cab to the hotel. In the hotel bar that evening, members of our tour got acquainted and compared travel stories. Our Canadian friend Matt shared that he had arrived by train and hailed a taxi outside the station. His driver pointed out various Casablanca landmarks en route to our hotel, conveniently located...across the street from the train station.
"Hey...!!" exclaimed Matt to his cabbie, when he looked outside the taxi and noticed both the Iqbal and train station in his line of sight. "You didn't tell me the hotel was across the street!" The driver shrugged and demanded his fare.
Sometimes the ride is worth it (and the story to tell, too).
So glad we didn't drive to Oregon. So glad we waited a day to sleep on the train. So glad to be on this trip with my daughters.
Even if the unexpected costs of this trip make me want to throw up a little.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The 'Moving to Africa' Strategy
We have a fantasy (or dream--we haven't yet determined which label applies) about moving to Africa for a year sometime before the girls are in high school. You know, get off the grid. Expose them, and us, to another culture's ways and means and sense of community and time. Defy all notions that retirement accounts, bank accounts, mortgages, obligations, careers, loyalty, and inertia stand in the way of such an adventure. Nevertheless, they do. And fear creeps in.
But I was imagining last week that we were relocating to Africa for year or two or three, with a little prompting from hints of a possible opportunity. The mind reels. Then I gained an objective view of what I would think and do if we were leaving in months for a sojourn abroad. And I recognized the value of living in an "Africa imminent" state for a while. I recommend it, even if you are not planning to budge.
First thought: We have too much stuff. Let's sell it all. But seriously; what would we keep? The list proves surprisingly short (and most of the objects to which we're attached are small). For example, a couch is a couch, after all, and replaceable. Save a few antique dressers, most of our furniture merely functions versus delights. Some of it is questionably functional, actually (see "glue gun"). And the rest of our tchotchkes? I'm asking myself, if I would ditch them for Africa, why am I saving them now?
Also: I considered all the services we'd have to cancel, including bottled water and cooler, organic veggie delivery, museum memberships...tallying them helped me take stock of what's truly appreciated and what may be frivolous or underused. (Note: water cooler and cold fluoridated water is a worthy budget cut, but the CSA box would only be axed under dire circumstances or an actual move across the Atlantic).
Next: If we were readying our house for rental; it's time to fix some stuff. A great way to prioritize tackling deferred maintenance is to consider what someone else living in your home shouldn't have to put up with, namely the hole in the garage roof, the toilet prone to clogging, and the part of the living room wall which I believe may crumble at any moment. Meanwhile, the spendier schemes, like room additions and new kitchens, suddenly seem less relevant and compelling.
And then: Nothing curbs the gimmies like supposing the object of your material desires will have to be packed, sold, or shipped. Next time you shop at Target or Costco, curb your spending by considering how useful or necessary the items in your cart are if you're headed off the continent.
Finally: If family and friends are about to be halfway around the globe and an expensive flight away, time with them is at a premium. Less morbid than to live "like you're dying" is to live like you're embarking on a prolonged walkabout. Linger over dinner; go on long walks and talks; invite folks over; make yourself available.
When someone you know is contemplating a courageous endeavor, nudge them off the grid. Promise to visit them in faraway lands. Remind them that stuff is stuff and people will be here when they return, enriched by experience. Honor the fact that you wouldn't make the leap yourself; live vicariously.
And then head out of town for a spell (like a week, or even a weekend)! What a relief to know that not all adventures require as much advance planning, deep breaths, and sacrifices as a move to Africa. Use the money earned at that garage sale and saved from curtailed spending.
Stay away just long enough to appreciate home again.
But I was imagining last week that we were relocating to Africa for year or two or three, with a little prompting from hints of a possible opportunity. The mind reels. Then I gained an objective view of what I would think and do if we were leaving in months for a sojourn abroad. And I recognized the value of living in an "Africa imminent" state for a while. I recommend it, even if you are not planning to budge.
First thought: We have too much stuff. Let's sell it all. But seriously; what would we keep? The list proves surprisingly short (and most of the objects to which we're attached are small). For example, a couch is a couch, after all, and replaceable. Save a few antique dressers, most of our furniture merely functions versus delights. Some of it is questionably functional, actually (see "glue gun"). And the rest of our tchotchkes? I'm asking myself, if I would ditch them for Africa, why am I saving them now?
Also: I considered all the services we'd have to cancel, including bottled water and cooler, organic veggie delivery, museum memberships...tallying them helped me take stock of what's truly appreciated and what may be frivolous or underused. (Note: water cooler and cold fluoridated water is a worthy budget cut, but the CSA box would only be axed under dire circumstances or an actual move across the Atlantic).
Next: If we were readying our house for rental; it's time to fix some stuff. A great way to prioritize tackling deferred maintenance is to consider what someone else living in your home shouldn't have to put up with, namely the hole in the garage roof, the toilet prone to clogging, and the part of the living room wall which I believe may crumble at any moment. Meanwhile, the spendier schemes, like room additions and new kitchens, suddenly seem less relevant and compelling.
And then: Nothing curbs the gimmies like supposing the object of your material desires will have to be packed, sold, or shipped. Next time you shop at Target or Costco, curb your spending by considering how useful or necessary the items in your cart are if you're headed off the continent.
