Adventures in Training

I've recently decided to participate in the MS 150 bike ride, a two-day event to raise money for multiple sclerosis. That's right, over 75 miles a day. I'm not exactly sure why I decided this was a good idea, as my previous daily record is 66 and that was only by the grace of god and a very nice HMF.

So here I am.

Realizing that I may have bitten off more thant I could chew, I decided to actually try trainining for it. Not heavy duty, mind you, but follow a mileage schedule, and atleast get out on a bike every few days.

This would've worked out perfectly, had this little trip to Rwanda not come up.

It being Africa, bikes are plentiful here, but not the type you'd want to spend a long time training on. One gear. No pedals. Shoddily made. Break pads made out of used up tires. I had emailed our country manager before coming, asking if there were spin bikes available at the hotel gym. He didn't know, but he did offer to put me on a specially designed milk bike (to carry up to 40 liters of liquid milk to market) and let me ride around the hills of Kigali.

Um...maybe not.

When I arrived, it turned out the hotel fitness center was closed for renovation.

Me: "Where's all the equipment?" I asked.
Hotel clerk: "Storage,"
Me: "Could you pull out a bike..?"
Clerk: "No madam, it's in storage."
Me: "Are there any other hotels nearby with fitness centers?"
Clerk: "Yes."
Me: "How far?"
Clerk: "You could jog there in 5 minutes."
Me: .......
Me: "Can I use it for free?"
Clerk: "No madam, you'll have to pay $5"
Me: "Could I just jog there and back for free?"
Clerk: .....

I did manage to sneak in to the neighboring gym, under my co-worker's name, using his room number (he took pains to tell me that I couldn't actually stay there with him. That was one weird conversation).

Unfortunately, for all that effort, those bikes were crap. I managed a few piddly workouts, but overall, nothing good.

This week, my female coworker introduced me to her local gym. It has torn up carpet on the floor and no airconditioning, but the spin bikes atleast spin (although their seats leave something to be desired). On Sunday I managed to get in a whopping awesome ride, but I nearly did myself in.

I am a woman of the prairie. Kigali is 5,000 feet above sea-level. My first week, it felt like my wisdom teeth were trying to gnaw their way out my ear drums every morning. It's just one of those things I've noticed when in higher elevations. My body literally DOES NOT COMPUTE. But still, I completely forgot that I wouldn't be nearly as efficient with my oxygen as I normally am, and proceeded to wind myself into stars (and a few stripes). I managed to continue, but received no sympathy from my colleagues at the pool, who pointed out that I hadn't eaten much that day, either.

Ok, so I'm clearly not a training expert.

And then there's the clothing. Bikers aren't exactly known for their loose clothing. Knowing I'd put long hours in, I brought my spandex shorts with the padded crotch but covered myself with an appropriately loose tshirt, thinking this would hide me from prying eyes.

Ha!

Tonight, I wandered into the same gym to meet up with my coworker, who was running late. Unwittingly, I walked into a gym full of African men, who were very pleased to see me (and my spandex shorts!) Not to be deterred, I pretended it was perfectly normal for a mazungu women to be wearing next to nothing in a room of men, marched directly over to the bike, and let it kick my ass. My co-worker arrived a bit later and laughed at me, the lone piece of dough in a sea of delicious chocolate chips. "That guy next to you is staring at your butt", she whispered.

"That's not all they're staring at!" I told her.

So, please, support my pitiful efforts and donate to fight MS on my webpage. I'll keep updating you on my adventures in training - my idiocy has got to be worth something, right?

Genocide Museum

Today I made time to go to the Kigali Genocide Memorial. It's tastefully done. I feel like I've visited all the awful museum's in the world : Aushwitz, the Holocaust Museums' in DC and Israel; the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. We humans do a good job of documenting our hatred of each other. I understand that it is so that we never forget our cruelty, so as we're not bound to repeat it again, but that doesn't seem to be working. Couldn't we start making museums to fluffy bunnies and kitten kisses? The world might be a better place.

Interestingly enough, I was patted down for firearms and made to go through a metal detector before entering. I asked the security guard if that was a problem and he just shrugged "You'd be surprised." Sadly, I'm not really surprised. From what I hear and read, there is still much healing going on within the government and among civilians. Few individuals have been convicted of perpetrating the mass slaughter of 800,000; most live in the same area, same region as those they tried or supported killing. There's still alot of work to do.

The museum itself walks through the history of the region, of Rwandan colonialisation and the activities leading up to, during and after the genocide (including the inaction of the UN). Done in three languages, it was informative without being overtly graphic, and factual without inciting futher debate.

The most difficult room for me was the children's memorial. Here they had chosen to larger poster size photos of beautiful children affected by the genocide, under which was listed:

Name: Claude
Age: 10
Likes: chocolate milk
Personality: Outgoing, smiley
Last words: UNAMIR will come for us
Died: Tortured to death

(PS UNAMIR came too late)

Name: Odette
Age: 5
Likes: butterflies
Personality: shy, kind
Best friend: her sister, Antoinette
Died: machete to head

Imagine a whole room of that, accompanied by smiling faces, shy smiles and chubby cheeks. I was in despair. I went outside to the surrounding gardens to catch a breath of fresh air. Each gardne has their own meaning. A rose garden stands to commemorate the victims, three gardens outlined Rwandan Unity, Discord and Reconciliation, respectively.

