un-United Nations

One of the things I have most come to cherish, living here in Uganda, is my diverse group of friends.

For the first six months I was here, I barely made any friends. This is highly unusual for me as I tend to be fairly outgoing but I had somehow convinced myself that everyone here fell into one of two categories: Married ex-pats who spent their free time in doubles matches on the squash court; or, Twenty-something year old Peace Corps volunteers who I wanted to bathe prior to befriending. The married couples invited me over for lawn tennis, the Peace Corps volunteers passed me a joint and tried to convince me that staying up until 4am at the bar every night was a fantastic idea.

Not feeling any desire to relive my early twenties, nor feeling any particular fondness for lawn tennis, I largely stuck to the two or three Ugandan friends I had made here...which was fine...but I did sometimes find myself desperately missing other Westerners with whom I could share stories and commiserate.

That changed about three months ago upon joining the country club.

Yes, I can barely believe that I joined a country club myself but it is not really a country club in the traditional "white men in smoking jackets need only apply" sense, but it is a place where most of the ex-pats gather on the weekends because it has the best pool and the best gym in town.

It is here that I met my current group of friends and discovered that there are people living in Uganda who, like me, are in their late-twenties to mid-thirties age range, do not feel that getting obliterated at the bar every night is a "good time," and have other interests besides couples lawn tennis and squash matches.

It has been like someone turned on a light in my dark world...

Plus, I like the diversity of my friends; we are a few Americans, a half dozen French, about four Israelis, an Aussie, a Lebanese, an Egyptian, and two Italians.

The diversity of this mix is endlessly amusing as I have come to discover that one of our favorite pastimes is discussing the stereotypes of each of our cultures and fiercely debating who, at the end of the day, might be correct.

Granted, most Americans, myself included, have a hard time at first with this. We are not used to being so blunt about stereotypes and, although we might have them, it is considered totally in bad form to voice them aloud. Especially these days...as Americans are celebrating their new identities as "race-blind" people.

Other cultures, it seems, don't have nearly the same amount of hangups.

"Oh, Guillome hates Jews this week, just so you know," my friend Janice (an American) told me in the car on Sunday as we were heading to the beach to meet up with our other friends.

"Well, that's unfortunate given that his two best friends are Israelis," I said, "How is he coping with that and isn't that a little bit of an unpopular opinion in this day and age?"

"He doesn't consider Gavin and Alma to be Jews," she said.

I gasped and she held up her hand.

"I know, I know...but he insists they are Israelis and that's different," she clarified.

"J, have you explained to him that it is sort of an, um, pre-requisite that one must be Jewish to be Israeli?" I asked, stunned.

"He only hates Jews this week because he found out that I saw my ex-boyfriend, and that he is Jewish, when I was in the U.S. and that upset him. So he hates Jews for now."

"Um, have you mentioned to him that your father is Jewish?" I queried.

She waved her hand, "Yes but he feels the way he feels right now...and you know how he is...French and all...so fucking dramatic."

Later that evening, at dinner at Guillome's place, I walked up to Gavin and said, "Have you heard that you're not Jewish now?"

"Yeah, yeah...I have heard...whatever. Guillome is just being French...they are not real men...they can't just be angry at one individual but have to take on an entire race of people....I am not offended, I think they're all secretly gay anyway," he whispered.

"Oh, speaking of which, how is your boyfriend?" he asked.

I sighed, "Gavin, you know Scott is not gay!"

"Of course he's not, he's in the military! But he is from that gay state, right? He must have been happy to get out of there and over to Iraq, there are no fags in the Middle East, that's for sure."

"Gavin, Iowa is NOT a gay state." I told him.

(He has just never been able to get past the fact that Iowa sanctioned same-sex marriages, for him...it will always be a 'gay state').

"And what is this BS with there being no gays in the Middle East? Who are you now, Ahmedinijad or something? You gonna deny the Holocaust next?" I followed up with.

Mind you, I would never, ever, in a million years say this to an Israeli back home....I would be too timid...but here, for some odd reason, it is "no holds barred."

He laughed, "Look Patti, I can't stand that guy but it is a statistically proven fact that there are almost no gays in the Middle East!"

At this point, Shadiq, our Lebanese friend, jumped in. "THAT is not true, Gavin, stop saying shit like that."