Finally: If family and friends are about to be halfway around the globe and an expensive flight away, time with them is at a premium. Less morbid than to live "like you're dying" is to live like you're embarking on a prolonged walkabout. Linger over dinner; go on long walks and talks; invite folks over; make yourself available.
When someone you know is contemplating a courageous endeavor, nudge them off the grid. Promise to visit them in faraway lands. Remind them that stuff is stuff and people will be here when they return, enriched by experience. Honor the fact that you wouldn't make the leap yourself; live vicariously.
And then head out of town for a spell (like a week, or even a weekend)! What a relief to know that not all adventures require as much advance planning, deep breaths, and sacrifices as a move to Africa. Use the money earned at that garage sale and saved from curtailed spending.
Stay away just long enough to appreciate home again.
Monday, March 28, 2011
In Which I Capsize in a Lake Full of Hippos, and Run with the Wildebeests
A few weeks ago a good friend of mine posted on Facebook that she was surprised to learn that hippos were dangerous. I won't tell you where she learned this, but it was The Bachelor not the Nature Channel. I commented that hadn't I told her about the time I was afraid for my life having capsized a sailboat in a lake full of hippos? Actually, the hippo part was not the most frightening aspect of my misadventure, which involved Brian, a friend visiting from London. But anyway. No, I hadn't told my friend that story, nor the other friends commenting on The Bachelor hippos, and I've been meaning to tell this tale of adventure from my time in Africa, so here is a transcribed entry from my Kenya journal, June 1997:
...we arrived at Lake Naivasha around 4:00 and set up tents near the surprisingly nice Naivasha Yacht Club "lodge" on a grassy knoll overlooking the notch of the lake where the yachties sail their Lasers. Suzanne and I went on a short run near some water buck down by the road. Later, we had a pizza appetizer by the fire, a spaghetti dinner, and an early to bed, as we were all exhausted.
We got up early the next morning to scrub my friends' neglected Laser 2. We shoddily rigged it and Randy and I went for a virgin sail. I sat ashore while he sailed with Suzanne; then he came in and "handed me the helm" to take Brian out, which I did, skeptically, as my most recent sailing experience was years prior--a season on my college sailing team, as crew, never skipper. Jokes were made about Brian losing his money (which--foreshadowing alert--was in his wallet in his pocket, but also LUCKILY attached to his belt).
We had a nice sail, but I was a bit nervous and too harried to effectively tell Brian how to assist. I became REALLY nervous when I realized a boat race was starting and we were poised to be in the middle of it. In a moment of gusty wind near the shore, too much attention to the helm and not to the sail, or vice versa, I capsized the boat. I saw it coming, failed to warn my friend, and sort of stepped out onto the sail and then into the water. Without a life jacket.
I think I started laughing then. Poor Brian. He had a hat, sunglasses, Tevas, and poor swimming skills to contend with, along with the shock of being dumped into the water.
The boat turtled soon thereafter. I was momentarily clueless about what to do, and then a passenger in the first boat which passed us reminded me to stand on the centerboard to right it. I stood on the edge of the boat and pulled on that centerboard with all my strength. Brian helped. The boat finally came over, and then came all the way over again, in a scary tumble of sail and mast and finally boat coming right at us. I believe this sequence of events happened twice, as Brian struggled to keep his sandals on. But the thought of hippos below us, nipping at our heels, encouraged our efforts to get ourselves back on the boat.
The following time I attempted to right the boat, I relaxed myself, and realized I was trembling all over from fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion, and that I had swallowed a whole lot of (hippo pee) lake water. I also realized how capable people drown in these circumstances, and why people wear life jackets. Pulling that centerboard had done a number on my arms and quadriceps. Finally, a passing sailor asked if we wanted the rescue boat and Brian and I, lacking any remaining pride, adamantly affirmed we did.
The rescue boat appeared with Suzanne and Randy in it, as well as Brian's and my cameras. They circled us like shark photographers, and we couldn't help laughing as we begged for assistance. With proper coaching, Brian and I successfully righted the boat. By that time I was not only tired, but feeling embarrassed and sorry that I had overturned my friends' vessel. I knew I did not want to sail it to the dock. Randy took over and I joined the rescue boat and "recovered."
Back on shore, I ate the remaining cold spaghetti and took a hot shower. We made a short trip to town to Elementaita Weavers, where I bought a handwoven blanket and pillow, and returned to the Yacht Club veranda with apples and our books for a lazy afternoon.
Just after I had stretched and expressed the desire to Go Take a Nap, an interesting young man I had met earlier--Mark, a Peace Corps volunteer--came up and asked, "You can sail, right?" I looked sidelong at Suzanne and laughed. I thought he was joking.
"My crew is leaving before the next race. Do you want to sail with me?"
I told him he might really regret his choice (although I was vindicated by seven other sailors who capsized that morning), but Mark seemed determined.
I was put in a harness, a new experience for me, and we practiced flying the spinnaker once; the next thing I knew we were racing. I will admit that I had no idea where we were on the lake or the race course the entire time we sailed. I was simply concentrating on doing the right thing at the right moment. And hiking out, along with tacking and trimming the jib, required more strength, grace, and agility than I appeared to have remaining.