Further on, below the main hall, are large slabs of concrete and a wall of every growing names. These are the mass graves. Over 250,000 people are buried at this museum. As they are exhumed from other places, they are brought here. Some are identified, some not. The museum is a tribute to educate, but also to honor those who were so disquietingly dishonored.

I left with a heavy heart, needing a hug, but glad I came to pay my respects.

The Story of Sebastien

These days, mention Rwanda, and the most common reference that springs to people's mind is the Genocide. In 1994, after the mysterious plane crash President Habyarimana on April 6, Hutu radicals began a country-wide massacre of Tutsi's and Hutu moderates which ultimately wiped out or displaced over two-third's of the country's population. Famous after the fact, like so many things, the Rwandan genocide has become the stuff of hellish nightmares - an African Holocaust that quite horrifically, occured right under the nose of the UN.

In the years following, while the memory has faded for us in the west into the stuff of great heart-wrenching hollywood films, its aftermath remains very real, and very painful, for everyday Rwandans. Today, one is not allowed to identify themselves by ethnicity, and it is not allowed to deny that the genocide exist. However, it's not something you bring up over coffee either. Its certainly awkward for an outsider like me to ask around the office "How was your life affected?" but little dribs and drabs come out.

I discovered from one of our expat staff that in one way or another, everyone has been affected. A few staff take the entire Memorial week off, to spend with what family they have left, or just to mourn. Our country manager had lived in Rwanda during the 1980's, returning home before the genocide, and shared with me his frustration on being unable to help his Tutsi friends escape.

But the story that gave me goosebumps was that of Sebastien.

Our country manager met Sebastien's father in the 80's, they kept in touch, and became close friends. During the genocide, he called every single day to find out if his friend was still alive, and what was happening. Some day's, he couldn't get through. Other times, they described their increasingly alarming situation. As interhame stormed the streets of Kigali, they had to find food wherever they could, often going hungry. They lived in the shadows, in fear. One day, he stopped answering his phone. Our country manger feared the worst.

Year's later, back in Rwanda, our country manager began looking for his friend. The ICRC and other international agencies had set up registration processes and photo boards to help individual's reconnect (think about it - without a cell phone or a photo, or a home to return to, how would you find your family?). Eventually, he found a friend of his friend, who confirmed the worst - he had killed on April 28th, his body most likely dumped in one of the many shallow mass graves around Kigali, or left to rot in the sun. (Interesting side bar: there are few dogs in Rwanda. After feasting on the dead bodies, dogs were systematically hunted to prevent the spread of disease).

However, a son - Sebastien - survived. He was found, and convinced to come and work for our company. It's not clear to me how he survived, but he is a delicate fellow. He's bright, but there's a shadow behind his eyes. I'm told he only made it through because everyone thought he was crazy. Our country manager happened to have photos of his parents from when they were friends in the 80's and Sebastien broke down. He didn't have a thing left to remember them. The interhamwe had destroyed - obliterated - everything.

A visit to Nyagatare

Today, the first day after the conference, we drove up to Nyagatare, two hours north of Kigali, to visit our project sites. Rwanda is breathtaking, achingly serene. The graceful, gentle hilltops slope delicately, nobly, like the cheekbones of a Tutsi woman. Even Kigali, with its overpopulated smog-filled roadways, twinkle invitingly around the valley in the evening.

Like most of our projects, we help dairy farmers collectively bulk and sell their products through training, cooperative development, and small grants. We spent the day visiting bits and bobs of whom we've helped in the past two years. First,we visited a milk collection center, whose compressor struggles to cool all 5,000 liters of milk when it arrived at once (apparently, they are made to take it a little at a time).

Next, we visited a group of entrepreneurs - small grants recipients - who sell molasses to farmers, which they sprinkle on their fodder, making it more nutritious to the dairy cattle. Their shop was a tiny, windowless storage until at the corner of the open market in Matimba. A group of predominantly wazungu walking through any African market draws attention, and this was no different. Talking with the shop keepers, we were instantly surrounded in a fishbowl of curious onlookers. Nonetheless, I was able to break away and walk around the marketplace, which sold everything from tiny anchovies fresh from Lake Muhazi to women's undergarments (no packaging).

On the outskirts of town was Elias, a Muslim farmer who lived on a large plot of land and had a thriving family. Our project gave him an inkind grant of napier grass, and he choose to invest some of his own money (besides land and labor) to purchase more. As we walked through his impressive banana grove, we could glimpse the scrubby Ugandan countryside across the valley. We had just missed meeting his cow, who had gone into heat that morning and was rushed to find the nearest bull. I shook his hand and offered my congratulations. He laughed. A successful calf would double his dairy production, and was good news indeed!

