Two New Yorks

 I returned from Africa 13 days ago and realized New York didn't wait for me - my life here kept moving on without me, and my New York life snubbed me.  I returned to a cautious and less than present love, an apartment that looked like Beirut, overdue bills, a needy parent, and a world of opportunity for future employment that paralyzed me because I realized I might actually get what I want out of life.  I had an argument with a friend of 30 years, overbooked myself to the point of sheer exhaustion, and worked like a dog for 5 days in an un-air conditioned apartment, cleaning up the debris caused by the collapse of an entire wall unit. I missed Uganda. I missed writing.  I missed being free from the responsibility of my NYC life and the heartache of this incredible city.  New York didn't care that I was gone or was it that I didn't care that I was away from New York? 

The transition back has been far more difficult than the transition of having to adjust to peeing in a pit latrine, or being "ripped off" on a daily basis, or seeing snakes being clubbed to death before a 9 a.m. class in Namirembe.  It's been more difficult than hearing of a fellow traveler who felt a worm in his back and had to have 2 adults lacerate the area in which it burrowed beneath his skin, finding a home in one of his veins or tendons (they were able to lure the worm out of this young man's back using sugar granules. Apparently, worms like sugar).  It's been as difficult as getting past the Custom Officers in Rwanda to re-enter Uganda, but not as difficult as seeing a young girl locked in a pit latrine on a rainy day to prevent her from eating the mud created from the rainstorm. It's not been as difficult as saying goodbye to Sarah and Charles, my two friends who showed me love and care, who will never be forgotten. It is not as difficult as waving goodbye to any one my students, whose precious little faces remain imprinted in my brain; their smiles radiating through their glistening tears. 

But I returned to another New York where a friend of mine (the friend of 30 years who I argued with) took me out for a delicious meal on the fly and then provided the labor I so desperately needed to get my apartment back in order; a friend who made a trip  into NYC and walked with me through Soho on a hot summer day, just to accompany me while I ran errands; a pregnant friend who invited me to lunch just because she wanted to hear about my trip and to stroll together through Loehman's for an afternoon; a friend who came to my un-air conditioned apartment, asked what I needed as I reacclimated to the life in the city, took my To Do list and completed a couple of tasks for me, providing me ease for the rest of that day; a friend who rode with me in a cab to JFK airport to pick my Dad up just so I'd have some company; the friend who while on vacation took the time to write an outline of a curriculum I needed in order to enhance a meeting I was scheduled to attend the next day; and the "friend" who will forever thrill me, who reciprocates a level of love and care that I've never experienced in all my days on this earth, and who I wish to know till the day I take my last breathe, spent hours strategizing about various issues and challenges I need to find solutions to. This New York cared that I returned safe and sound.  This New York made me feel it mattered that I was "home."

I suppose all this activity and chaos and noise makes me feel as if I never even left New York, that Africa never happened.  Yet I was 8,000 miles away for 6 weeks, on a continent that always beckons me to stay, pulls at me every time like a desperate lover, and leaves me with some visions and memories I struggle to write about.  Here I sit in my newly arranged and very clean apartment in Chelsea, New York, hesitating to write about the sensitive and important issues that need to be written about and discussed.  I sit with my fingers on my computer keyboard feeling great trepidation and fear that the words I want to type about  poverty, education, religion, crime, sexuality and third world politic will hurt, be too strong, or will not be clearly understood.  Who am I to begin a dialogue about such issues when some of the greatest minds, scholars, and journalists have reported on much of what I have been recently exposed to and know so little about?  So, I have written nothing.

I wonder if my reflections about my trip to Rwanda and my last days in Uganda will still be relevant, of interest, will resonate in the same way, now that I am back in the United States.  I suppose I will risk the embarrassment to not being well received because I do believe these short stories and documented accounts of what I experienced are worth putting down on paper.

I am scheduled to make a presentation about my journey to Africa on October 8th from 7 p.m. - 9 p.m. in New York City, organized by a friend of mine, who believes my writing, my photos, my ideas, and my convictions about the aforementioned issues must be discussed. She believes they need to be brought to light from my perspective, in my voice.  I thank her for believing in me, for listening to me, for trusting that I will speak from a place of deep passion, but with great care about the human condition. I'll let you know how it goes.

More blogging to come.......soon.

Rwanda & EHarmony.com

 A couple of years ago, a friend of mine, Eva, suggested I try internet dating, while we sat for hours at a family dinner party laughing and riffing on my dating life, (or lack thereof).  I insisted it was not for me and explained I would not be a success story for EHarmony.com or Match.com or any of these other costly, hip, 21st Century ways to meet me a man.  But upon her insistence and others prodding and poking me toward the hell gate of disappointment, I succumbed and reluctantly completed a profile on EHarmony.com.  If you are not aware, the process of completing these dating service survey's is as time consuming and as boring a Germanic Studies student completing their dissertation on "The Bourgeois Tradegy."   The problem was this:  I would write the truth about my interests and passions.  My 2 best girlfriends, Ann & Christi, upon hearing this looked at each other with raised eyebrows and the uh-oh-we-need-to-have-a-talk-with-her smirk-lips, sighed and politely said,  "No, No, Hope.  Don't do that.  The goal here is for you to GET a date." I said I'd edit my profile after talking with them, but I never did, and I have not been called to do a commercial for EHarmony.com. 

