Big Smelly Durian

Really

2011-07-18T07:11:00.000-07:00

When people who have been in Jakarta for some time ask me how I like it, and I say I do, most of them give me an odd look and say, “Really?”

Yes, Jakarta is smelly. The heat and the humidity only make the open sewers that much more pungent and the smog obscures the sun and the stars most of the time. The traffic is godawful and the income gap is staggering. The politicians are corrupt and the cops are worse. Prostitution is rampant; the penalty for a father pimping out his eleven-year-old daughter is seven years, while drug traffickers face the death penalty. It’s a ridiculous, stinky, crowded, wild, weird city.

As far as I’m concerned, all this adds up to one thing: I’ve come to the right place.

Because dammit, there are stories here. There are stories up the wazoo. Give me an urban cesspool like Jakarta any day over a lovely but sterile city like Singapore. It would be like getting Park Slope as your beat for Craft 1 in journalism school. It’s nice, but what are you supposed to DO with it?

Singapore

Everyone smiles here – as one former Jakarta Globe copy editor put it, “They’ll smile while they’re mugging you.” And yet I don’t feel like I have to be as constantly on guard as I was in Nairobi. You have to be careful here, but you don’t have to surgically attach your belongings to your person to be reasonably certain of their safety.

A shithole Jakarta might be – locals refer to it as "The Big Durian" (durians are a stinky but tasty native fruit) with a combination of affection and exasperation – but as with any place that’s rough around the edges, the simple moments of beauty only stand out more. As I walk through my neighborhood at night, the muezzin at the Islamic school around the corner wails out the call to prayer while shopkeepers sweep the streets and young troubadours in Nirvana T-shirts play softly on their guitars on the side of the road. As I pass by, they smile.

So basically, yeah. Really. No better place.

.

.

.

P.S. I should add that it doesn't hurt that Jakarta is just a short plane ride away from Bali.

143 = I love you.

Rwanda, Part 2

2011-06-13T13:03:00.000-07:00

Gorillas!

As promised, only almost a year late.

Tangy Little Mango will be entering a new stage of life soon when I move to Jakarta. But I have no doubt that it will be back at some point.

Rwanda, Part 1

2010-08-17T02:17:00.000-07:00

I landed in Kigali the day before Rwanda’s election with only the faintest idea of what I was going to do. I had been emailing some contacts there about getting a press pass and calling some journalist friends of friends; I wanted to do some sort of radio thing if I could swing it, and the guy at the media office had made it seem like getting press credentials would be a cinch.

Apparently, however, even in distant Rwanda people have somehow cottoned onto the New York City News Service, and they weren’t impressed with my press pass. I couldn’t get a clear answer from anyone as to whether credentials were necessary to do any reporting, period, or just necessary to get access to the big election events. Since I didn’t want to get arrested or deported and thus banned from covering events in Rwanda for life, and seeing as none of the media organizations I had contacted seemed interested in a story AND since I was stupid with exhaustion after three of the last four nights spent more or less sleeplessly nights on buses, I decided to let myself off the hook and just enjoy witnessing the day.

This being election day, everything was closed. The genocide memorial museum, all government buildings, even most restaurants. BUT! Hotels are always open, and so I suggested checking out Hotel des Mille Collines – better known to most people in the wider world as Hotel Rwanda.

So while Rwandans were lining up to cast their ballots all around the country, I found myself sipping a beer with a couple of friends by the pool of the swanky hotel where Paul Rusesabagina famously smooth-talked the Interahamwe, bribed them with top-shelf liquor, and generally bad-assed them into sparing the lives of more than a thousand Rwandans during the genocide. It was all kinds of surreal, watching the smartly-dressed waiters serve chilled lagers to pasty foreigners while children laughed and paddled in the bright blue serene water, all the while wondering what the scene might have looked like fifteen years ago to the man with fierce facial scars who gave me my change.

After a delicious dinner of Indian food at the first open restaurant we were able to find, my new friend Elizabeth (who I met at the hostel where we were staying) and I hopped motorbikes to head uphill to the national stadium, where I estimate at least 20,000 Rwandans had gathered to watch the election returns come in.