We stopped for a simple lunch at the Savannah cafe in Nyagatare. Our choices were starchy - rice, mutoki (banana), chips (french fries), mashed cassava or sweet potato (the white kind, not what you'd find in the US). For protein, there were eggs, beef, beans or mashed up ground nuts (peanuts). I got the rice and groundnuts, and was surprised only for a moment when a bowl of purple mush showed up, until I realized that they'd blended the nuts without the shell, but with the skin on. So basiclaly, I had purple peanutbutter rice for lunch.

(My colleague got so much rice that the waitress actually came back and "reposessed" some of it for another lunch order when she wasn't looking. No explanation, she just plopped her spoon right in the rice when Gretchen wasn't looking and took it away... kept a firm hand on my peanut butter mush after that...)

After lunch, we visited a very friendly lady and her neighbor, both living with HIV/AIDs. She had used our small grant to create silage to feed their only cow. Although there was a language barrier, we sat and chatted in the shade of her house for several minutes. She was embarassed that we were sitting on (essentially) her stoop, and it wasn't very clean. I liked this woman the best, because she took our hands and laughed with us. Plus, she asked alot of questions, and was clearly excited to have us see her cross bred cow, which provided nutrition and income for her family. Cows in Rwanda (and Uganda) tend to be either Ankole (local), Freisan (Holstein) or a mix.

We walked up the road to a small milk shop, where this woman sells her milk every day. Betty (the milk shop owner) buys 15 liters of milk a day, and sells it to other neighbors after boiling it. There doesn't seem much incentive to sell to Betty, but community members do it, rather than sell directly to their own neighbors. (I didn't quite understand that, but there must be a reason). Next door is a women's sewing cooperative, which decided to buy a cow and collectively care for it. I enjoyed watching them work on the old fashioned Singer sewing machines (pedal pump) circa 1890 (and in good condition!)

We stopped for a sunset beer on Lake Muhazi on the way home, but it was clear we were all knackered. Overall, it was a great way to spend a day, but I was happy to hit the bed when I arrived 'home'.

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

I've arrived in Rwanda, land of a thousand hills, and been immediately thrown into stress. There's usually a certain amount of smudge around - being from headquarters, one is often see as a "spy", not really understanding the "realities" of the field, and treated with some circumspect. This is normal, and can usually be overcome by the first or second beer, and some disarming humor.

However, this time around, the weirdness was also doubly stuffed with dynamics brought in by an important conference, and some surprising staff changes back home. Add dusting off some underutilized French skills while worrying about an ill mother and a newly purchased home (what if it burns down while I'm away?) and you've got a week that not even a gin and tonic can fix.

Ugh.

The conference ended yesterday, and I celebrated by crawling into my hotel bed and pulling the sheets up over my head.

There are things about Rwanda, though, that have not escaped my stressful orbit. One, there is very little garbage. Smog, yes; garbage, not so much. Paul Kagame apparently runs a very tight ship around here, and it's appreciated. It is also very hilly - they weren't kidding. Watching the cloud shadows play through the numerous valley's in the early morning sunshine is a pleasure worth taking.

Two, any mention of ethnicities is completely forbidden. In the wake of the Belgian's requiring culutural identification on national identity cards in the early 1900's, contributing to the bifurcation that precipitated the 1994 genocide, it is now illegal to openly discuss one's ethnic background, for better or worse.

Three, Rwandan French is much, much easier to understand than West African French.

Four, I am three degrees below the equator and should've packed more sunscreen.

Five, the universe still conspires to find goodness, even amongst stress.

Random Country Number 582: Rwanda

I leave tomorrow, for two weeks. I haven't had much time to do any research, but that's what planes are for, right? I'll be hanging out here: www.dairyafrica.com . So far, the only thing I know is that for the first week, I'll be staying at Hotel Rwanda. Yes, THE Hotel Rwanda, aka the Mille Collines.

As usual, from our friends over at Wiki:

The Republic of Rwanda, known as the Land of a Thousand Hills, is a landlocked country located in the Great Lakes region of eastern-central Africa, bordered by Uganda, Burundi, the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Tanzania. Although close to the equator, the country has a cool temperate climate due to its high elevation. The terrain consists mostly of grassy uplands and gently rolling hills. Abundant wildlife, including rare mountain gorillas, have resulted in tourism becoming one of the biggest sectors of the country's economy.

Rwanda has received considerable international attention due to its 1994 genocide, in which an estimated 800,000 people were killed.[4] Since then the country has made a recovery and is now considered as a model for developing countries. In 2009 a CNN report labeled Rwanda as Africa's biggest success story, having achieved stability, economic growth (average income has tripled in the past ten years) and international integration.[5] The government is widely seen as one of the more efficient and honest ones in Africa. In 2007 Fortune magazine published an article titled "Why CEOs Love Rwanda." [6]

The capital, Kigali, is the first city in Africa to be awarded the Habitat Scroll of Honor Award in the recognition of its "cleanliness, security and urban conservation model." [7] In 2008, Rwanda became the first country to elect a national legislature in which a majority of members were women.[8] Rwanda joined the Commonwealth of Nations on 29 November 2009 as its fifty-fourth member,[9] making the country one of only two in the Commonwealth without a British colonial past

Sometimes

I found this poem last year...and liked it. Author Sheenagh Pugh.