These sites ask you to share your favorite foods, favorite date nights, hobbies, hopes, dreams; they ask you questions like "If you could have dinner with a any person dead or alive, who would it be?, or "Would you give your kidney to your lover and why?"  You get the idea.  In response to the favorite books category I listed, We Wish to Informm you that Tomorrow We will Be Killed With Our Families by Philip Gourevich.  This book is an account of the 1994 Rwanda genocide whereby the Hutus were ordered to kill all Tutsis,  triggered by the assassination of Rwandan President Habyarimana.  In 100 days, 1,000,000 Tutsi's were killed, 85% of the Tutsi population, a nation wiped out.

While I lived in South Africa I was asked to teach history classes for the 8th, 9th, 10th grade students.  Outdated, boring, history books, at least 8 nations representing the student body, and a novice teacher.  What to do? During a group assembly with teachers, students and some parents, I decided to broach the idea that the students might benefit from a very focused analysis of a period of time instead of the usual cursory review of the history of our world; that we should concretize for them and put in context the motivations for warring nations, genocide, politicide and ethnocide, in light of the "end of Aparteid."  I felt that by examining specific people and events it would ignite curiosity to learn more, make connections, and stir them to take action to make change, question, advocate for causes they believed in, and to recognize the need to have courage in a world one  believed would never see these atrocities again.  At that meeting that night, I had the Gourevich book and a book about the life of Ghandi.  I spoke at the meeting with great passion about the Rwandan genocide and Ghandi leading the Indians to independence from the British rule without violence. Gaping mouths, wide eyes, raised eyebrows, concerned faces........that semester I created my lessons and we studied the Holocaust and Ghandi. I used resources at the University of Cape Town and museums to teach.  Something very powerful happened in that experience with me and those students, studying topics and ideas so taboo.  I still get emails from my students,who sign their name and then add, "Ghandi Power!" - the slogan and mantra for how we chose to live together inside and outside my classroom.

Thursday, I am leaving Uganda, on my own, to travel to Kigali, Rwanda to visit the Genocide Memorial. I wish Philip Gourevitch were accompanying me, but I am sure he's busy editing the Paris Review and / or writing his next piece for Vanity Fair or The New Yorker.  I plan to document all that see in my journal and with my camera. I will be sure to share with those who are interested.  I know there will be many.  I'll try not get on my "soap box" and bore people with my usual rants about injustice, and my intolerance for intolerance, and my emotional tirades about human rights. I will try and temper myself and remain silent when I know words will do more harm  These are the kinds of lessons I've learned in my life.  South Africa, Uganda, Rwanda, Mexico City, Honduras, Nepal, the under-served, the voiceless, the homeless, the soul-less, the weak, the strong, Tutu, Ghandi, Che, King, Mandella..........these are the issues and people and places that interest me.  These are the issues I care to think about and the people I want to speak to.  These are the places I'd like to go on a date.  (Okay, the South of France, too), and these are the people I want to talk to you at a dinner party with my friends and loved ones.  So, EHarmony.com, thanks for the opportunity to find my "true love", but I think I already have. 

My Mother and the Grace of an African

When I was growing up my mother always said, "Hope, if you've got a bar of soap, good manners and you walk with grace, you're set for life." She said a lot of things about what it means to live one's life in grace and with dignity.  I think I exercised both of these important tenets of life most the day she died. She was an exemplary model of this state of being.  She didn't have much, but by God, the woman was graceful.  

Grace, when exercised, allows us to see the elegance of the human spirit.  It allows us to "give freely, without condition." When spoken of in a religious context it is the unmerited favor and love of God -  being in a "state of grace."

I am called to be especially graceful these days as I fumble and trip about making various life decisions.  I want to be elegant and graceful in how I interact with others, and how I approach really big challenges.  And I am humbled by the degree of grace I witness in the Africans I have met recently. Since my mother is not here with me, I need to take note of the examples of grace shown to me in this foreign land, behaviors and mindful acts that will guide me to make the right decisions.

Ugandans greet everyone by saying, "You are most welcome." The first time I heard this I stammered a bit wondering what I had just thanked them for.  The greeting stops you in your tracks because it creates a degree of comfort and hospitality that "Hi" just doesn't cut.  You wonder what you've done to deserve such favor for having done nothing but show up.  It is humbling to receive such so much for nothing, and I feel the need to stand taller, make sure my rat's nest of a hair do is not as wild as usual, and that I demonstrate patience:  look a minute longer at a person, go slower for those who can not keep up with my "Tazmania Devil" pace, and graciously accept their offerings of kindness. 