It was huge. In between massive cheers as the regional results were announced, people went nuts for what seemed like every DJ and musician of note in Rwanda or Burundi, and save for the podium of journalists near the stage, we were two out of maybe four wazungu amid the thousands of people on the stadium floor. It was fantastic. Rwandans seemed nearly as elated to see us there as they were about the election. It was great to really engage with people and hear what they had to say about Kagame and the election. It’s fascinating to me how, with everything that’s been in the news lately about the regime (slightly sinister assassinations, brooking no opposition, etc.) a massive majority of people truly do seem to genuinely like, even love, their president. When he finally came out, the screams reminded me of being at Invesco in Denver when Obama made his entrance.

I’m also pretty sure I’ve never been groped so much in my life. C’est la vie.

We called it a night then, but not before Elizabeth had provided me with a business card whose value over the next few days I cannot possibly overstate, because that’s how we met Emmanuel: scrappy Congolese fixer, connected-up-the-wazoo tour operator, and general go-to badass extraordinaire – all five feet zero inches of him.

Next up: GORILLAS!

I spent 100 hours...

2010-08-13T07:10:00.000-07:00

...pretty much exactly like this over the last three weeks.

Back to Arusha

2010-08-07T08:53:00.003-07:00

Two days later…

Arusha wasn’t quite as surreal this time around; it’s taken on a homey, oh-yeah-I-know-this-place-now, comfortable kind of vibe for me. I visited Bangata again and was gutted to discover that Mama was again away visiting Pili. I had another nice visit with Baba and Farajah, but I’m determined to one day see Mama again. Just another reason I need to come back to East Africa again.

I also went to a school on the outskirts of town with my friend Sam where his friend used to teach and is now helping to support with Kipepeo Clothing, a T-shirt line he created that showcases drawings by the kids – rhinos, airplanes, whatever they feel like drawing. They’re great shirts and the friend sends all of the proceeds to the school. I got the grand tour and saw the kitchen and bathrooms the school is hoping to improve – it was cool knowing exactly what the money would be going to. We brought pens and sketch paper for the kids to do some more pictures as well as some candy and a soccer ball as gifts. It was nice to get away from the pure tourist track, as much fun as that was to do in Jinja.

Now, we’re off to Rwanda! Forty hours on a bus. And one big election to cover. Hooo boy.

A Four Lines Feelings Check On A Bus In Uganda

2010-08-07T08:53:00.001-07:00

This one’s for the Open Sky crew.

Body:

I’m sweaty, I have to pee, and my calf is throbbing where I burned it against the exhaust pipe of the boda boda (motorbike) that took me to the taxi (Ugandan matatu) from my friend Laurie’s place this morning. There are little raised bumps and scratches all over my right forearm where her adorable but bitey puppy Kit used me as a chew toy last night. I’m a little sunburned, especially on the tops of my knees. I have that slightly hollow feeling that comes with being a bit hungover. I’m thirsty and hungry. There’s a wonderfully cool breeze blowing in my face from the window and I’m being bounced around as I watch the little farms just outside Kampala speed by, all red earth and big green leaves and rolling hills divided into neat fields. My ass, already tender from horseback riding yesterday, is not pleased. My shoulders are sore from paddling the Nile the day before and my hips are still a bit out of joint from bungee jumping. I hear people having low conversations in Luganda in front of me and behind me. I’m listening to “Tabasamu.” I smell exhaust and ME, and I’m not sure which is gnarlier.

Mind:

I’m wishing I could drink the bottle of Rwenzori water sitting so invitingly in the seat pocket in front of me, but I already have to pee, we just left Kampala, and I have no idea how far out our first stop will be. I’m wondering what ungodly hour it will be when we get into Arusha and if it’ll be late enough to skip getting a room somewhere… but I’m also in dire need of a shower. I’m marveling at the beauty of the landscape. I’m hoping that Mama Pili will be home this time when I go to Bangata. I’m thinking about last night’s hilarious escapades and already planning on trying to make a “Rolex” when I get home – essentially a Ugandan breakfast burrito with eggs rolled up in a chapatti (think “roll-eggs). Because it was AMAZING.

Heart:

Nervous, elated, amused, giddy about all of the above. A little irritated that my phone continues to function only when the mood strikes. Relieved as hell that I made the Akamba bus with zero minutes to spare after a mad boda boda ride through Kampala’s insane traffic. Missing my friend Eva, who I left behind in Jinja and is the best travel buddy anyone could ask for, but happily anticipating meeting up with the next friend in Arusha.