Sometimes

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

This Literally Cracks My Shit Up

I saw this a couple of weeks ago and I'm still hovering between marvel, admiration, disbelief and laughter. I'm sure people laughed when Alexander Graham Bell told them to talk into one end of a cone, but still. I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around the logistics of crapping in plastic bag.

For Pennies, a Disposable Toilet That Could Help Grow Crops

As one of my coworkers said " At some point the developing world is going to tell us to stop bothering them….learn this, do that, poop in this…"

Love in the Time of the Biological Clock and In the Face of an International Job

My second speaking engagement this week was to the Leaders of Today and Tomorrow (LOTT) leadership conference. I was actually really looking forward to this, as I was one of a panel, and we were basically just asked to talk about ourselves (see how that fits into the raging narcissist bit?), how we got into international work, and what advice we would give to women interested in the same fields.

I was lucky enough to be on a panel with two other smart, much more experienced women, so I learned alot just by being there. Echoing my experience earlier in the week, the women asked alot about money (how did you manage to follow your dreams when the bills are knocking at the door?), juggling family and dreams, and what I've come to acknowledge as the Baby Issue.

Ah yes, the Baby Issue. One that every woman must contemplate (some longer than others), or maddeningly, is contemplated for her. My my uncle said the other day that he and our hometown pastor had talked and both agreed: I'd better "hurry up. The clock is ticking." My uncle is one thing - he actually understands these issues - but I find it more than a little creepy that my pastor is thinking - and has an opinion on - my babymaking junk!

Admittedly, this gets even trickier when you throw an international trip (or three) in there. How does one even begin to date, let alone start a family, when you have to leave for Pakistan in a week? My male (and also perpetually single) colleague and I contemplate this often. One, it's very hard to find someone who can locate Pakistan on the map and two, is cool with you running off there (where you might not come back).

The answer: it all comes down to choices. I personally don't see this as just a male/female issue, as both genders have to make -and are beholden to the consequences of - their choices. It will mean my partner and I (or just me, who knows?) making the choice to stay home and enjoy toddler hugs rather than work on a grant that brings fresh water to Iraqi widows. At some point, that flexibility of being able to stay in Sri Lanka for six weeks is gonna have to give (which is why I'm enjoying the crap out of it now). It also means supporting my female colleague who have to leave at 2:30 because their children are sick, even though you had an important meeting with them at 3. (In this case, I hope the flexibility I'm paying in comes back to me...)

One of the panelists mentioned that she had many professional female friends who were workaholics really struggled with dating, marriage and the Baby Issue. "And some of these women," she warned, "Have decided to go it alone, either biologically or through adoption, thus becoming single mothers on top of everything else!"

To which I thought to myself: Since when did becoming a (gasp) "single mother" become a pejorative term? But that's another story for another blogpost.

What I wanted to tell these women is what I mentioned at the end of my previous post: be comfortable with the grey areas. Make friends with not getting everything you want and not pleasing everyone all the time. I don't know what the answers are, only that I know much like the earlier non-baby part of my life, choices will have to be made - and lived with.

The strange - and frustrating - thing about the Baby Issue, is that everyone seems to have an opinion about it, when in actuality, I'm the only one who has to be comfortable with it.

And the part that I really, really struggle with is not the Baby Issue, it's finding the grace to just smile in the face of everyone else's opinion's about my babymaking junk. That just gets harder and harder with time.

Speaking, not Talking

This week I found myself with not one, but TWO, separate speaking engagements. This is strange, because while I enjoy public speaking, it's not necessarily something I get to do on a regular basis. (But my mom gets to do it for a living.)

Through various twists and turns, contacts and networking, two different folks asked me months ago if I would consider speaking on generally the same topic: my job, and being a woman working in the international arena. Being a raging narcissist, in love with her job and used to shooting her mouth off in public, who was I to say no? :)

It just so happened they both fell on the same week. For the first one, on Wednesday, I headed down to the MN arboretum in Chaska for the Minnesota Agricultural Leadership Conference. (PS the Arboretum is AMAZING). I hosted a breakout session on my job, my company and what we're doing to help women around the globe. The audience were farmwifes, FFAer's, Farm Bureau and Farm Credit employees, and a host of other women involved in agriculture.

I alternatively love the agricultural community, and am at odds with it. I grew up on a conventional small-grain farm, of mid-size. We are not organic, although I follow the organic argument closely (as evidenced by my earlier blogs). I love the smell of the soil, field full of amber waves of grain (no lie!) and combines moving slowly across the plains at dusk, in a haze of chaff. I am drawn to people with a no-nonsense, hardworking, dry-humored, self-effacing personality. I find Ole and Lena jokes hilarious.

Although I enjoy - and even love - these things - I don't think I'll ever be apart of this community. First, I am most decidedly not a Republican. I see taxes as a necessary part of our Social Contract (I've seen what happens in countries where no one pays them). I read the New Yorker. I love high heels. Hogs do not make my limbs tingle. (One woman I met told me that she'd love to travel more, but she's marrying a hog farmer. I had to suppress the urge to take her aside and tell her to RUN. RUN FAST.)