Another common expression among Ugandans (and other cultures , too) is, "You look Smart!"  Every morning I wake to those words from Sara, Charles, Joyce, and Daniel.  I blush.  I make a funny face and silly comment to make them laugh and divert their attentions.  I must admit I do not feel I am looking my best these days, but it makes my day to hear such compliments.  Those cold morning showers, the ritual of killing a few bugs before I even had the chance to pee, and the extensive prep needed to just brush my teeth b/c I can't use the tap water, makes me feel as if I'd already been digging and hoeing in the bush for hours by the time I hit the dining room to eat breakfast.  But I am no worse for the wear.  I gracefully enter the room with a proper salutation for each of them, and my own version of affection, and we are all grateful for reciprocated kindness.  Grace.

When traveling into the bush to teach, I have seen lithe, strong, beautiful, women with a half a tree of matooke (bananas) and a 25 lb. sack of rice on her head,  a baby strapped to her back, and walking  with the grace of  Eliza Dolittle in My Fair Lady. And it's 95 degrees to boot.  Oh, and she's "dressed."  Reminds me of a time when my mother, pressed to the limit with life stuff, said, "A woman can be 8 months pregnant, wearing  pantyhose in 95 degree weather, cooking dinner and washing dishes for an army, and never miss a beat!" She had more in common with these Africans women than they imagined. Grace.

Traveling on the most remote roads or the busiest streets, it is not uncommon to see Ugandan men wearing a suit jacket, pleated trousers, and advancing toward their destination with the gait of a true gentleman.  One of my first excursions out into the bush, I saw a man on the side of the road.  Must have been 6 ft. 5 " tall, if he was a foot high.  He was around 60  years old.  As he walked his over-sized, navy blue, overcoat hung on him as if he himself were a wardrobe hanger.  I could see his shoulder blades protruding through that coat, poking out so sharply, left then the right, like ax heads.  His hands hung by his sides as if they were atrophied, and he carried himself as if the top half of him was unattached to the bottom half of him.  He was a living, breathing, marionette. He walked with such grace in that scorching heat. He seemed proud and he walked like a man.  Grace.

I attended a school in the bush the first week I was here in Uganda, and I happend to walk in on a group of students rehearsing for an upcoming dance and music competition.  I walked in and sat down. No one spoke English.  I spoke with my body and gestured to ask their permission to watch.  They gestured with their eyes only that it was okay for me to stay.  The students never moved out of position and never lost focus. 

The teachers were amazing - giving instruction like the German theatre folk I worked with eons ago.  They were tough. There were direct.  They demanded attention and perfection.  It was clear why.  These kids could deliver the goods.  I was oohing and aahing away and not one child, (except the 12 year old drummer who shamelessly flirted with me) cracked a smile, or lost their focus.  In fact, these children were performing with the grace and formality of Kabuki Dancers.  They were not showing off.  They were ego-less.  It was a privilege for them to be performing, and they were honored that I appreciated them so.  They were treating their performance like a surgical team would attend to a heart operation.  It was not silly.  It was not a time to lay back and relax.  This was a time to communicate spirit and African tradition.  It was a moment to say thank you to their teachers, and exude pride and power of their traditional Lingala dance.  I wrote in my journal that EVERY person who even thinks about studying to be a performer needs lessons from these kids.  Kids who live in the bush, have no shoes, dancing on a dirt floor.  Best show I have ever seen in all my life!  I applauded and wept. They bowed before me, and exited with grace and dignity, like all performers should.  Grace.

While teaching the students at one of the schools in the bush, a young girl rose from her bench seat, looked at me, and then came forward to the front of the room. She knelt before me and asked if she could "take leave" for a moment.  I knelt before her and said, "Yes, you may.  But please come back, okay?"  The students gasped.  Some laughed and covered their mouths with the palms of their hands and bent over their desks, eyes looking to see what I would do for their outbursts.  With great interest to hear their responses, I asked them the following question, "Why are you laughing?  What is so funny?" 

A young man stood up and  said, "You are not supposed to kneel to us.  We kneel to you.  You are above us." 

I was quieted by that remark, even though I knew it to be their truth, but said, "I understand the reasons that you bow and kneel before me.  I respect your need to do this, and won't ask you NOT to do it, even though it makes me very uncomfortable.  But we need to agree to the following:  If you kneel before me, I will kneel before you. I am NOT "above" you.  It is such a privilege and honor for me to be invited to teach you and learn from you.  We are equal."

At the close of class, each student handed in their assignment to me on bent knee.  I bent and knelt 35 times.  They laughed every time.  They stared at me with wide eyes and gaping mouths, and whispered to each other.  When I collected my belongings and slung my 5 bags over my shoulders and on my back like the pack mule I am, they rushed me, hugged me, and thanked me.  As I exited, I blew them a kiss.  They caught the kiss in their hand, like I taught them, and put it in their pocket.  Grace.