(Mind you, although he has never come out with it overtly, we're all pretty sure Shadiq is gay...he's almost too beautiful to be male, he is the most divine cook ever, he comes with me for my bi-monthly manicures and pedicures, and he lives with Ahmed, the Egyptian, in the same tiny flat....and they share the same tiny bed...I am willing to suspend belief about most things but this one is fairly obvious).

Gavin could not be put off of his opinion. "Hey, you ask Scott the next time you talk to him...I bet there are almost no gays in Iraq...ask him, he'll tell you!"

Now Alma, Gavin's wife, who is normally very quiet, decided to intervene. "Gavin, my brother is gay, you know that. AND he is Israeli AND he is one of your best friends! Stop talking about things you know nothing on!"

Gavin, never to be outdone, declared, "Yeah, but he was Australian before he was Israeli! We know what can happen 'down under'."

I laughed, thinking of my own stereotype of Aussies as "manly men."

"Look, Gavin, I will ask Scott but I have plenty of other friends who served over there tell me about Iraqi 'man-boy love night' and I am pretty certain, in addition to probably being exploitative to young men, most of those acts were likely homosexual in nature."

He just didn't buy it.

A few minutes later, there was a ruckus in the kitchen.

Janice was scolding Guillome for washing the green beans in shampoo.

"What the hell are you doing? Our whole salad is now going to taste like Pantene!!" she yelled.

Guillome threw up his hands in resignation. She had asked him to wash the vegetables, he has not a clue how to cook and certainly no items in his kitchen that would make washing the green beans seem like a simple task...so he did what seemed most logical...he washed them in the sink with shampoo.

"What the fuck? You asked me to wash them, no?" he thundered.

I patted Guillome on the shoulder and took up my post as sous chef, relieving him of his duties.

"I thought all French could cook," I joked.

Shadiq rushed in after me and figured the best way to save the green beans while I helped Janice with the main course....

It was funny, in a way, two Americans (from a culture NOT known for its culinary prowess) and one Arab (from a culture not known to have men in the kitchen frequently) saving the meal from the Frenchman.

In the meantime, our friend Joyce, a Jewish-American, turned up with the wine.

"Does she know about Guillome's anti-Jewish thing this week?" I asked.

"She's immune...she speaks French," Janice said.

I watched Joyce take up a seat next to Guillome and Gavin on the couch, and couldn't resist saying to Guillome, "You seem to be very selective in your racism these days...sitting there with two Jews...one an American!"

"She is NOT like most Americans!" Guillome corrected. "She speaks French fluently...unlike the rest of you uncultured people...Americans are like big puppy dogs that should be neutered at birth...it would save the rest of the world a lot of frustration...."

Gavin couldn't resist, "Yeah, why is it that you have this massive Mexican population over there but none of you can speak a word of Spanish to know that they are crapping in your lettuce? And then you wonder why your country keeps getting these e-coli outbreaks! Most Mexicans crap in fields, it is a statistically proven fact!"

I was about to protest but shook my head and turned back to slicing the steak.

A few minutes later, we all bent our heads to give thanks for our meal and for our friendship

We gave thanks in English, Arabic, French and then Hebrew.

I then, to be cool, I gave thanks in Spanish...to rub eveyone's nose in it a little bit.

I saw Guillome subtly slide his green beans to the farthest reaches of his plate.

"Hey! Just because I can speak Spanish doesn't mean I poop in the vegetable patch!" I said.

Guillome sighed..."No, I know that, Americans are ridiculously clean...to the point of sterility. It's rather unhealthy and gross, actually. But the problem is that I washed these beans in shampoo and now they taste like SHIT. OK?"

We all had a good laugh and continued with our meal.

God bless my friends, and all their eccentricities.

A Kid Person

Recently, I have had to once again confront the fact that I am just not a "kid person."

It started yesterday when I awoke at 7am to bone-piercing screams originating across the street from my apartment.

"MOMMY!!!! I WANT MOMMY!!!! WHERE IS MY MOMMY?!!!! I WANT MY MOMMY NOW!!!!!!" followed by a wail that went on so long that I actually started to believe they were skinning the kid over there.

A new daycare facility for the children of ex-pats has just opened directly across the street so, for the past two days, I have been serenaded by the same "I WANT MOMMY!!!!" wake-up call in about 10 different accents and languages between 7-8AM. It is, to me, on par with torture.

