Way back before I wrote anything down about Africa, I wanted to write a blog about matches. Scintillating, I know. Admittedly, my descriptions below may not entice and compel any readers as my build up will attempt to promise. However, I think matches for me became a symbol of my crazy mixed up life in Africa. So often, everyday at least once a day, I have a completely insane yet minute and ordinary experience that reminds me that I'm a long way from my originally perceived version of home.
Africa is chaotic and communal. It is cacophony and color. It is also careless and catastrophe. Obvious images capture some of it: half naked ladies shaking their rump shakers with defying agility and speed. There's also the broken-down truck on the side of the road crazily, insanely packed to the hilt with human beings, chickens and mattresses making the impossible but commonplace journey from Gulu to Juba...not even a bandanna to keep the crippling dust from seeping into every orifice. Or of course, the perennial flies in the eyes malnourished but adorable babies.
These images really are a part of the story here. And they remain affecting. Just the other day I called my mom distraught from meeting a young boy in Atiak trading post with a massively distended belly filled with worms and neglect. I may be struggling with cynicism at the moment, but this child and the millions of ones just like him remind me quickly to reel it in and remember why I'm here.
These images define my experience, but it's the little indescribable events that I wish I could bring to life for those not here, or even for those who've come and know exactly what I mean.
Krishna matches come in old fashioned boxes brightly colored with an image either of an infant goddess or a strange blond haired, pink skinned cherub called "Baby Boy" on them. Matches: brightly colored boxes with children on them...
They are wax matches and I have no idea if that contributes to the extraordinary range of reactions one receives when striking the box. All I know is that there is a wide yet consistent variety of reactions that has made lighting my stove or candles an event.
Some include:
The Ordinary Light: strike the match, light the stove. Rare. Delightful.
The Shooting Star: As the match is struck, its lit head immediately ejects itself from the rest of the match and projects dramatically in a high arch and with impressive distance across the room.
The Rocket: Hayden pointed out this nuanced version of the shooting star. While the shooting star is elegant in it's descent, you can image that the rocket hurls its head in a straight, heat-seeking trajectory and anyone and anything in its path is singed.
The Kamikaze: Similar to the shooting star and the rocket, except that the whole match, stem and all, lights up in a well, mini explosion that compels one to drop it immediately or die.
The Dud: well, obviously, a match with no reaction at all...many of those
The Decap: one strike and the head of the match pops off, but there is no flame. A more dramatic dud.
Double trouble: two match sticks fused together by 1 head - very good for lighting candles outside as long as one does so quickly. A lot of heat comes from this sucker.
The Faux Dud: You think it's a dud so you stop paying attention to it until you realize that your hand or your table is on fire.
The Slow Burn: similar to the faux dud, except it lights, you use it, blow it out and disregard it only to realize with time that your hand or your table is on fire.
It's scary to think how much time I've taken to think about this and now write about it. But those who've experienced the Krishna match box know. These matches are a symbol or perhaps even a metaphor for life in Africa. They are chaotic, communal, color, cacophony, etc.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Why I'm thankful
In June I hit a wall. Everything about Gulu, Uganda, Africa was seriously irritating me. A lot. A lot A lot. Power outages seemed longer. Corruption seemed more deeply rooted. Internet and phone seemed more delayed. Expats seemed to be doing more harm. The world’s cutest kids seemed more annoying than cute. And I began working for one of the largest bureaucracies in the world. That last one really pushed me to the edge. While the others are largely beyond my control, I chose this box checking job.
Angry outbursts, meditation, holidays (really really nice holidays) didn’t work. I tried to appreciate the money I’m saving. Turns out I’m not motivated by money. “Jessica, you’re so non-profit” as Mary used to say. I was sleeping less and less, suffering from insufferable hayfever and headaches. My cynicism was bordering on racism. I’ve been thinking that I need to leave or Africa might quite literally kill me.
Burn out. It happens everywhere. For expats in Africa, I think burn out particularly plagues energetic and caring people. The big picture begins to seem hopeless. The small picture seems broken. Grasping at straws, expats on the verge of burn out break rules. I’ve found satisfaction in assisting individuals…buying a soccer ball for a cute kid, paying school fees, etc. Who cares about sustainability when you are trying to remember how to feel?! Unfortunately, most people who can stave burn out either do so by leaving or by switching off. The latter is very visible here. There’s lots of useless “20-year plus-ers” floating around this continent. Some are alcoholics. Some are pervs, dating Africans half their age and some are even racist. Many are employing a strategy that I describe with a borrowed phrase: “rope a dope.” In this context it means someone who no longer reacts strongly or even reacts at all to the cacophony of Africa. They dismiss the caring, energetic ones, because they know they’re leaving soon. The ropers take “hits”, like “why don’t you do anything?” or “why don’t you care?” They lean back deep into bureaucratic structures and easily shrug them off. Not quite as glamorous as Mohammed Ali’s victory. Did I mention I was struggling with cynicism?