Soul:

When I get older, I will be stronger, they’ll call me freedom just like a wavin’ flag.

Happiness hit her like a train on a track. The dog days are over. The dog days are done.

I followed you into the park through the jungle, through the dark. Moats and boats and waterfalls alley ways and pay phone calls, I’ve been everywhere with you. Laugh until we think we’ll die, on that summer night everything is sweeter when with you. and in the streets we’re running free like it’s only you and me, the truth is you’re something to see. Home, let me come home. Home is wherever I’m with you.

Later:

Turns out I’m in effing Nairobi again. When I bought the bus ticket, they neglected to mention that it wasn’t a direct trip. It’s 4:16 am and I’m sitting groggily in the 24-hour restaurant above the Akamba station learning the hard way that just because it’s open all hours doesn’t mean it actually has food that whole time. My visions of a hot, hearty breakfast spread (“Spanish omelette with chapatti and beans, please?”) got a rude awakening in the form of a samosa and chapatti made somewhere back around Nam, a hard-boiled egg, and instant coffee with no milk.

I’ve got two hours and change before my connecting bus to Arusha gets here. It’s cold as balls out – I’m already nostalgic for nice, warm Uganda – and the bathroom in the restaurant is locked. Oh, travel. You’re a little brat, but you’re MY little brat and I love you.

Written in Jinja on Wednesday

2010-08-07T08:52:00.000-07:00

I would just like to state for the record that Eva and I are the dream team of travel buddies. Together, our halfway decent Swahili becomes pretty damn good Swahili. We are amazing at charming bartenders. One of us will have a good idea, and the other will add another layer that makes it GREAT.

I love her. That’s all.

I'm pretty sure...

2010-08-02T08:56:00.000-07:00

...that heaven looks a lot like sunset motorcycle rides through Ugandan villages, smashing down Silverback rapid on the Nile, and cute Australian bungee jumping instructors calling me "sweetheart."

Life, you beauty

2010-07-28T10:22:00.000-07:00

I’m a happy kind of girl. Unless there is something pretty painful that I’m grappling with, cheeriness and optimism are my default state. This past year in New York has been a good one. I’ve made fantastic friends, I’ve gotten to know one of the greatest cities in the world, and I’ve been learning a lot in an intense but rewarding program. School drove me a bit insane at times, of course, but the madness just made all of us closer and I always managed to have fun.

But this past week, I have felt

for the first time in a long time.

I skinny-dipped by moonlight in the Indian Ocean. I danced with abandon till 3am with people I’d known only a few days but already loved to pieces. I wandered around deliciously sandy and salty and just feeling the sun on my face was enough to make me wriggle with joy. I slept in odd places and at odd hours: on couches and buses, under palm trees. I met someone from Durango halfway around the world. I ate a coconut straight from the tree. I spent several nights singing karaoke, strolling the dusky streets of Nairobi, and overlooking the cityscape from the rooftop while soaking up the company of some really special travelers whose paths all overlapped for a stolen few days. And when you meet a like-minded person on the road, the usual boundaries don't apply. Friendships are near instantaneous, deepest wishes are shared, spontaneous travel plans are made together, next week and two years from now, and you totally mean it.

Being here, meeting other people who love to explore… it’s scratched that itch in a big way. It’s funny how single-minded I’ve been about working in East Africa. I said something recently in my post about going back to Tanzania that I’ve been thinking about a lot: how maybe your first adventure is always the one you fall in love with. I love it here. I truly do. But I wonder if I’ve been so set on coming back here and working long-term because my time in Tanzania was the coolest thing I’d ever done and I wanted to recapture that feeling - and now that I'm here, it feels silly to have ever thought this was the only place I could find what I was looking for.

So… I still want to come back and work here. But probably not for a hard news organization like AP, and probably not for as long as I had planned. I was so gung ho about really immersing myself in the culture for a few years, minimum. Now, I could see myself coming back to work on a documentary, freelancing some radio stories, and then... leaving. What a marvelous concept.

Because, the thing is, there are just so many more places out there.

It’s incredibly liberating. I'm looking at the world today and it all seems tinged with the fire of an Australian sunset, I'm gulping the air down like I'm in the highest reaches of the Andes, each gust of wind feels like a road trip with the windows down.