Normally, I might have a little more patience but I am still dealing with some serious jet-lag issues a week after returning home from the States so my sleep, and establishing a normal sleeping pattern, is particularly precious right now. Screaming children just DO NOT fit into that picture.

Unfortunately, here in Africa, children are considered delightful beings from heaven so any outward criticism of them is strictly forbidden. When I tumbled out onto my balcony yesterday morning to confirm that the wailing child was not being killed, I was greeted by my Somali neighbor...whose own 2-year old has mercifully stopped teething over the past month leaving me in peace to read quietly on the balcony between 7-9PM again.

"Isn't that the most wonderful sound?" she asked. "Children are Allah's gift from heaven, I am so glad that we have these new neighbors, aren't you? It just lightens my heart to hear their 'sweet music' every morning!"

I looked at her sideways through hooded eyes.

"Yes, wonderful...LOVE that 'sweet music'" I muttered before going inside to curse my existence.

I have had the same issue with Robert, my driver, whose own children, for all intents and purposes, are very well-behaved. It's just that they are so excited to see the muzungu (white person) that they normally crawl all over me the minute they see me and try to poke my eyes out or pull my hair because it fascinates them.

Robert had taken to bringing them (and his three nieces and nephews) to the airport every time he picked me up from a trip abroad as sort of a welcoming committee. After twenty hours on an airplane, the very LAST thing I wanted was to be gang-rushed upon emerging from the gate by six children under the age of nine who would proceed to scream, for the 45 minute drive home, "MUZUNGU!!! We LOVE the MUZUNGU!!! YAYYYYYYY!!!!!"

Robert would laugh and clap, the children would get louder, and I would think hateful thoughts that bordered on murder.

No, I am not proud of this but it's the truth.

I think I get it from my mother, although my brother adores children so it might not be genetic.

My mother has about the same level of tolerance for screaming children as I do...or less even.

Many years ago, when she had to do her "voluntary time" at my brother's grade school as the school nurse for the day, she sent every single child home who came into the infirmary. Naturally, the kids caught on to this rather quickly and, after she sent about 20 kids home for the day, the school administrator finally caught up with her and asked her what she was doing.

"They came in screaming and sick so I sent them home, what's wrong with that?" she asked.

Needless to say, my mother was forever exempted from "volunteer time" at my brother's school.

When I was little, I keenly remember one, and only one, "sitting down and screaming," incident with my mother when we were at the library when I was about three or four years old. I decided to pitch a fit about something or another and proceeded to sit down in the children's book section and scream my bloody lungs out. My mother took one look at me, asked me to stop, and then walked out. I carried on until I realized that she really HAD left and then I became terrified. Of course, she had only gone outside but that particular event so traumatized me that I never, ever pulled that one again.

Still, at the age of 34, I sometimes think I should really be wanting children by now. After all, my biological clock is ticking.

When I get in these moods, I normally turn to my best friend, Connie, who has never had children of her own but took me on at the age of 19 when I was going through what could well be termed my "second childhood," to convey my feelings.

"Look, if, by some accident of the anti-Christ, you happen to get pregnant, just immediately surrender him or her to me, it'll be better that way..." she'll say.

"It's not that you are not a wonderful person and you do have one of the kindest hearts out there...but you are just not a 'kid person,' so, please, get a dog, OK?"

If not Connie, I will turn to Scott with my momentary mothering instincts, usually after a glass or two of wine.

"Let's have babies!" I'll tell him. "Aren't you curious to see what our children would be like?"

Scott, who has two grown children of his own (who are, from what I have gleaned, extremely well-behaved, probably because Scott and his ex-wife took a similar philosophy to my Mom when confronted with the "sit down and scream" routine), will indulge me, "Sure, Love, I am sure we would have beautiful children. Just as soon as I get back from war we can discuss it, OK?"

Then I will start to feel all sorts of guilt about the fact that I am not "normal." That, in my mid-thirties, I should WANT kids, I should be PRAYING for them, right?

But I am just not.

Kids love me, however. That one always strikes me as strange.

The same way cats have the uncanny ability to find the one person in a crowded room who is allergic to them...the same with me and kids.

Put me and a dozen other adults in the room with one child, and you can be damn sure that kid will hone in on me.

When I was still dating my friend Ed, I was constantly confronted with the propspect of a baby shower, a christening, or some other child-related event that we would have to dutifully attend.