It's so strange. I was drawn in at the conference; these women are strong, educated, competent, living their passion, just like me. Aside from the politics, we're pretty much the same. Then why is it that the agricultural community gets such a bad rap for being stupid hicks? When I lived in DC, I would often get the remark that I "didn't look like I was from a farm". (WTF?) My stock answer was that I only broke out my overalls for special occasions.

My brother received a book for Christmas called Hollowing Out the Middle, about the brain drain and subsequent decline of small towns. This is a real problem, as towns get smaller, but still need city clerks, smart mayors, and a tax base to keep themselves alive. So, how do we stop people from leaving? How do we invigorate smalltown communities where memories of Lick m' Sticks at Ben Franklin's and DQ ice cream after swimming lessons still live?

How can I even contemplate this without looking at my own choice in lifestyle? It's very painful to realize you want to fix a problem, but you don't want to put forth the skin to be part of the solution. I could never, never move back to my hometown. I am often in awe of my brother, who did just that, and is now doing his part to find grant funding to keep our community alive. I am in awe of my best friend, who farms with her brother, in the adjacent community. I am in awe, and I find myself lacking. They've got the guts, and I've got...a speaking engagement.

What's even funnier is that my friends in DC look to me as the agriculture "expert". I laugh, ruefully.

So, I'm stuck. I'm stuck working for an agricultural conglomerate in the big city, visiting my dying hometown for Christmas, Easter and the occasional funeral, and speaking to the community as if I know exactly what they're going through. I thought by moving back to Minnesota that I'd finally marry my two passions, but it seems, I'm just as mixed up as before. As I grow older, I am finding that it's not enough to recognize the world is not black and white, but to be comfortable with the very large grey part in the middle.

Humane Society Walk for Animals

Last January, in the bleak midwinter, I was suffering a lack of snuggles. I had just broken up with my boyfriend, and needed some cheap, disease-free lovin'.

Enter the Humane Society.

My friend Kaydi helped me pick out Ruby, aka Angus Destroyer of My Couch. She has quickly turned into my loud, complian-y, carpet-shredding, fuzz-leaving, feline mother. In the end, I swapped being in love with one hairy animal for another.

Today, she woke me up at 4am by sneezing in my face.

Despite all these drawbacks, Ruby has wiggled her way into my heart. To honor her contribution to my household, I am walking in the Animal Humane Society Walk for Animals. Our team is named the "Faux Paws". This year, we're walking for my friend Kaydi's dog Hank, who was recently diagnosed with cancer (yes, they can get it!).

Please consider making a donation on my website so that animals like Ruby will continue to find good homes.

Thanks!

The Last Great Fiefdom: Airlines

I am sick to death of airlines and their arbitrary rules.

For the most part, I’m able to fly under the radar. I pack light (avoiding baggage restrictions/fees/checked luggage), grasp the concept of the 3 oz. rule, and can get in and out of security in less than one minute – shoes and laptop included - if there’s no line.

However, not only is each country different, but each airline also has different rules. Getting on the aircraft is only half the battle.

Once on, you’re in “their” territory and they way they treat you depends strictly, on classism, (and, I believe, more and more on the fickle attitudes of flight attendants).

First, if you can afford, literally, a higher class ticket, then you’ll have a better seat. You’ll get a bit more room, free alcohol (US domestic flights), actual silverware, and a private bathroom near the (gasp!) cockpit (apparently, first class passengers couldn’t possibly be terrorists, or terrorists haven’t yet scraped together enough clams for these exorbitantly priced seats).

Secondly, the flight attendants, who have got to have the worst jobs I the world, have obviously caught on. They are, for the most part, very grumpy individuals (except for those beautiful Singpore airline stewardesses, but I’m convinced that they’re fembots). It’s their job to enforce baseless, fickle rules, such as keeping your electronic devices shut off until you reach cruising altitude, lest they interfere with the plane’s operation.

Speaking as a person who has both a) accidentally left her phone on for an entire flight and b) once called her sister, who’s phone rang (and she answered!) while in flight, and I call complete and total shenanigans on this one.

Ipods pose a particularly interesting problem, as they have no on/off switch. There’s a “freeze” button, but you can certainly “freeze” it in the on position as well as off. Furthermore, overseas, they’ve mostly dropped this rule – it’s only in the hyper sensitive US that we still believe this baloney.

(Save the South African airways attendant who insisted that I take my earbuds out my ears, even though my DVD player was no only off, the battery was completely dead. I was keeping the buds in to drown out the noise of the engines. I tried explaining this to her several times but she stood fast. I was tempted to tell her I had a hearing condition, but being that my desire to get home superceded my desire to make a point, I took them out. )

But that’s just it, no matter what you do, the airlines have the trump card: they can throw you off. Not only that, they can throw you in JAIL. So you have to take out your earbuds, sit up straight, stow your tray tables, do jumping jacks – whatever they require! Somehow, I missed the forfeiture of my rights in the fine print.