Nevertheless, Mark was great to sail with, and an odd skipper: he didn't give orders, nor get frantic and shout, and was just as interested in talking to me as he was in sailing. I was enjoying myself. Then we capsized. But before I could panic or become hippo fare, we were back in the boat.
Next, "we" somehow screwed up the spinnaker, and as I was attempting to fetch it out of the water, I fell out of the boat so that I was dangling backside down by the rubber band attached to my harness, laughing and yelling, "I'm gone...I'm out...I'm Not In The Boat!" To which my calm skipper replied, "Yet strangely still with us," as I was dragged alongside the racing boat. He made a deft turn which boomeranged me back aboard, and Mark admitted to me it was the first time he'd lost his crew without capsizing.
Being outside the boat over the water in a harness (the right way), virtually flying, was exhilarating and probably the best of any sailing experience I'd had. When I thought my thighs could take no more, the races were over.
Just in time for confirmation that the crowd on shore had witnessed my sidecar excursion, and for a promised run with Suzanne. We headed over to Crescent Island, taking off our running shoes to wade across the gully. We ran down the airstrip with an amazing view of Mount Longonot. It was not long before we saw herds of zebra, water buck, Thompson's gazelles and finally, wildebeest, in the fields ahead. We had to negotiate where to run without unwittingly causing a stampede.
The run was spectacular: fever trees along the lake, a gorgeous sunset, zillions of pelicans set to flight by our thoughtless feet, and plovers dive-bombing us as we headed out, perceived threats to their nests. We ran for over an hour, I on the fumes of adrenaline from earlier adventures, and returned to camp for lentils and drinks with Randy, Brian, and Mark.
I slept soundly that night with bruised legs, beers in my belly, and a deep sense of self satisfaction and relief that it wouldn't be death by drowning, or by hippo, today in Kenya.
...we arrived at Lake Naivasha around 4:00 and set up tents near the surprisingly nice Naivasha Yacht Club "lodge" on a grassy knoll overlooking the notch of the lake where the yachties sail their Lasers. Suzanne and I went on a short run near some water buck down by the road. Later, we had a pizza appetizer by the fire, a spaghetti dinner, and an early to bed, as we were all exhausted.
We got up early the next morning to scrub my friends' neglected Laser 2. We shoddily rigged it and Randy and I went for a virgin sail. I sat ashore while he sailed with Suzanne; then he came in and "handed me the helm" to take Brian out, which I did, skeptically, as my most recent sailing experience was years prior--a season on my college sailing team, as crew, never skipper. Jokes were made about Brian losing his money (which--foreshadowing alert--was in his wallet in his pocket, but also LUCKILY attached to his belt).
We had a nice sail, but I was a bit nervous and too harried to effectively tell Brian how to assist. I became REALLY nervous when I realized a boat race was starting and we were poised to be in the middle of it. In a moment of gusty wind near the shore, too much attention to the helm and not to the sail, or vice versa, I capsized the boat. I saw it coming, failed to warn my friend, and sort of stepped out onto the sail and then into the water. Without a life jacket.
I think I started laughing then. Poor Brian. He had a hat, sunglasses, Tevas, and poor swimming skills to contend with, along with the shock of being dumped into the water.
The boat turtled soon thereafter. I was momentarily clueless about what to do, and then a passenger in the first boat which passed us reminded me to stand on the centerboard to right it. I stood on the edge of the boat and pulled on that centerboard with all my strength. Brian helped. The boat finally came over, and then came all the way over again, in a scary tumble of sail and mast and finally boat coming right at us. I believe this sequence of events happened twice, as Brian struggled to keep his sandals on. But the thought of hippos below us, nipping at our heels, encouraged our efforts to get ourselves back on the boat.
The following time I attempted to right the boat, I relaxed myself, and realized I was trembling all over from fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion, and that I had swallowed a whole lot of (hippo pee) lake water. I also realized how capable people drown in these circumstances, and why people wear life jackets. Pulling that centerboard had done a number on my arms and quadriceps. Finally, a passing sailor asked if we wanted the rescue boat and Brian and I, lacking any remaining pride, adamantly affirmed we did.
The rescue boat appeared with Suzanne and Randy in it, as well as Brian's and my cameras. They circled us like shark photographers, and we couldn't help laughing as we begged for assistance. With proper coaching, Brian and I successfully righted the boat. By that time I was not only tired, but feeling embarrassed and sorry that I had overturned my friends' vessel. I knew I did not want to sail it to the dock. Randy took over and I joined the rescue boat and "recovered."
Back on shore, I ate the remaining cold spaghetti and took a hot shower. We made a short trip to town to Elementaita Weavers, where I bought a handwoven blanket and pillow, and returned to the Yacht Club veranda with apples and our books for a lazy afternoon.
Just after I had stretched and expressed the desire to Go Take a Nap, an interesting young man I had met earlier--Mark, a Peace Corps volunteer--came up and asked, "You can sail, right?" I looked sidelong at Suzanne and laughed. I thought he was joking.
"My crew is leaving before the next race. Do you want to sail with me?"
I told him he might really regret his choice (although I was vindicated by seven other sailors who capsized that morning), but Mark seemed determined.