Gradually I have been breaking down or somehow co-existing with the burn out wall. A steady mantra of self encouragement has helped. Watching my peace and justice projects begin has really helped. Understanding that this wall is part of my life has helped. Getting to the field and seeing for myself that there is less suffering and more hope has helped. Setting a date to leave has helped (aiming for December 2010.)
Most importantly, I’m remembering that the good thing about a 7 year relationship with Gulu is that I have good, local friends. This is a rarity for expats. I was reminded of the deep and meaningful connections I’ve made here this past Saturday when I hosted my 3rd Annual Thanksgiving Day Dinner in Gulu. I cooked for 49 people! Most who came were people I have known for years. I’m verklempt looking at pictures, because I see old friends, new babies, kids who doubled in size from last year and my dog scouring the compound for turkey scraps. I loved battling Samson over music selections. “Under no circumstance,” I told him, “can you play Michael Bolton or Celine Dion. I don’t care if they’re beloved in Africa. And Lil Wayne is not dinner music.” I loved presenting my one billion pack of crayons and markers to the one billion kids that were there. I loved that Hayden broke a sweat baking pies and peeling potatoes.
As thanksgiving does at home, this day truly helped me to pause and reflect gratefully for the friends and families that surround me in Gulu. It has deflected some of my burn out and I’m using the momentum of these warm feelings to appreciate rather than complain. I’ll also use it to stock up on the stuff I need to continue here in Gulu…at least until the 4th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner.
Angry outbursts, meditation, holidays (really really nice holidays) didn’t work. I tried to appreciate the money I’m saving. Turns out I’m not motivated by money. “Jessica, you’re so non-profit” as Mary used to say. I was sleeping less and less, suffering from insufferable hayfever and headaches. My cynicism was bordering on racism. I’ve been thinking that I need to leave or Africa might quite literally kill me.
Burn out. It happens everywhere. For expats in Africa, I think burn out particularly plagues energetic and caring people. The big picture begins to seem hopeless. The small picture seems broken. Grasping at straws, expats on the verge of burn out break rules. I’ve found satisfaction in assisting individuals…buying a soccer ball for a cute kid, paying school fees, etc. Who cares about sustainability when you are trying to remember how to feel?! Unfortunately, most people who can stave burn out either do so by leaving or by switching off. The latter is very visible here. There’s lots of useless “20-year plus-ers” floating around this continent. Some are alcoholics. Some are pervs, dating Africans half their age and some are even racist. Many are employing a strategy that I describe with a borrowed phrase: “rope a dope.” In this context it means someone who no longer reacts strongly or even reacts at all to the cacophony of Africa. They dismiss the caring, energetic ones, because they know they’re leaving soon. The ropers take “hits”, like “why don’t you do anything?” or “why don’t you care?” They lean back deep into bureaucratic structures and easily shrug them off. Not quite as glamorous as Mohammed Ali’s victory. Did I mention I was struggling with cynicism?
Gradually I have been breaking down or somehow co-existing with the burn out wall. A steady mantra of self encouragement has helped. Watching my peace and justice projects begin has really helped. Understanding that this wall is part of my life has helped. Getting to the field and seeing for myself that there is less suffering and more hope has helped. Setting a date to leave has helped (aiming for December 2010.)
Most importantly, I’m remembering that the good thing about a 7 year relationship with Gulu is that I have good, local friends. This is a rarity for expats. I was reminded of the deep and meaningful connections I’ve made here this past Saturday when I hosted my 3rd Annual Thanksgiving Day Dinner in Gulu. I cooked for 49 people! Most who came were people I have known for years. I’m verklempt looking at pictures, because I see old friends, new babies, kids who doubled in size from last year and my dog scouring the compound for turkey scraps. I loved battling Samson over music selections. “Under no circumstance,” I told him, “can you play Michael Bolton or Celine Dion. I don’t care if they’re beloved in Africa. And Lil Wayne is not dinner music.” I loved presenting my one billion pack of crayons and markers to the one billion kids that were there. I loved that Hayden broke a sweat baking pies and peeling potatoes.
As thanksgiving does at home, this day truly helped me to pause and reflect gratefully for the friends and families that surround me in Gulu. It has deflected some of my burn out and I’m using the momentum of these warm feelings to appreciate rather than complain. I’ll also use it to stock up on the stuff I need to continue here in Gulu…at least until the 4th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner.
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