I’m thinking about going to Paris for a fourth semester. Paris! Then maybe I'll work at a winery/hostel in Spain next summer and go to a tomato-throwing festival in Valencia. Then Australia to find a job with a radio station and learn how to surf. Then who knows? Not this girl!

All I know is it could be anything. And that is exhilarating.

The more experiences I have, the more I realize that what I really want out of life is just to live it. I’d still love to work for National Geographic some day, but I don’t want to make that the main focus of my existence. I’d rather build a life than a resume for something that may or may not work out. It’s like the state forcing elementary teachers to teach to standardized tests. Sure, you may have gotten the end result you were hoping for, but what did you miss along the way?

I have skills now that I can take with me wherever I go. I can shoot and edit video, write and produce a radio story, take photos good enough to sell. I may have lost a camera this summer, but I can't wait to find out what sights the future cameras will capture in my hands. I know wherever I go and whatever I do, I’ll do good work, and I’ll wind up somewhere beautiful.

Stalker!

2010-07-21T06:49:00.000-07:00

About a week ago, two sisters from Nigeria began occupying the bunk bed next to mine. We introduced ourselves and chatted as people do when they’re sharing a very small space. One day, the younger of the two, Anita (who speaks the most English) asked if they could use my toothpaste. I told her they could help themselves.

“You are very kind,” she said. She exchanged a look with her sister that was laden with meaning. “We have a brother who is staying here, too. You should meet him.”

A little while later, she asked me for my number. Thinking it only natural that as roommates we should exchange our contact info – maybe we could hang out some evening – I gave it to her. She and her sister proceeded to giggle a great deal, and she made a phone call. I couldn’t understand what she said, but I heard my name. She hung up. A moment later, my phone rang.

I answered it with a sinking feeling. “Hello?”

“Hello. This is Austine, Anita’s brother.”

Good grief. My roommates were pimping me out.

I told Austine as nicely as possible that I was going to sleep and that I was sure I would see him around the hostel, but in the space of thirty seconds he managed to ask for my email address and tell me that he was sure we were going to be “special friends.” When I hung up, the girls were looking at me expectantly.

I didn’t have the heart to lecture them about privacy and courtesy, so I made hasty reference to my imaginary boyfriend/fiancé/husband, who I’ve been talking about so much lately that he’s started to develop a distinct personality, mostly invented on the spur of the moment in answer to the probing questions of Kenyan men who suspect I’m full of shit.

We met at school, naturally. He’s a photographer. He’s coming to visit me in a few weeks. His name is Daniel. And – because hearing that I have a boyfriend does nothing to dissuade persistent would-be suitors who will not be satisfied until I have a Kenyan boyfriend, too – he’s black. That is, Kenyan, actually! What are the odds?

It would appear that Anita didn’t pass on anything to her brother about my lovely fake Daniel, because the next day, Austine called me fifteen times. At least. From no fewer than three different numbers – hoping, no doubt, to catch me unawares if I was screening his calls. I sat at a café with a friend, the both of us watching in mixed amusement and horror as my phone lit up again, and again, and again.

Then he sent me a text message saying he was trying to reach Anita and asking me to tell her to call him. I held fast. If her phone wasn’t working, I wouldn’t be able to reach her either, and I was miles from the hostel on my way to see a movie with a friend. Then, another text. “Please help me out, it’s urgent.”

Against my better judgment but unable to ignore it just in case, I called him to ask what was the matter and if Anita was okay. I couldn’t make out everything he said, but I’m sure of two things: 1) he didn’t answer my question and 2) he professed his love for me.

All this before we’ve even met in person! Whenever I leave the room now, I half expect him to be standing outside my door in a tux with a ringbearer and a preacher at the ready.

Up next: Baby elephants!

The correct answer was...

2010-07-21T05:10:00.000-07:00

e) all of the above.

Let's start with the balls, shall we?

I have a friend from college who used to live in Kenya (hi, Dan!) and he told me years ago that if I was ever in Nairobi, I needed to go to Carnivore. It's one of the most famous restaurants in Africa, if not the world. Once upon a time (in the good old days) apparently you could get any kind of bush meat there, likely including but not limited to endangered species, but these days there are game laws in place that prevent you from serving lion to tourists. Still, they manage to provide a pretty impressive selection including ostrich, crocodile, and the aforementioned nicely seasoned testicles.