I was put in a harness, a new experience for me, and we practiced flying the spinnaker once; the next thing I knew we were racing. I will admit that I had no idea where we were on the lake or the race course the entire time we sailed. I was simply concentrating on doing the right thing at the right moment. And hiking out, along with tacking and trimming the jib, required more strength, grace, and agility than I appeared to have remaining.
Nevertheless, Mark was great to sail with, and an odd skipper: he didn't give orders, nor get frantic and shout, and was just as interested in talking to me as he was in sailing. I was enjoying myself. Then we capsized. But before I could panic or become hippo fare, we were back in the boat.
Next, "we" somehow screwed up the spinnaker, and as I was attempting to fetch it out of the water, I fell out of the boat so that I was dangling backside down by the rubber band attached to my harness, laughing and yelling, "I'm gone...I'm out...I'm Not In The Boat!" To which my calm skipper replied, "Yet strangely still with us," as I was dragged alongside the racing boat. He made a deft turn which boomeranged me back aboard, and Mark admitted to me it was the first time he'd lost his crew without capsizing.
Being outside the boat over the water in a harness (the right way), virtually flying, was exhilarating and probably the best of any sailing experience I'd had. When I thought my thighs could take no more, the races were over.
Just in time for confirmation that the crowd on shore had witnessed my sidecar excursion, and for a promised run with Suzanne. We headed over to Crescent Island, taking off our running shoes to wade across the gully. We ran down the airstrip with an amazing view of Mount Longonot. It was not long before we saw herds of zebra, water buck, Thompson's gazelles and finally, wildebeest, in the fields ahead. We had to negotiate where to run without unwittingly causing a stampede.
The run was spectacular: fever trees along the lake, a gorgeous sunset, zillions of pelicans set to flight by our thoughtless feet, and plovers dive-bombing us as we headed out, perceived threats to their nests. We ran for over an hour, I on the fumes of adrenaline from earlier adventures, and returned to camp for lentils and drinks with Randy, Brian, and Mark.
I slept soundly that night with bruised legs, beers in my belly, and a deep sense of self satisfaction and relief that it wouldn't be death by drowning, or by hippo, today in Kenya.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Heart of a Soldier
In my 12th grade English class, our AP Literature teacher taught a unit on Conrad's Heart of Darkness and the film Apocalypse Now. There are a number of lessons in high school which stuck with me--which struck me--but I distinctly recall my scalp prickling as my brain opened wide with that awesome ohmygoodnessIneverthoughtaboutitthatwaybefore epiphany as I watched Kurtz from Apocalypse Now demonstrate the contradictions inherent in being a good soldier.
When I taught AP Literature years later (and alongside my former teacher), I included that unit in my syllabus. My last year teaching English before becoming vice principal five years ago, I had a 6th-period 12th grade English class that was nearly all boys (except for two girls). Teaching seniors in the last period of the day was challenge enough; keeping these boys engaged through graduation was my ultimate aim. We read The Stranger before tackling Conrad and Coppola; when the movie Jarhead was released that year and the film's main Marine ("Swofford," played by Jake Gyllenhaal) carried a copy of Camus's existential novel, I gave them extra credit for explaining why that was apt.
Three years later I received an email from one of my students:
Heart of Darkness is not an easy novella to read, despite its relative brevity. The descriptions are thick and rich, and grow even more so as Marlow delves deeper into the Congo. Conrad was vilified for writing this racist work, for depicting colonized Africans as dehumanized "shapes." I viewed his novella as if it were a photograph, taken through the lens of the colonizer. The nature of the colonist's mission, of his role--subjugating others--requires that he views natives as lesser beings. Conrad's portrayal mocks the assumptions and vanities of Europeans as they set out to exploit the resources and peoples of "exotic" lands.
Coppola ingeniously connects the Vietnam War with the colonization of Africa and its inherent evils in Apocalypse Now, suggesting there is a "heart of darkness" at work in each episode in our history. Both Conrad and Coppola shrewdly recognize that the intriguing conflict here transcends the killing or the abuse required of colonization and war. The conflict they exploit is the one which arises from attempting to reconcile these "necessary" aspects of the institutions with attempts at civility and maintenance of "normal" life. Conrad ridicules the Company's accountant, who appears superficially preoccupied with immaculate and elegant dress. An unforgettable scene from Apocalypse Now is of troops surfing waves amidst defensive napalm blasts. The viewers are meant to question the appropriateness of each. Our discomfort lies between our desire for those following the directions of higher-ups to get their due, and the discordant setting. Why shouldn't the Accountant wear what he would back home? Why shouldn't the soldiers surf? Every working stiff deserves a break. And yet, in the background are naked folks, dying people.
My "aha" moment was this, an important reality check for a high-school senior who once spent hours punching studs into her sweatshirt in a peace-sign design and puff-painting the quote, "What if they held a war and no one came?" on the sleeve: All is not fair in love and war.
We're asking a lot of our service people.
We're expecting them to be prepared to kill, but not to massacre, or torture.
We're expecting them to recognize the "enemy," and distinguish who is not.
We're expecting them to put their lives on the line for their comrades, and for us, appropriately.
We're expecting them to believe in their mission, and represent it faithfully.
Meanwhile, they have time off on deployment, but it's not private, and they're held to higher standards than you and I: they're accountable for over indulgences and infidelities.