I could write endlessly about Africans and grace, but I won't bore you.  I will close by saying that in the last years of my mother's life she was confined to a wheel chair.  I called her at least once a day during my busy days in New York, and when I did she used to ask me, "Where are you taking me today?" On a good day, I was patient and easy about the question, telling her we were in mid-town or Chinatown, or uptown or downtown; at the grocery store, or the hairdresser or in a market buying fruit, or a cool little bookstore.  On a bad day, I was irritable and snappy, sighing and rolling my eyes, wishing she'd just get on with the main issue of our conversation. 

While in East Africa, I can hear her calling to me and asking, "Where are we going today?"  I answer her with great care and excitement, filling her in on all the details. My heart swells.  I feel her smiling at me.  I see her blue eyes, the eyes I inherited, looking at me with great admiration and pride.  I tell her I'm sorry for the times I was not so pleasant with her.  And I think about how I'll conduct myself today, in each and every moment, she being my litmus test of grace and truth.  I prepare for my day, kill a bug or two, scream aloud at the geikos in the bathroom, and the ants I find hustling and bustling about on the food I need to prepare for breakfast.  I'm irritated.  I'm impatient.  I slow down, greet my housemates warmly, and begin my day.  Grace.

Dear Charlotte

Yesterday, I met up with a young, American woman, with whom I have become friendly while staying in Uganda.  She is also teaching here this summer, and we decided to exchange notes and ideas about our experiences.  It was decided that on Thursday I would visit her school in Nakayuba, a town bordering Masaka, where I am staying.  We went to lunch together and talked, and then headed over to the school on a boda boda.  I was very excited to meet her students.  I was interested to observe if there were differences between our schools, the students, the lessons.  There were.  (I cannot disclose the contrasts I observed and recorded in this blog, but you can read about them in my book).

Upon arrival to the school grounds, the children saw Catherine* and smiled their big toothed grins; puffs and circles of red fog were created from the dust they kicked up with their heels as they jumped up and down calling her name.  They skipped along beside us.  I made funny faces and squinted at them, which made them giggle, and then they skittered away as we turned the corner and vanished from sight.  We needed to go to Catherine's host family house first, so she could change out of her jeans into a skirt, to teach.  It is not appropriate for a woman to move about her day in such casual attire.  Note: (I had on cream colored riding pants, the riding pants I wore every day to the stables to ride Midnight - the horse I rented in South Africa.  They are my Africa pants.  I donned cowboy boots, and a black jogging jacket.  Hopefully, my respectful greetings and wide welcoming eyes excused my laziness to "dress" that day).   

We entered the school grounds around lunch time and it was the usual hustle and bustle of school children running and playing, chasing one another, demonstrating their impatience as they waited their turn to hop on this old fashioned sort of carousel ride that looked so inviting I also wanted a turn to spin, spin, spin around fast like that.  All the children had on red and white checkered shirts.  They looked like a hundred moving picnic tables. The girls wore blue skirts or jumpers, the boys blue shorts.  It is hot outside. Hot! And Catherine and I sit with our bums balanced on a wooden beam, baking like geikos in the sun.  We are waiting to enter P6, where she will teach her class.  We are talking about the project she is facilitating at the school, and per usual there are a number of obstacles and "bumps in the road" she must handle in order to see this project through to its end.  Children are gathering around us because I made eye contact with a couple of little girls.  I began moving my head in a muppet-like bobbing motion that indicated I wanted to dance.  I fixed my eyes beyond them like I was seeing something REALLY interesting in the distance, and twisted my lips in the silly way I do, and I kept on with that head gesture.  The few children that witnessed me doing this started to clap their hands, smiling as bright as that hot sunshine, and laughing and giggling, almost uncontrollably.  Uh oh, I was drawing a crowd without uttering a single word to them yet.  Twenty, thirty more children came running to join in on the fun.  Soon most of them were clapping in unison, laughing and egging me on to keep on with my antics, and I do.  Doesn't take much! I am a "ham" at heart.

I like kids.  I like small people.  I think they are interesting.  I "get them".  I think they know I speak their language, and in my own way, I communicate a side of my spirit with children that is comforting for them, exciting to them,  but can be off-putting and/or embarrassing to some adults.  Ironically, those same adults who find me embarrassing, have embarrassed me, too. 

Adult:  "How many children do you have?"

Hope:  "I don't have any children."

Adult:  "Why not?"

Hope:  "I am not sure how to answer your question, except to say, I suppose it was not in the stars for me." 

I smile and bite my lip.  My eyes well with tears.  I feel sad.  I am marked as incomplete, not whole, somehow a damaged woman.  I feel I have endured a questionable African ritual that will ultimately ex-communicate me from womanhood, from a community, from a world society. 

Adult:  Bows head.  Averts eyes trying to find someone to "save" them from this situation.  Change of subject.  Excuses themselves to carry on elsewhere.  Looks back at me, confounded by this fact they have learned about me.