In the US, if you’re leaving the country, you can take as much water/liquids with you as you want. Woe be the person returning, however, with so much as a bottle of water for a sixteen hour flight. I find this downright inhumane. The human body NEEDS water. How can the US government deny us this need? What’s next, air?

Aren’t we more secure?, you may be asking, What about the Greater Good? I agree, to some extent, an airplane ride may be tantamount to a social contract. We are all, literally, headed towards the same goal. It makes sense that we have a basic modicum of expectations and rules. When I get on a flight, I don’t expect to be able to act like I do at home; I am, in fact, in public.

However, airlines are taking this too far, all in the name of profit margin. While the US government has upped security requirements, they’ve lowered services, and the only one that gets pinched are THE PASSENGERS. They’re pinching their steady revenue source, and ultimately, shooting themselves in the foot. They’ll soon fine that this “steady” revenue source is more price sensitive than they thought. The more they push us cattle-class to the margins, families and other casual traveler’s will switch to other, more affordable, less Machiavellian forms of transport - like walking across hot stones.

With the advent of global telecommunications, more and more businesses will choose to stay at home, and hop on their WebEx instead.

I want to sympathize with the global airline industry, I really do.

But I also want to keep my earbuds in.

My Dilemma

Pursuant to my previous posting, I’ve recently re-opened the situation with Michael Pollan, and his dilemma. I was home sick a few weeks ago and caught him on Oprah, where he didn’t immediately strike me as a pompous nutjob. I remembered that I still had his book.

In fact, during my trip to Italy in November, my friend had asked my opinion about it. A fan of the Slow Food revolution (which started there), she was eager to see what I thought. I sheepishly mentioned something vaguely about not being able to “get into it” and noted that she, mercifully, is not a big follower of my blog.

This, plus upcoming long flight to South Africa, lead me to slip it into my back before I left. Plus, I reasoned, it’s soft cover. My general travel M.O is to bring softcovers and leave them behind when I’m finished, thus lightening my load. (This does not apply to hardcovers, library books or anything I haven’t finished). So, if I finished, or got bored with Mr. Pollan, I could leave him behind.

Somewhere between Livingstone and Lusaka, while waiting for my internet connection to work, I pulled it out. (I find that distracting myself while things “load” lessens my desire to chuck the entire computer out the window). At any rate, I kind of got into it. He outlines the food chain for three types of meals: corn fed (industrial agriculture), grass fed (for lack of a better word, alternative (?) agriculture) and hunting/foraging.

Yes, he gets a little over philosophical - and down right weepy - in parts, especially about hunting. The chapters on industrial agriculture, where he uncovers the insidiousness of corn and how it has transformed our food chain was actually really interesting. I’d always wondered how corn was refined into High Fructose Corn Syrup, for example. Similarly, his outlining of the rise and dissonance between “Big” and “Little” Organic farming was quite revealing, and refreshing. Overall, the book was informative, if slanted under a liberal gaze. (Being a liberal myself, I didn’t so much mind this, but it was quite obvious in places, which I found annoying. I skimmed.)

My favorite passage was near the end, when he muses that it wouldn’t be possible to eat all meals like the first one (McDonald) or all meals like the last (foraged all by hand), but that there had to be some ground in the middle.

I still have criticism though – my book states it was a history of four meals: Corn-fed, grass-fed and foraged. That’s only three. Was this a printing typo, or was I supposed to make a meal of the book, too? I left it in the seat pocket of my flight from Lusaka to Johannesburg for the next person to figure that out.

Zamtastic

Ok, yes. I am in Zambia.

Admittedly, I have let this trip slip.

BUT - it's technically not my fault. Technically, I've had difficulties with the internet - I've barely been able to check in with work. There's something about African wireless services that makes my slooowwwww ass computer melt down into a tiny little lump.

andfine,theremaybeateenytinyamountofusererrorinthere,too.

So, ahem, Zambia. I have known ye before.

You may remember this post about a weekend trip I took to Lusaka with some friends while I was living in Malawi for the summer. A great three days, with more than a little driving in the back of an ambulance.

It's a trip to be back here. It's been so long that my friends friends no longer live here, and there's nothing much more to see that wasn't already explored the first time around. I did, however, find myself back at the very same shopping mall.

Sigh. Sometimes I think my working life is just a series of conference halls, hotel rooms and shopping malls. (This is not a complaint; just an......observance).

At any rate, there have been some new things. The conference I was attending was in Livingstone, 8 hours south, on the border with Zimbabwe....and home to the famous Victoria Falls. I've been to Niagara, and this is no Niagara. It's simply - breathtaking (and wet). Known as Mosi-ou-Tunya, or "the smoke that thunders", it's quite deafening; so much so that you can barely hear those next to you when crossing over a few small bridges to see the Zimbabwean side.

Some other highlights of this trip have been: finding a shard of glass in my rice, eating a side-of-the-road restaurant named "Tooters" and getting reacquainted with nsima, the starchy, bland side-dish served all over Southern Africa.

I've now got a bead on a more secure internet line, so if anything more interesting happens in the next two days, I'll be sure to make note.