Both Conrad's and Coppola's works feature men who struggled with the line--the boundary--between appropriate and absurd, expected and unacceptable.
In the 12th grade I began to understand there were many shades of grey between purple hearts and dishonorable discharges, and that humans occupied that zone.
The heart of a soldier is heavy, I began to understand. What we need from those who serve on our behalves is so big and so unfathomable it inspires art, film, fiction. Most manage it with grace, and a courage and determination to return to us no worse for wear.
As Kate wrote so succinctly today, "I am oblivious." But not so oblivious to know that judging is dangerous. We, who so comfortably flip others off from the comfort of our cars, ought to wonder at what happens when the enemy we so easily vilify from afar is met by our young neighbors, my former students from down the block, overseas.
Hate that we have war; don't hate the soldier.
I am in awe, veterans. I have respect for all you are willing to face, all you have surmounted, and have yet to tackle.
I fear for a generation of vets whose wounds may not be visible. We ought not to ask what these young men and women have done for our country; ask instead what we must do for them. And for their families.
When I taught AP Literature years later (and alongside my former teacher), I included that unit in my syllabus. My last year teaching English before becoming vice principal five years ago, I had a 6th-period 12th grade English class that was nearly all boys (except for two girls). Teaching seniors in the last period of the day was challenge enough; keeping these boys engaged through graduation was my ultimate aim. We read The Stranger before tackling Conrad and Coppola; when the movie Jarhead was released that year and the film's main Marine ("Swofford," played by Jake Gyllenhaal) carried a copy of Camus's existential novel, I gave them extra credit for explaining why that was apt.
Three years later I received an email from one of my students:
As this graduate wrote his email, several of his classmates from 6th period were deployed abroad, and since then, more have enlisted.I really had an epiphany the other day when I was watching the movie FullMetal Jacket, because I realized that the character "Joker" is the epitome ofthe anti-hero that you tried so hard to get me and all the other thick skulled kids in the class to learn. I was in love with this dude's character. He had such an honest and caring way about him but with this kind of rebellious attitude. I remember your lecture returned to me when he sarcastically said to the interviewer "I wanted to see exotic Vietnam... the crown jewel of Southeast Asia. I wanted to meet interesting and stimulating people of an ancient culture... and kill them. I wanted to be the first kid on my block to get a confirmed kill!" I sat there and felt kind of dumb that I am just now grasping the concept of your lecture.
Heart of Darkness is not an easy novella to read, despite its relative brevity. The descriptions are thick and rich, and grow even more so as Marlow delves deeper into the Congo. Conrad was vilified for writing this racist work, for depicting colonized Africans as dehumanized "shapes." I viewed his novella as if it were a photograph, taken through the lens of the colonizer. The nature of the colonist's mission, of his role--subjugating others--requires that he views natives as lesser beings. Conrad's portrayal mocks the assumptions and vanities of Europeans as they set out to exploit the resources and peoples of "exotic" lands.
Coppola ingeniously connects the Vietnam War with the colonization of Africa and its inherent evils in Apocalypse Now, suggesting there is a "heart of darkness" at work in each episode in our history. Both Conrad and Coppola shrewdly recognize that the intriguing conflict here transcends the killing or the abuse required of colonization and war. The conflict they exploit is the one which arises from attempting to reconcile these "necessary" aspects of the institutions with attempts at civility and maintenance of "normal" life. Conrad ridicules the Company's accountant, who appears superficially preoccupied with immaculate and elegant dress. An unforgettable scene from Apocalypse Now is of troops surfing waves amidst defensive napalm blasts. The viewers are meant to question the appropriateness of each. Our discomfort lies between our desire for those following the directions of higher-ups to get their due, and the discordant setting. Why shouldn't the Accountant wear what he would back home? Why shouldn't the soldiers surf? Every working stiff deserves a break. And yet, in the background are naked folks, dying people.
My "aha" moment was this, an important reality check for a high-school senior who once spent hours punching studs into her sweatshirt in a peace-sign design and puff-painting the quote, "What if they held a war and no one came?" on the sleeve: All is not fair in love and war.
We're asking a lot of our service people.
We're expecting them to be prepared to kill, but not to massacre, or torture.
We're expecting them to recognize the "enemy," and distinguish who is not.
We're expecting them to put their lives on the line for their comrades, and for us, appropriately.
We're expecting them to believe in their mission, and represent it faithfully.
Meanwhile, they have time off on deployment, but it's not private, and they're held to higher standards than you and I: they're accountable for over indulgences and infidelities.
Both Conrad's and Coppola's works feature men who struggled with the line--the boundary--between appropriate and absurd, expected and unacceptable.
In the 12th grade I began to understand there were many shades of grey between purple hearts and dishonorable discharges, and that humans occupied that zone.
The heart of a soldier is heavy, I began to understand. What we need from those who serve on our behalves is so big and so unfathomable it inspires art, film, fiction. Most manage it with grace, and a courage and determination to return to us no worse for wear.
As Kate wrote so succinctly today, "I am oblivious." But not so oblivious to know that judging is dangerous. We, who so comfortably flip others off from the comfort of our cars, ought to wonder at what happens when the enemy we so easily vilify from afar is met by our young neighbors, my former students from down the block, overseas.