I forgive them.  I understand.  I understand more and more these days. And besides, I am getting used to having a version of this conversation in Uganda, as much as I am getting accustomed to being called Muzungu.  It is inconceivable to women, men, children, that I am childless.  I am anomaly.  Story of my life.

I will never be a mother.  But I am about to become a sort of "mother"; the God Mother to a child who will be named Charlotte.  One of my dearest friends, Scotia, is pregnant and honored me with the request to take on this role of her long awaited, desired child.  I have thought about Scotia and "Charlotte" a lot on this trip because of the conversations about children, because of my intense focus on children here.  I think about the landscape of what Charlotte's life will be like in contrast to the lives of the Sara's, David's Matthew's, Emmanuel's and Rachel's I have met in Uganda.  She will not want for anything.  She will have shoes.  She will have heart.  The "gifts" that will be bestowed upon Charlotte are not detectable in a sonogram, but the very qualities of her being that will serve her well in the big life I know she'll live.  Charlotte will most likely be a beauty.  If she's lucky she'll get her mother's eyes and lips and hair.  (The Father of this child is equally beautiful but we're focusing on women here, people).  Charlotte, you will learn what it means to have integrity and grace.  Like your mother, you won't want to see suffering.  You will be wise and intelligent.  And you will be fair and exercise diplomacy.  Like your mother, you will be a friend, and a woman of your word (thank you, Scotia). You will be strong and mighty in a quiet, dignified sort of way.  You will know what it means to be brave.  Yes, you're mother has been brave, oh so brave.  And you will have that kind of courage.  As the Ugandans say, "You are welcomed."  We all await you with open arms.  And yes, you are welcomed!

Charlotte, perhaps you will join me one day for a trip to African and revisit the place I sit and wonder about who you are.  Might be an interesting Bucket List time:  Take Charlotte, my God Daughter to Africa.  We'll walk together hand in hand and chat.  I'll still do that muppet - like head bobbing movement and twist my lips in the silly way I do.  You'll have to endure it.  And I'll introduce you as my friend's daughter, my god daughter.   

Requiem for the Past

Africa conjures up a lot of emotion in me.  I speak of the continent as if I somehow have ownership of a small piece of it, as if I am it's keeper and protector.  And I suppose that passion creates curiosity in people to frequently ask me why I am so attached to Africa.  I don't know how I usually answer this question.  Please. Tell me if I have responded to your query.  I'd like to know what "story" slides off my tongue.  Usually, when I hear that question I run for cover internally.  So much of my life and who I've become is tied to this place.  I am either not comfortable or completely clear about my love affair with Africa, but I know it is intense, and I am constantly reminded of just how intense I am.  But there is a story to be told. 

I recently shared the book, Eat, Pray, Love with my friend Ann, who would read passages of that book to me as I lay curled up on her couch during my visits to Connecticut.  While listening to the author's most intimate truths being revealed page after page, it inspired me to tell my truth, too.  I know I have told versions of it.  Why I'd venture to reveal such a truth on a blog is beyond me; perhaps distance in time and space creates a degree of courage and whimsy within me. 

A few years ago I met a man who loved Africa; an intellect, scholar of sorts, a writer, a recluse.  He dreamed of returning to Africa, after having lived in Kenya for some years.  He asked me to marry him to create the opportunity to return to his first love, and I accepted the invitation because I loved him.  We all make choices.  We all know the truth and reasons for those choices. ( I'll leave those details for the book I'll write sooner than later).  Suffice it so say for now, I forged ahead with my eyes tightly closed, clenched fists, and the private little dream I had for my life tucked away in the left corner of my heart.  That is where I have always reserved the space for the man I would call my husband; the person I would journey through this life.

We left for Africa soon after our nuptials, and it was soon after that that our "house of cards" marriage came tumbling down, down, down.  Nine thousand miles away from home, and feeling more frightened than I've ever felt before, I mustered the strength and courage to tell my friends and family that all was well; that things were going great, and that I was choosing to stay and make my life (for the time being) in South Africa.  Yes, I actually said goodbye to my parents and my dearest friends, and moved far away, in the hopes that this cataclysmic change, that I was told was vital and necessary for me and my husband's life, was the "answer".  The problem for me, in retrospect, was that I did not know the question.   

South Africa is one of the most beautiful places on earth.  It has lush forests, beautiful beaches, incredible mountains, spectacular sites to see, the most breath-taking flora and fauna, and of course,  real live, NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC wild life adventures.  (Uh, huh.  I slept in a lien-to in Botswana, deep in the bush, while on safari.  I'm still not quite sure how I survived the terror of knowing there were snakes and elephants possibly inches away from me as I "slept."  Walking to a pit toilet in the middle of the night was a sight to see.  And the cold morning splash baths were embarrassing due my inability to quell the screams I uttered from the freezing water temperatures). But the most incredible part of my experience in South Africa was my relationship to its people.  I fell in love with Africaan-er's, tribal people, and ex-pats.  I was embraced by many different kinds of people, as if I were their family member.  I was treated with great respect and I had great respect for those with whom I shared my life.  People were seeing something in me that I had not yet seen in myself.  I was changing because of their perceptions of who I was, and it was becoming habit for me to behave fearlessly, stronger and more capable that I had ever been before.