Several of Ed's siblings, being good Irish Catholics, seemed to consider producing offspring as a full-time job...like a mission...so this always put me in the uncomfortable spot of "hold the new baby" at any given gathering.

"We're going to C's house for the baby's christening party," Ed would randomly announce.

"Again? Didn't she just have the last litter a few week's ago?" I would ask.

"Be nice, dammit! That is my new niece you're talking about!" he'd scold.

"But don't you have three or four of them already?"

"They are children, not underwear, for Christ's sake! What is wrong with you? Are you Chinese now or something?" he'd admonish.

Inevitably, when we got to the party, I was the first one to be handed the new baby.

"Look how precious she is! Isn't she amazingly beautiful?" I would be asked.

Staring down into the crumbled red face of a newborn who was clearly, at that precise moment, being confronted with one of life's first big choices: To Scream or To Poop? I would think, "Yeah, babies are neat...but can someone please take her from me NOW?"

I have admittedly gotten a lot better with kids living here in Africa because, for some odd reason, children here are so much better behaved than kids back in the U.S. If the daycare school across the street was occupied by African children, I am sure I would not be so put out in the mornings.

African mothers (see above about my Somali neighbor) definitely seem to love their kids as much as American mothers...but African kids, by and large, are much better behaved. Even Robert's children, despite the whole muzungu routine, are much quieter and less prone to throwing tantrums. I don't see any difference in how these kids are punished, so it just doesn't seem to make sense.

I talked to my dear friend, Kim, an African-American, about this once.

"It's because they are black children with black mothers and black people do not allow their children to act like assholes," she told me. "We don't go in for the whole 'time-out' nonsense and children are raised to respect their elders and the people around them from DAY ONE, no questions asked."

"What about the way I was raised?" I asked her. "My mother isn't black but I knew better than to act out that way."

"You're Italian and so is your mother...you might as well be black" she said.

That makes me think, at times like these when I am lamenting the fact that I have reached my mid-thirties with no children, if I should reconsider...maybe it would be different for me?

Sometimes I will call Scott and say, "Let's adopt an African baby! We both make enough money to give a child a loving home and there are so many kids here that need homes!"

"OK, Madonna-Angelina, we can consider that one too when I get back from Iraq. For now, why don't you just get a dog?" he'll say, patiently, "You are really good with animals..."

I was in the midst of contemplating these things when I decided to call Robert last week to confirm that he would be picking me up at the airport when my flight arrived from Belgium.

"Oh, and Robert? You don't need to bring all the children along...I really appreciate it but my flight gets in late at night and, well, it's probably past their bedtime and all..." I tried.

"They love seeing you! They love picking you up at the airport! It is no trouble whatsoever!" he told me.

Shit.

I tried a different tactic.

"Robert, you shouldn't bring the children because I might have Swine Flu," I said.

"WHAT?" he asked me.

"Yes, I am coming from the U.S. and I might have contracted Swine Flu so let's not put the children at risk...we can visit another time."

He was clearly perplexed and I felt bad about probably making something up but I didn't know any other way to convince him that I wanted a children-free ride home.

Maybe I really am NOT a kid person after all...

But you never know.

A Crisis of Wanderlust

My friend, Janice, who has become my guardian angel here, called last night while I was in the middle of watching a movie.

"Are you crying? Why are you crying? What are you watching?" she asked.

"The Bucket List," I responded.

"Yeah, I know that one...Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson doing everything they wished that they could do when they were living but are now doing when they are facing death...that one, right?" she confirmed.

Yep, that one.

"So why are you crying? You, above the rest of us, have lived the 'Bucket List' while you're still alive so why the tears?" she insisted.


"Do you think I am selfish? I was watching all of the places the Freeman and Nicholson go in that movie and thinking, 'been there, been there, too.' Do you think that I travel so much makes me selfish? Do you think I am going to run out of places to see and end up wandering around Central Park in ten years feeling lost?" I asked, feeling incredibly stupid.

"Nah, that's what you do...you travel. That's your thing. You also date people who are close to death all the time and you put yourself in situations that most of us wouldn't....but that's just you...you've gotta accept that about yourself at some point or another. Plus, you always have amazing stories...would you have those to tell or to write about if you didn't travel like you do?"

It is truly wonderful having an existential crisis at the age of 34.