Hate that we have war; don't hate the soldier.
I am in awe, veterans. I have respect for all you are willing to face, all you have surmounted, and have yet to tackle.
I fear for a generation of vets whose wounds may not be visible. We ought not to ask what these young men and women have done for our country; ask instead what we must do for them. And for their families.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Daily Bread
This morning I drank my coffee and read this lovely account of his typical workday, written by the cousin and son of dear friends of mine. My journey to Africa began when a friend and I studied African history together in college, and it was his family's connections to a Kenyan school which landed me a teaching job there for a year in 1996-97. My friend's cousin--the author of this piece--and his family became my home away from home in Kenya, and I am forever grateful for them.
It seems appropriate to post this link today, on Labor Day, as Eston thoughtfully describes his job, Kenya and its people, and the evolution of work in that country brought on by climate change and political upheaval.
It seems appropriate to post this link today, on Labor Day, as Eston thoughtfully describes his job, Kenya and its people, and the evolution of work in that country brought on by climate change and political upheaval.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Kenya, the Musical
Tonight I saw our high school's production of Urinetown, a musical satire that spotlights the effects of abuse of authority, government corruption, greedy corporations, and even idealism. The plot centers on a town suffering from drought and the Corporation that "saves" it by requiring citizens to give up home toilets and pay to use public restrooms to conserve water (and garner lots and lots of cash for the Evil CEO). Violators are sent to "Urinetown," a euphemism for well...death. And then there's the young man who questions the law...and falls in love in love with the CEO's daughter...
(I loved that one of the actors dedicated his performance to his "loving" dog in the playbill, noting that the pup reminds him "every day that it is in fact, a privilege to pee"--referring to a memorable song in Act I).
It is a witty, smart show; it mocks its own form with a narrator who comments on the conventions of musical theatre, and there are burlesque numbers that parody gospel as well as Jewish folk music. As a vice principal, I understand why this show is particularly appropriate for high school students (despite its potty name): it condems arbitrary rules and celebrates freedom, but deftly warns against blind idealism.
There is familiar and contemporary imagery; the Evil Corporation's name is cleverly arranged in Enron's iconic, infamous tilted "E," and a slideshow projected on the set displays recent headlines and magazine covers emphasizing the play's themes. But despite all that is at first glance American about this play, much reminded me of what's happening in Kenya: masses of people led in one direction and then in another, promised greater freedoms and ownership and disappointed by corrupt leaders, again and again. And like in the play, reacting with violence in an eye-for-eye retaliatory fashion.
Near the end of the show, the rebels oust the Evil CEO, and under the leadership of a starry-eyed ingenue, gain back their right to pee freely. But the narrator is quick to point out that the water shortage will soon return, former rebels will die of thirst, and the big-hearted freedom-for-all leader of the masses will meet a fate not unlike her predecessor. And on and on. There is no happy ending to this show, because Urinetown is really YourOwnTown, where citizens must constantly battle runaway power, greed, and lack of common sense from the people who lead. And those leaders know how to sell a great bill of goods.
In the meantime, people suffer. The image of a little girl Holding It while trying to gather the last pennies required for the opportunity to relieve herself has an absurd and comical bent. But watching policemen erect roadblocks and require locals to pay bribes for passage on roads they paid for in part with taxes, taxes that don't properly pay policemen, while leaders squander money and squirrel it away in offshore accounts makes one realize that the absurdity of paying to urinate for the so-called Public Good and certain Private Gain, set to song, may not be far off...
There's no happy ending to this story. But at least in America, we can afford to laugh along the way.
You can read here about how Kenya's shared-power negotiations are breaking down as the opposition threatens civil obedience, once again, at the peril of the Kenyan people. And how one leader made an unexplained jaunt to Nigeria, while the citizens anxiously await their fates.
(I loved that one of the actors dedicated his performance to his "loving" dog in the playbill, noting that the pup reminds him "every day that it is in fact, a privilege to pee"--referring to a memorable song in Act I).
It is a witty, smart show; it mocks its own form with a narrator who comments on the conventions of musical theatre, and there are burlesque numbers that parody gospel as well as Jewish folk music. As a vice principal, I understand why this show is particularly appropriate for high school students (despite its potty name): it condems arbitrary rules and celebrates freedom, but deftly warns against blind idealism.
There is familiar and contemporary imagery; the Evil Corporation's name is cleverly arranged in Enron's iconic, infamous tilted "E," and a slideshow projected on the set displays recent headlines and magazine covers emphasizing the play's themes. But despite all that is at first glance American about this play, much reminded me of what's happening in Kenya: masses of people led in one direction and then in another, promised greater freedoms and ownership and disappointed by corrupt leaders, again and again. And like in the play, reacting with violence in an eye-for-eye retaliatory fashion.
Near the end of the show, the rebels oust the Evil CEO, and under the leadership of a starry-eyed ingenue, gain back their right to pee freely. But the narrator is quick to point out that the water shortage will soon return, former rebels will die of thirst, and the big-hearted freedom-for-all leader of the masses will meet a fate not unlike her predecessor. And on and on. There is no happy ending to this show, because Urinetown is really YourOwnTown, where citizens must constantly battle runaway power, greed, and lack of common sense from the people who lead. And those leaders know how to sell a great bill of goods.