I'd been dying to go for weeks, but couldn't talk anyone into going with me because of the price tag. It's true that for the cost of one dinner at Carnivore, I could get three week's worth of rice and bean dinners at the hostel. But! I'd heard it was as much about the experience as it was the food. And I wanted to eat some MEAT.

On Friday night, I was tired from the week and treated myself to a light but tasty dinner of fish with salad and chips instead of my usual lentils or beans. I went back to the hostel intending to crash early - was actually in my pajamas, reading in bed, when in walked an English girl I'd met in the dorm the week before when she was on her way to dinner at Carnivore. I'd already had dinner, so I regretfully told her to have fun.

This time, we hailed each other cheerfully, I asked how her safari had gone, blah blah blah, and oh! Turns out she was going to Carnivore again with some friends. And again I'd already had dinner.

This time, however, I said, "Screw it!" and got dressed.

Carnivore, located a 15-minute drive from the city center, is more of a sprawling compound than a restaurant. There's a gift shop, a bar with a dance floor (the famous Simba Saloon), an outdoor patio full of tables where morbidly obese cats prowl for scraps, a vast hall with yet more tables, and a grill with the diameter of a redwood tree.

I found myself at one of the patio tables with a cheery crew of eight British university students who seemed totally cool with a random American chick tagging along. The servers brought around bread, salad, and potato and leek soup. It was all delicious, but we tried to resist in order to save room for the main event. Next, we each received a heavy cast iron plate where the servers could rest the tips of the swords they had loaded up with fat haunches of meat as they came around every few minutes.

My favorites were the ostrich, which was served in tender meatballs, and the ribs, because come on, they were ribs. The croc was a bit fishy and gristly, but somehow I kind of liked it. I had ox liver and it was the first time I'd ever really liked liver - very well-seasoned and less organ-y in texture than I remembered. The balls were actually somewhat similar in texture, with the exception of the skin, which was oddly rubbery. They also had beef, sausage, lamb, chicken, and - if we'd come just a little bit earlier before they ran out - camel.

Every table was given a white flag, which we were meant to leave out until we "surrendered" and took it down as a signal that we'd finished. Let the record show that I kept up with the boys and only bowed out one round before the last man standing.

Then there was dessert, drinks, and dancing. At one point I believe I was the only mzungu on the dance floor. It was awesome.

All in all, a night to remember.

Up next: Stalker!

I'll give you one guess

2010-07-19T06:45:00.000-07:00

Hellooooo, all! In the days since my last update, I have:

a) befriended a would-be mugger.
b) petted baby elephants.
c) acquired a stalker… without ever actually meeting him.
d) eaten ox balls.
or
e) all of the above.

Details to follow...

In Memoriam

2010-07-11T07:04:00.000-07:00

R.I.P. Ethel

May 5, 2010 - July 7, 2010

Ethel on her birthday with her proud mama.

Message from an old friend

2010-07-11T02:55:00.000-07:00

Kidogo changu pokea na dua njema nakuombea.

(Please accept this little from me, along with my prayers.)

It is the smell of the rain on a dirt road after a Kenyan thunder storm, it is the deep reds and violets of a bizarrely beautiful sunset over the Masai Mara, it is the smell of Diesel and wood smoke and the salty, warm sea breeze of Nungwi Zanzibar. It's the sound of young children playing soccer with hand crafted balls in the streets or on the beach, stopping to laugh and yell "Jambo" in your direction. It is the taste of burnt coffee on Kilimanjaro, it's a celebratory toast with a cold Tusker. It is the fear and excitement of not knowing what will happen, and the opportunities that are, therefore, endless. It is a place of togetherness with the 'Spirit of a Great Heart'. But most of all, it is one of the few place on Earth where I felt truly passionate about life every single day.

I hope you are soaking it up!

-D

Remember that time...?

2010-07-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

Okay. Here goes. The post you've all been waiting for:

---

If you know about this blog, you probably also know that I was mugged a few days ago.

In broad daylight. On the city bus, on my way to work. And the bastards stole my camera. Not just a dinky little camera for tourist snaps, but a cherished investment I recently made in my journalism career.