My husband (now ex) and I were a teaching team at the American International School of Cape Town.  Together, we created a very exciting theatre program.  The students were incredible.  I loved each and every one of them.  I believe they loved me back.   I worked tirelessly every day as I had no teacher training, and I was determined to create interesting, exciting theatre and history classes.  I doubt they were all that interesting, but I did my best, gave from the heart, and fought for each and every one of those students to have the experience of their lives with me.  I believe many of them did.  I certainly did.  They saved my life, and I think, I saved a few lives myself.

Ironically, in the process of figuring out how to save my marriage, my job, my life, I lost everything that people define as having a life.  But the one thing I found in Africa, through all that loss and pain, was myself.  My center.  My person.  I was introduced to Hope Salas.  There was a part of her that was new to me.  Although,  I was still wrapped in feminine clothes, donning my heart on my sleeve, and goofy and innocent in many ways, there was this fierce, determined part of me that emerged.  Ready or not she was seemingly capable to face fear, slay big dragons, and do so with the grace, glory and dignity my mother demanded be demonstrated by me always.  Perhaps this was the training and preparatory coursework needed to manage and face what the future held for me.  (Again, details in the  the book).

Africa is the part of me that is crooked and imperfect; red dust and interminably demanding. It is the part of me that will eat with my hands and not be concerned about germs and Western manners. She is the part of me that can kick dirt, pee in a pit toilet, and kill a bug the size of a goat.  She is restless and worn, yet ever breathtaking and new.  She is resourceful and grateful for what is there, not knowing all will be replenished, but believing what is needed will be found.  She is the weak and hungry soul in me; the bones and will of a spirit that cannot be broken.  She is pitiable and respected; tall and iron fisted.  She is a lover to be loved; alone and silent and still as the African night.  She is forgotten and misunderstood; yet curiously interesting......a continent, a woman to behold.  I am.  She is.  An unregrettable, unforgettable past; an exciting future.  It is where a part of me is set free.  It is where I come home.  Alone.

Oh, and I do believe I actually knew the question my ex-husband sought to find the answer to. The question is too painful to admit and write.  But the answer is/was:  No, you don't.  And Africa won't change the outcome of that!  Ironically, my answer was: Yes. I do. And the place didn't matter.

Namirembe (Nah Me Rem Bay) Trip

Moses goes to Namirembe on Wednesday's.  That is where God Grace School is, and where I am going to teach on Tuesday's.  It's about an hour and half away, southeast of Masaka, on Lake Victoria.  Lake Victoria borders three countries in Africa:  Uganda, Tanzania, and Kenya.  The school is located in a very remote area, deep in the bush, past what most of us Westerners consider "civilization." We were schedued to start out at 8 a.m. but at 11 that day Moses informed me that the truck we were taking was in the garage, a problem with the starter.  (Gulp.  Smile.  Nod.  Okay.  Gulp.  The imagination is running away with me again.......gulp.  Reasoning returns.  Sweating stops.  Palms are a bit drier now. Resume composure.  It's okay.  Truck will start!  Moses doesn't want to get stuck in the bush.  Moses lives in Uganda.  Moses knows best).  I need a coffee. 

I would wait patiently since I wanted to try and get on the internet at the cafe and write. I attempted to connect several times, but to no avail.  In the next moment, I looked over and saw a Muzungu (white person) in the cafe that day.  Without shame, I ran up to her as would a 4 year old on the playground when a new kid arrives, and stood in front of her, hands by my side, eyes wide, and in that loud, direct, overly annunciated kid talk I said, "Hi, I'm Hope.  (Subtext:  Wanna come out and play"?)  Her name was Hilary. She asked me to join her at her table, and I plopped my 5 bags of books and electronics on the table, trying to establish myself at this table, my refugee camp.  Taking out books, journals, chords for phone, internet, camera and usb chords to download pix, files, checkbooks, keys from home.....I had "the bags." My bags. Those bags that have become appendages. Ugh!

The instant Hilary asked me to join her I found a piece of America that comforted me and kept me safe for the 2 hours that I talked with her.  She is doing a research project through her school, I am teaching in schools. We are both here to learn about Uganda and it's people, convincing ourselves we are making a difference being here, and trying to articulate something that has not readily making itself clear to either of us.......that we are here to learn something about ourselves, and it has to be learned in Uganda.  Seems no other place will provide the lessons we know we need.  We shrugged our shoulders on that part of the conversation, put our heads down, averted our eyes, and moved on to discuss her research. She told me about Malaria, a bacterial infection, and a blood infection she contracted all within the first 3 weeks of being here.  I popped a Doxcycline and "pounded" more coffee.
But I was responding in fascination and awe to her tales as if I weren't in the same country, or exposed to the same risks. Her friend, Lindsey joined us an hour later, and the connection between the 3 of us became stronger, conversation richer, and our little ex-pat circle was formed. 