In the meantime, people suffer. The image of a little girl Holding It while trying to gather the last pennies required for the opportunity to relieve herself has an absurd and comical bent. But watching policemen erect roadblocks and require locals to pay bribes for passage on roads they paid for in part with taxes, taxes that don't properly pay policemen, while leaders squander money and squirrel it away in offshore accounts makes one realize that the absurdity of paying to urinate for the so-called Public Good and certain Private Gain, set to song, may not be far off...
There's no happy ending to this story. But at least in America, we can afford to laugh along the way.
You can read here about how Kenya's shared-power negotiations are breaking down as the opposition threatens civil obedience, once again, at the peril of the Kenyan people. And how one leader made an unexplained jaunt to Nigeria, while the citizens anxiously await their fates.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Xylophone is a Serious Instrument
My buddy and I went to see War/Dance tonight, an Academy-Award nominated documentary about primary-school students from a government-protected refugee camp called Patongo in Northern Uganda. The film follows them preparing for and competing in a national music competition in 2005. These children, from the Acholi tribe, formerly lived in villages besieged by rebel forces; one teenager featured in the film has lost both parents and another was forced to kill fellow villagers to save his own life. School--in particular, music--is the salvation for the resilient children whose stories are shared in the documentary. They make their own instruments, lugging about unwieldy xylophones and harps fashioned of twine and displaying an infectious hopefulness that makes me want to make the movie required viewing for all our high school students.
There is something wonderful about being reminded that there are still children who, though they've witnessed horrors beyond our comprehension, are fascinated by traffic, tall buildings, and electricity. I was just talking to the mother of one of our graduates who flew cross-country back to college without his cell-phone charger. He was apparently panicked at the thought of being in a Communication Black Hole for the short period of time before he procured a new or fed-exed charger. Somehow, my friends and I in college managed to find each other on campus without email and text messaging. I think we wrote notes to each other on dry-erase boards mounted on our dorm-room doors. The people in Patongo are barely in touch with the rest of their own country.
Please see this movie. The music, dancing, and cinematography are beautiful. And while the reality is sobering, the story is inspiring.
There is something wonderful about being reminded that there are still children who, though they've witnessed horrors beyond our comprehension, are fascinated by traffic, tall buildings, and electricity. I was just talking to the mother of one of our graduates who flew cross-country back to college without his cell-phone charger. He was apparently panicked at the thought of being in a Communication Black Hole for the short period of time before he procured a new or fed-exed charger. Somehow, my friends and I in college managed to find each other on campus without email and text messaging. I think we wrote notes to each other on dry-erase boards mounted on our dorm-room doors. The people in Patongo are barely in touch with the rest of their own country.
Please see this movie. The music, dancing, and cinematography are beautiful. And while the reality is sobering, the story is inspiring.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Oh, Kenya...
I lived in Kenya, in Nyeri near the foot of Mt. Kenya, for a year in 1996-1997. I taught at a private Kenyan primary (and boarding!) school (K-8) and had my first experience teaching younger children (3rd/4th grade, language arts and science). I learned so much that year--so much--about myself, about private schools, about Kenya, about what true "luxury" is (time, media-free time).
So, speaking of media, I am chagrined by the coverage of Kenya's election and the subsequent violence. What's happening there is horrible; don't get me wrong. But there's something about this general sense of the country that I am guessing my fellow Americans are getting...that Kenya is now "off limits," that what used to be one of the most "progressive," tourist-friendly African nations is proving to be as politically unpredictable and violent as one might have imagined.
It makes me very sad, because I think there's so much more story to tell...
Now I need to make some disclaimers, before I state what I know and/or believe to be true. First, I have not been to Kenya in ten (gulp) years (that makes me sad). Second, I am no expert on politics, on Kenya's tribes, and on what is happening now, for sure.
But here's what I want to assert, perhaps in defense of Kenya and its people, and perhaps because I think we Americans just don't get the developing world (I apologize for how patronizing that sounds! But still!):
1. I will always think of Kenya as far safer than America, in general. And I can hardly convince you of the confidence and security and general well-being I felt while living there, especially since most of the news ABOUT Kenya at the time was not so good, and it made my family WORRIED. There were riots and demonstrations then that turned violent. Here's what was kind of civilized about it, though: everyone seemed to know that there would be Trouble in a given place at a given time, warned their friends, and only the People Looking for Trouble showed up for it (or those who are bussed in from the countryside and paid paltry sums to be part of a headcount). I think we all understand that looters are not our friends, and "hooligans" with no jobs needing a way to express general anger about the Current State of Affairs are likely to come out of the woodwork at times like these...
But, what's clearly terribly wrong and sad about what's happening in Kenya right now is that People Not Looking for Trouble are becoming victims. Nevertheless, I am guessing (see disclaimers above!) that despite hysterical news coverage, most Kenyans are safe and sound...and horrified about the state of their country at the moment.