What are you doing at 36?

Rajiv Shah for USAID administrator - Laura Rozen

Good lord, I've got some catching up to do.

///and some teeth to grow.

Slacktivism

I've been meaning to write about this for awhile, but the holidays got in the way. I was shopping with my sister one afternoon early in December, and we hit a number of stores. At nearly every checkout counter, we were asked if we'd like to donate a dollar for one cause or another. Toys for Tots. Childrens Miracle Network. Habitat for Humanity. After the fifth clerk failed to ask us to donate a dollar, I turned to my sister and remarked that this must either be a heartless store, or incredibly understanding of donor fatigue.

Now, I'm not critcizing these establishments. In fact, this was a tactic that I, in my fundraising years, found terribly effective. I get it, but it smacks of "slacktivism". Let's pull out wikipedia:

Slacktivism (sometimes slactivism) is a portmanteau formed out of the words slacker and activism. The word is considered a pejorative term that describes "feel-good" measures, in support of an issue or social cause, that have little or no practical effect other than to make the person doing it feel satisfaction. The acts also tend to require little personal effort from the slacktivist. Examples of activities labeled as "slacktivist" include signing internet petitions, the wearing of wristbands ("awareness bracelets") with political messages, putting a ribbon magnet on a vehicle or joining a Facebook group.

I understand that donating does make an actual difference. But so does volunteering your time. Again, after the fifth store, I was kind of apathetic to those hungry/homeless/handicapped kids. A dollar here, a dollar there, bada-bing, bada-boom! Problem solved.

It just felt a little too...easy.

Shouldn't one take time to know and understand the issues at play? Why is childhood homeless a problem? Why isn't there enough food? What is happening in these neighborhood's that kids aren't safe to live? Who took all their toys?? Perhaps I'm just a purist. Perhaps I think about things too much (this charge has been levvyed against me before). But throwing money at a problem, signing an online petition, or becoming a "Fan" on facebook, seems - well, sad.

I realize that this may be untenable for most. For those, go ahead; give your dollar - I'm sure it will go towards good. But don't you want to get engaged in the world? Then get some skin in the game. Get active. Be curious. Find a cause and throw your weight into it.

Speaking from experience, personal investment has a higher rate of return than anything else.

The Last Day

Friday, my last day, I got up early (to make up for oversleeping on Thursday) and, with Monica's help, took the bus to Ravenna.

Ravenna was once the capital of the Western Roman Empire, and home to some gorgeous mosaics from the Byzantine era. I visited four of the most famous: Battistero Neoniano, Basicial di S. Apollinare Nuovo, Basilica di S. Vitale and the Mausoleo di Galla Placidia. They were truly breathtaking!

After that, I walked around the city for awhile (ahem, ZARA) and grabbed a potato and mozarella piadina, a flatbread sandwich famous in the region. I caught the early bus back to Faenza, packed and then road Monica's bike out to the farm (6k through beautiful vineyards, in the DARK, which wasn't very smart). The days are cloudy, but even in the dank darkness of November, it's still picturesque.

As an endcap to a fabulous week and wonderful vacation, Monica and Michele, their friends and I, went out to her cousin's seafood restaurant, Titon.

Let me just say, if you can get a cousin/uncle/grandfather to own an restaurant in Italy - DO IT.
We had five different antipasti's (including fish carpaccio, a tomato/squid soup, and prawn and thistle (yes, thistle) stew). Then we had three different kinds of grilled fish, and a seafood "toss" - lightly fried squid, prawns, fish, zuchinni, etc. Plus, all the wine you could drink. (and a 'tween course palate refreshener with lemon and vodka- VODKA!)

Then, oh THEN, came the dessert, including ganache, pistacchio mousse, cannoli, something like a cointreau liquer flan and creme cartanaga (I'm not sure this is the right name but oh. my. god. gargagaahghghghg Homer Simpson noise) I literally rolled out of that restaurant at midnight.

....and was up again at 4 am to catch my flight.

But you know what? Pffft...I'll sleep when I'm dead. This has been the best vacation and worth every penny (paid in Euro and in sleep!) I am now sitting in the airport (back in Amsterdam) with a huge grin on my face, refreshed, renewed - and sober.

Yes, these are what vacations are FOR.

Thanksgiving Italian Style

Thursday Monica had to work, so she left me to my own devices to explore Faenza. I ended up oversleeping, missing the town market AND the ceramic museum but the extra sleep was totally worth it. I did some laundry, had a late lunch and bummed around town.

Later that evening, I joined Monica out at the farm where she works. Several of her friends and co-workers were gathered there, cooking a 4 kilo stuffed turkey and the Thanksgiving works. In between last minute things, Monica made three squash "pumpkin" pies. We roasted sweet potatoes, someone brought homemade stuffing and Michele mashed potatoes. For my part, I snapped beans and drank wine :)

By the time the turkey was done, fifteen people had arrived. We watched Jonathan (the head chef) carve the boneless turkey and place the thick steamy slabs on a plastic platter Monica pulled from somewhere. The best part was a homemade green bean-mushroom-and-fried onion concotion Jonathan pulled from the Food Network website. No Campbells soup here! It was hands-down terrific.