Moses returned from the garage with the truck at 1:30 p.m.  We loaded the car together, and then I got into the passenger seat to settle in.  I closed the door to the truck and the handle fell off.  I looked around as if I were on Candid Camera, and frantically tried to put the handle back on.  I looked like Lucy Ricardo, and could actually hear my own version of an Ethel in my mind telling me to hurry up and fix it.  I couldn't fix it so I threw it on my seat, put on my seat belt and waited for Moses to return.  He got in the driver's side, and said, "Well, it is running but if I stop the truck it has a problem starting up again."
Hot sun, tempernmental truck, nervous woman with an imagination running wild as the hens in Masaka Town, and the possibility of no reception.  I am seeing myself walking for miles, getting sun sickness, feet blistering, unprepared for the snakes and gorillas I was bound to meet, and village people who would run up to me and call out, "Muzungu.  Muzungu."  I know I can escape and go back to the Volunteer House but I stay locked in my seat.  Moses sticks the key in the already running truck, and we're off.

Moses and I rarely speak when we're driving together.  But I'll open a Cliff Bar and offer it to him, after I rip a piece off the top for myself.  He thanks me.  I ask if he likes it.  He does.  And then we'll continue on those African back roads, and bounce and undulate along for a couple of hours,  having said everything we need to know about each other with few words.  The Cliff Bar, dried fruit, him stopping in town for me to ensure I have air time.  He stops at the side of the road when he knows I'd appreciate the photo op.  We smile.  We are now friends.  
 

New piece of information from Moses:  He says, "These trees are filled with monkeys."  "Really!  I love monkeys." I stated overly excited.  I am sweating profusely again.  My imagination is stirred.   We're going to slide on the gravel into one of these road trenches, or fall into a hole in the road that could swallow a Land Cruiser whole.  And the car will stall.  The monkeys will come.  Moses will try to fight them off, screaming in Luganda, me screaming in English.  They'll be confused and annoyed and they'll go for the Muzungu.  It'll be over quick.  He'll carry on to the schools to deliver the goods, with a knot in his stomach, knowing when he returns to the office, he'll have bad news about the monkeys and the Muzungu.  A bump wakes me from this daydream.  I regain my composure and begin praying the car will not stall, or better yet, if it does stall, the monkeys will come near excited by a visit by the muzungu.

Namirembe is beautiful. The kids at God's Grace School are beautiful.  We go and talk about what lessons are most needed.  I video the children laughing and screaming NI MEE REM BAY b/c my Luganda is so bad that they are teasing me about my pronunciation. Moses gets in the running truck, backs up on a hill and parks the truck so that the it is pointed downhill.  I know why he's done this.  He's going to CUT THE ENGINE.  He's going to turn off the truck.  And he does. 

We prepare to leave a half hour later after our talk with the school's pastor. Of course, I can think about is the "what if's" - the truck may not start up again.  Sundown.  No cell reception.  Vast land and sky.  I'm hungry. We ate the Cliff Bars and dried fruit.  The monkey's.  The heart is beating wildly again. 

We say our goodbyes, and I am practically running to the truck.  For some reason I always think if I move faster than others it will create positive results for any situation or challenge.  So, I am moving like the wind, up that hill, standing at the passenger door, looking through the window and willing that ignition light to go on and that the truck will start.  Moses climbs in with grace and ease.  He inserts key.  He turns.  It does not start.  3 more tries.  On the third turn of that key, it starts.  I wave frantically at the kids from the window, smiling, and thrilled I am safe to return to Masaka.  But I am anxious to return and see them, no matter what the odds.

July 4th - Banana Tree Night Drive

Driving Harriet home from the 4th of July party held at Fay's bungalow in Masaka, Moses drove the van as carefully as one could be expected on these roads. We drove through an area of town that overlooked Nyendo. I asked Charles, my housemate, if it was a major center or city area because it was so illuminated. He told me it was actually a small town, not so nice, the town right before you get to Masaka. As we drove, twisting and turning roads caused our bodies to undulate in the back of the car as if we were on bucking broncos.  But I conversed with Charles and I kept on in our laughter and conversation as if we were properly seated at a dinner table, wine in hand, un-phased by the hardness of the world, or the rough ride. New friends: a Kenyan and an American getting to know one another, taking a moment to listen to the other; undeterred by the bumps and thumps on this night drive.