2. Tribalism in Kenya is real, but we're not talking about deep deep rifts, here? I lived in a Kikuyu region (former, and apparently "reelected" president Kibaki is Kikuyu). My best friends there were Kikuyu, but the best man for one Kikuyu friend's wedding was Luo, for example (the tribe of election challenger Raila Odinga). I heard plenty of cliched characterizations of various Kenyan tribes (fairly tongue in cheek), and as plenty of Kenyans are currently pointing out, this is a country of "tribes" who have lived quite peacefully together.
(As an aside, I need to point out that I think the mere mention of "tribe" by our media suggests a lesser civilization of my Kenyan friends, when in truth, I would characterize their tribes as akin to our "New Yorkers," "Southern Californians," "Southerners," "Midwesterners," and to the extent that "tribalism" leaks into "religion" and "politics": "fundamentalists," "hippies," "liberals," "Republicans" and "Democrats.")
3. This election debacle is not unlike the Kerry/Bush election of 2004, where there were plenty of questions about voting fraud and rigging. So, why is Kenya erupting in violence, while we Americans simply watched, flaccidly, as dangling chads were jiggled before us on the national news, and the Supreme Court so calmly ruled on the fate of our next leader?
My answer is that Kenya is a nation only independent since 1963 (versus our more-than-200 years of YoYoMac=You're on Your own, Mac). Imagine the suspicion, the lack of faith in one another on the basis of inexperience alone, the disbelief that democracy can work, when living people among the Kenyan constituency remember colonial rule? Add to that the fact that graft, corruption, and fraud have been all too real among the Very Few elected officials who have led Kenya, and there are more have-nots than haves, and you begin to understand. This is a country struggling to figure it out! And who knows what is True and Right?
Honestly, here in our own democracy-"proven" nation, who knows what is True and Right? I hope we remember that as we watch, and report on, the struggles of our African friends.
So, speaking of media, I am chagrined by the coverage of Kenya's election and the subsequent violence. What's happening there is horrible; don't get me wrong. But there's something about this general sense of the country that I am guessing my fellow Americans are getting...that Kenya is now "off limits," that what used to be one of the most "progressive," tourist-friendly African nations is proving to be as politically unpredictable and violent as one might have imagined.
It makes me very sad, because I think there's so much more story to tell...
Now I need to make some disclaimers, before I state what I know and/or believe to be true. First, I have not been to Kenya in ten (gulp) years (that makes me sad). Second, I am no expert on politics, on Kenya's tribes, and on what is happening now, for sure.
But here's what I want to assert, perhaps in defense of Kenya and its people, and perhaps because I think we Americans just don't get the developing world (I apologize for how patronizing that sounds! But still!):
1. I will always think of Kenya as far safer than America, in general. And I can hardly convince you of the confidence and security and general well-being I felt while living there, especially since most of the news ABOUT Kenya at the time was not so good, and it made my family WORRIED. There were riots and demonstrations then that turned violent. Here's what was kind of civilized about it, though: everyone seemed to know that there would be Trouble in a given place at a given time, warned their friends, and only the People Looking for Trouble showed up for it (or those who are bussed in from the countryside and paid paltry sums to be part of a headcount). I think we all understand that looters are not our friends, and "hooligans" with no jobs needing a way to express general anger about the Current State of Affairs are likely to come out of the woodwork at times like these...
But, what's clearly terribly wrong and sad about what's happening in Kenya right now is that People Not Looking for Trouble are becoming victims. Nevertheless, I am guessing (see disclaimers above!) that despite hysterical news coverage, most Kenyans are safe and sound...and horrified about the state of their country at the moment.
2. Tribalism in Kenya is real, but we're not talking about deep deep rifts, here? I lived in a Kikuyu region (former, and apparently "reelected" president Kibaki is Kikuyu). My best friends there were Kikuyu, but the best man for one Kikuyu friend's wedding was Luo, for example (the tribe of election challenger Raila Odinga). I heard plenty of cliched characterizations of various Kenyan tribes (fairly tongue in cheek), and as plenty of Kenyans are currently pointing out, this is a country of "tribes" who have lived quite peacefully together.
(As an aside, I need to point out that I think the mere mention of "tribe" by our media suggests a lesser civilization of my Kenyan friends, when in truth, I would characterize their tribes as akin to our "New Yorkers," "Southern Californians," "Southerners," "Midwesterners," and to the extent that "tribalism" leaks into "religion" and "politics": "fundamentalists," "hippies," "liberals," "Republicans" and "Democrats.")
3. This election debacle is not unlike the Kerry/Bush election of 2004, where there were plenty of questions about voting fraud and rigging. So, why is Kenya erupting in violence, while we Americans simply watched, flaccidly, as dangling chads were jiggled before us on the national news, and the Supreme Court so calmly ruled on the fate of our next leader?
My answer is that Kenya is a nation only independent since 1963 (versus our more-than-200 years of YoYoMac=You're on Your own, Mac). Imagine the suspicion, the lack of faith in one another on the basis of inexperience alone, the disbelief that democracy can work, when living people among the Kenyan constituency remember colonial rule? Add to that the fact that graft, corruption, and fraud have been all too real among the Very Few elected officials who have led Kenya, and there are more have-nots than haves, and you begin to understand. This is a country struggling to figure it out! And who knows what is True and Right?
Honestly, here in our own democracy-"proven" nation, who knows what is True and Right? I hope we remember that as we watch, and report on, the struggles of our African friends.
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