As we organized ourselves buffet style, a few of the un-initiated Italians were unsure of all the food. Monica immediately gave a rundown of the basics, instructing everyone to pile their plates high. Apparently, mixing the savory items with the sweet squash and the roast sweet potatos caused the most consternation. "Plating" is a concept not yet inculcated in American households, so it was interesting to watch the Italians arrange small portions on several plates and make trips back and forth to the buffet. I'm happy to say I piled my plate high and only left the turkey skin as a remnant of my gnoshing.

During the normal course of these international holiday celebrations, talk inevitably floats towards traditions. Thinking it over, I've celebrated Thanksgiving in Switzerland, Singapore, Washington DC and now, Italy. Each time, I bring up my family tradition of going around the table saying what we're thankful for according to letters of the alphabet. In DC, since I hosted, I made everyone at the table do it. I was going to keep quiet about it, but Monica has had thanksgiving with me before and insisted that we do it.

It's a good exercise in that it reminds us what we have in our lives (my Love, was one of them; Parents were another) and also elicits laughs for the more difficult letters (Questra turque (THIS turkey, for "q"). Although hokey, it's nice to see some traditions carry over. I think my mom would be proud.

I snuck away after dinner to skype my family, but someone kindly delivered a delicious piece of squash pumpking pie (plus homemade whip cream!). More wine. Caffe's all around. Jokes. Things devolved into only Italian later on the evening, but for the most part I was able to follow the conversation. Here was a place for people to gather, laugh, care for one another and eat mightily.

Now that's home, isn't it?

Viva Italia!

On Monday, we drove to the romanticized and much loved region of Tuscany, three hours from Monica's place in Faenza. It's November in Italy, and while there's no snow, overall it's cloudy, grey and foggy. However, after crossing over the Appenines, the weather immediately became sunnier and warmer. While romantics might encourage thinking this comes from the beauty of Tuscany, Monica assured me it was strictly geographical - there is simply no Po river valley in Tuscany!

We stopped first in Cortona and later, after dark, hit Montepulciano. (Side note: turns out that several scenes from the New Moon (Twilight) movie were filmed in Montepulciano. Who knew there were vampires in Italy?) We stopped at a copper smith, who made me a small bookmark while he chatted with Monica (he stamped 8 flowers on it, "One for each children" he winked) and then on to a small winery for some delicious Vino Nobile.

That night, we stayed with their friend, Pietro, who owns a small farmhouse in Gallina and had prepared wild boar stew for our visit. Being big cyclists (Monica owns a bike touring company), the next day we biked 26k through the Val d'Orcia to Montalcino. Best. ride. ever (even if I swore my undying hatred to Monica's fiance during the last 6k - an excruciatingly long 7 degree climb to the top of the hilltown. He took it in stride though - at one point, he biked and pushed me with one hand). I was rewarded at the top with a delicious meal of rabbit, polenta and Brunello wine.

That evening, the four of us headed to a small public hot spring. Having experienced the onsens of Japan, I was excited, and expecting a small hut, or place to change and wash before entering. Nope. It really was just two pools of hot water at the base of mountain, under a lamppost, next to a road, with some benches around it. It was rustic, and beautiful. A half moon and twinkling stars dangled above the valley, a few naked men lounged along the edge. I couldn't have imagined a better end to the perfect day.

After a late night of drinking Cuban rum and playing board games, we finally rolled out of bed and said goodbye to Pietro, his chickens and his lovely Tuscsan farmhouse. We found our way to Pienza and Siena, the latter being a truly gorgeous city. We crawled home, exhausted, ordered pizza from the shop round the corner. I slept for 12 hours.

I am hard pressed to remember a vacation as satisfying and relaxing as this one. When I backpacked through Rome and Florence in college, I distincly remember not liking it very much. Too many people, too much male attention, too dirty, too touristy. I keep teasing my friends that they've singlehandedly changed my perception of an entire country.

When I arrived on Sunday, Monica took me to a truffle and oil festival. As we chatted with one of the vendors (and smelled his white truffles - wow!), he found out that I'd only be here a week. "That's just enough time to make you stay longer," he said.

He's not wrong.

Kindred Spirits

I returned home from my last trip, little worse for wear (save a wicked cold). Jumped straight into work (again), and then turned around and got on a plane two weeks later to Mombasa, Kenya. There's not much to post about that trip, as I spent it mostly inside a conference room.

Now, I am in Italy - resting - and, following on the advice of Elizabeth Gilbert - eating.

I'm also visiting my good friend and her fiance, whom I love to bits. They recently got engaged and I've never been more excited to look at churches, explore reception areas and discuss life plans. Anne Shirley would call them Kindred Spirits.

Having recently hit a milestone in my life, which I feel really good about, I'm realizing that life is made up of Kindred Spirits. You need these people - the ones that understand you, sniffle with you and call internationally when need be. I would've crawled from Africa to get here.

Anyway, that's my only thought these days. Make friends, keep family close, but keep your kindred spirits closer.