I came back from the U.S. last Tuesday to realize that my job required me to be in Northern Uganda within 18 hours to give a speech, moderate a panel, and give my own presentation. My boyfriend, Scott, has just deployed to Iraq yesterday. I had a fight with my mother, my best friend, the last day I was in the States and I still cannot get over it. I miss my brother, who I have never known completely sober until now, and I wonder constantly if I am doing the right thing.


After my talk on Friday in Lira, Northern Uganda, a bunch of folks came up to me and said, "You speak from your heart, that was one of the most refreshing speeches we have ever heard. Thank you for you honesty."


But...am I honest? Does anyone know that I miss my Mom so bad it hurts? Does anyone know that I have never spent more than five days with my boyfriend alone before one of our commitments took us somewhere else? Does anyone know that I used to be terrified to speak in front of people and only, over the past two years, have found my voice, but that I still shake and pray up until the last second?


Does anyone know that I live the "bucket list" because I can? That travel gives me pleasure beyond anything else? That when faced with buying an essential item, such as a couch or bed, I willingly forgo them to go to Costa Rica or Thailand? Isn't there something wrong about that?


My mom said to me, last week, after us both finding out that I had been renewed on a grant to stay in Uganda for another year..."You have got to stop the travel now. You have got to save money."


She said I looked at her with the devil in my eye.


She's right. I need to save money and stop considering my salary as a plane ticket all the time.

I have been very lucky over the past five years or so...I have worked for people and organizations that pay me well and treat me with an amazing amount of respect. But what do I do with my salary? I buy plane tickets. I spend all of my free time on TripAdvisor.com trying to decide where to go next and what to see and do. I spend hours cajoling my friends into coming with me to some godforsaken place like the Democratic Republic of Congo or Eritrea.

True, I have managed to put a significant dent in my debts while here but have I saved money? No. Not even a penny really.

I stopped subscribing to or reading Oprah's magazine because Suze Orman's column on "wise investing" would send me into panic attacks about just how "unwise" I truly have been over the past five years. Suze never, ever tells her readers to take that extra $1000 and go to Zanzibar, that is for sure...

So what is my problem?

"When you were born," my mother says, "your great-grandmother took one look at you and declared you a Gypsy. She could barely speak a word of English but, like you, she had incredible wanderlust which is what brought her from her village in Italy to the U.S. If she had the means, she would have traveled the world...so she knew a fellow Gypsy when she saw one..."

"But still, Patti, you need to stay grounded for the next year. Save your money! You've already seen a lot of the world, take the time to invest in your future over the next year...especially in this economy!"

Janice called this morning to ask me to come with her to look at cars. I declined, saying I had jet lag.

"Oh for Christ's sake...are you still having a 'moment?'" she asked. "I don't know how to drive a stick shift and you do...I need your help, now just get over yourself!"

I still declined.

"Alright, Miss Pity Party, I am coming over there and you'd better answer the damn door!"

She showed up an hour later with a bottle of champagne and some orange juice.

"We're having mimosas," she declared.

"Now, do I need to kick you ass or to sympathize with you right now? I am just never sure the right approach to take..." she said.

I told her about my existential crisis. About my guilt over traveling, the fight with my Mom, staying here in Uganda, everything...

"OK, you really are having a 'moment,' huh?" she said.

"Tell me five things about yourself that traveling has done to make you a better person...to humanity and to this planet" she instructed.

I hate these exercises, I protested! Please, we don't need to do this now!

"Yes we do, now start!" she barked.

I'm not afraid of many things anymore and I can pretty much talk to anyone; I can see almost any one's perspective since I have likely spent some time in their culture; I am willing to try anything once; I am much more patient with people and circumstances; my heart is much more open to people, animals, and the planet.

"There!" I told her.

She smiled, "Well, now that sucks, doesn't it? You're a real asshole, no?"

I laughed.

"Look, you're upset because you and your Mom had a fight, too, right? OK, so write her an email and apologize even if you don't think you were wrong...and give yourself a little break for having jet-lag and a boyfriend who was just deployed to war...then finish your goddamn Mimosa and come car shopping with me...why is this so complicated?" she said.

Put that way, it really wasn't that complicated at all.

"If you buy the car, can we take a road trip to Kenya? I haven't been to Nairobi in years and it's only a ten hour drive..." I said.

Janice, who willingly let me cajole her into going to the Congo two months ago, held up her glass and said, "Of course! Now let's get the hell out of here."

So we did.