As we drove I noticed a canopy of banana leaves, tunnel-like, enveloping the van. The moon light illuminated the way. We drove through this forest of banana trees - their trunks and stalks like strong, thin Africans, and the leaves like the poised and delicate hands of young African dancers. The darkness in-between the trees like phantom elephants, quite as mice, the giantess unseen. I turned to Charles and with my usual wide-eyed wonder asked him, "Would I be safe walking through this jungle, this forest of banana trees?" Charles replied, "No, Not so safe. No." But the question came out of the fantasy of moving through, in and out, of the maze of trees in the darkness, alone. I am Alice. This is my new wonderland. And I have "muchness." I am stirred by the night, and am seeking my way, "home" as usual. In my minds eye I stop and stand looking at the trees and up at the night sky.  They are directional signals.  I think of Scarecrow holding one arm pointing "that way", the other arm pointing "this way". Spinning and turning, arms akimbo, I fall down and land on the space I'll call home.  I wonder why nothing is familiar and yet everything is known.

The Banana Tree passage-way toward Harriet's home seems long - I don't want to exit the dark. I don't want the ride to end. But we exit "Mars" and arrive at Harriet's doorstep. She races to the doorway and yells out, "Linderko nyigire" (crudely translated means, "Wait till I get in"). We wait. She stands in what seems like stillness, but all know she digs frantically for her keys so as not keep us waiting very long. She finally enters. No light. Nothing moving. Seconds of darkness. Then light appears and a curtain is lifted. Moses continues on to get us all home. Again, we pass the leaves that are like hands, picking us up and carrying us past the trees where I lived an adventure moments earlier. The trees bow in obeisance as we drive away. I close my eyes tight and promise to remember this moment, and I will. I do. I will remember.

Barton Brook's website

Barton Brook's website: www.globalcolors.org

Blogs of interest to share and thanks!

Friends,

If you're interested in people who are making a difference around the world, and if you'd like to volunteer while on your next vacation, check out Barton Brooks's website . A very interesting story about a New Yorker who now volunteers his time around the globe, offering help to anyone who needs it. Inspiring!

Also, thanks to those who have donated DVD's for the children I'll be teaching in Kenya. Your generosity is appreciated.

More anon.

In kindness,

Hope

DVD Donations

Dear Friends,

There are several items I'd like to collect for the students at the school I'll be teaching in Kenya - particularly DVD's. If you'd like to donate a DVD (fun, family movies) please let me know. It would be greatly appreciated. Email me at HopeSalas@gmail.com email me and we can arrange a way for me to receive them.

Thank you for your generosity.

In kindness,

Hope

Leaving for Uganda and Kenya on June 28th

Hello Friends,

I will be leaving for Africa on June 28th. I will be studying and teaching in Uganda and Kenya, returning to New York City in August. In case you don't believe in miracles, I'm here to tell you to believe. Reevaluate your position about the concepts of hope, change, the power of intention and possibility. I've got a story to prove them all. Read on.

I have been planning this trip to Kenya with another NYC teacher for 2 years, but finding the money to get to Africa was a bit of a problem. I am a teacher. Need I say more about the money issue? But I volunteered to teach at the Father Joseph Oucho School for Girls during summer, 2010, and I wasn't going back on my word. I was a gadfly in how I approached finding the funding I needed. I kept talking to people, and stating that I was going to get to Kenya NO MATTER WHAT! I applied for grants, asked people for donations(thanks Dan), talked to rotary clubs, churches, and tried to align myself with established volunteer organizations, but the amount I needed seemed an impossible goal. I felt once again I was dreaming WAY too big!

One day a colleague with whom I work asked if I had a minute to talk about my travel plans to Kenya. He and I have Africa in common, and we always squeeze in a moment to tell each of our love of that beautiful continent, or let each other know about news in places we've both traveled. In response to his invite to talk, in "Hope fashion" I said,"I actually don't have time to talk, but can we make a coffee date? Things are not looking promising for my trip, but I can't talk about it now." My colleague stated that he might be able to help me find the funding needed to get me to Kenya. I wanted to believe him, but I left feeling less than hopeful. Who in the world was going to fund my trip to Africa? The next day I received this simple message from him, "You're going to Kenya. Details to follow." My colleague went to a private source and asked them to help fund my trip. Within a week I had a round trip ticket. How does one accept such a gift without questioning the concept of MIRACLE? When I wrote the benefactor to thank them for their generosity, I asked the question, "Why would you do this for someone you've never met? The reply, "How could I not?" Subsequent to that email exchange, I met this person. It was a quiet exchange;there was a knowing of the power of his gift to me, and the deep gratitude in my receiving it. It was a moment in time where the old adage, "There are no words" was understood.

So, I am off to teach and learn with an open mind and a grateful heart. While there, I will be blogging about my journey and posting pictures of this beautiful land and its people. I hope you will follow me and write your thoughts in response to my postings. Tell me what interests you; ask me questions about the flora and fauna, food, culture and tradition; and articulate your wonderings. Your queries will help provide the framework and focus of my observations and recordings, which is invaluable to me for my future work.

Upendo kiasi