While I admit to several hours of blinding, stupefying rage on Wednesday, I think I’m doing pretty well seeing this in perspective. I knew this was a risk when I bought it right before a trip to “Nairobbery,” and I’m still obviously really glad I came. There are several silver linings that I am trying to focus on. One, I could have been badly hurt, and I escaped with just a bruise on my arm. Two, they could have gotten my MacBook Pro, a Marantz 660 on loan from CUNY, and an external hard drive. They didn’t.

And three, I get to tell the story of how I was mugged in Nairobi for the rest of my life. Even though a ripping good story is basically what I live for, the loss of the camera I affectionately called “Ethel” is still a little too raw for this to be a whole lot of comfort. So you'd better believe I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth.

The time: late morning. The place: a leafy road northwest of downtown Nairobi, on board a blue bus belching foul black smoke. I’m reading a book with one hand, as always, on my camera.

A man walks up and down the aisle with an official air. “Seatbelts, please,” he says loudly, for the whole bus to hear. “Seatbelts, everyone!”

Huh? I think. No one’s ever told me to put on my seatbelt on the bus before. I look for mine and find it to be broken, useless. I decide I don’t care and go back to my book.

A young man sits next to me. “You’re supposed to put your safety belt on,” he says. “I guess they’re cracking down.”

“It’s broken,” I say.

“Let me help you,” he says, leaning over me and scrabbling for the belt with his hand. He’s really crowding me, a lot of his weight on my shoulder. The first warning bell goes off in my mind.

This is too weird, I think. I shake him off and move to a different seat.

The same thing happens in this seat. It’s a different guy, insistent that I put my belt on. “Stop it,” I say loudly, clearly, holding my camera and my bag protectively. “I don’t need help. Get away. I’m moving.”

The only seats available at this point are in the back of the bus. I sit, and right then, when I am cornered, that’s when they make their move, the both of them. One leans heavily right across my lap, dragging a coat over me. The other is right behind him, backing him up as – yelling now, furiously shouting “GET OFF ME!” – I try and push them away. It was the only time I took my hands away from my camera, a few seconds at most. It’s all the time the first guy needs to unzip the camera case under his coat and pass it off to his buddy, unseen.

The evil chill I felt when I reached again for my camera case and felt it open and empty – let us never speak of it again.

Suffice it to say that I gave a yell that rattled the roof of that rickety bus, the sort of scream that makes every head turn and a hush fall over any crowd. “SOMEONE STOLE MY F$@!ING CAMERA! THIEF!” (Sorry, Mom and Dad, but if ever there was a moment when this type of language was entirely appropriate…)

The guy, still on top of me, looked into my blistering glare with a carefully neutral expression. I swept my gaze up and down his frame; he didn’t have it.

This is where my memory gets fuzzy. I think the bus was just starting to move after its most recent stop because it seemed a perfectly valid thing for a concerned onlooker (in retrospect, a guy who was planted specifically for this moment) to point out the window and say, “There he goes!”

In retrospect, jumping off the bus may be the dumbest thing I have ever done.

But! I was in a panic, and I’d been told, again and again, how much Kenyans hate thieves. “If you’re ever robbed,” some old Nairobi hand told me shortly after I got here, “make a stink, and people will go after the guy.” So I was reasonably sure that after all the screaming I’d just done, someone – surely someone! – back on the bus would apprehend the guy who had been assaulting me. And I yelled for the driver to wait as I flew down the stairs.

The moment I hit the ground and turned to look up the road for a fleeing figure, the door closed and the bus drove away.

Noooooo! No no no no no! Shit!

With this latest calamity, I think I lost my mind a little bit. There was no one on the road running away, but I thought – maybe, just maybe, grasping at straws – one young man up ahead walking away from the scene could have been the one. It would make sense for him to walk, so as not to attract attention, right? And so – get this – I ran after this random dude, (who if not decoy, was just some innocent pedestrian walking around probably thinking about what he wanted to have for lunch), swearing all the way – and frisked him.

Yep. I patted down a strange man on the street.

He gave me a confused look and said something in Swahili that I couldn’t comprehend in the state I was in. Upon discovering that he didn’t have anything under his billowy shirt, I told him “I’m sorry” in English and walked away dazedly. He probably thought I was hitting on him.

So... yeah. Oh my God, guys! Remember that time I got mugged in Nairobi, and what a crazy good story that was?

I'm sorry, Ethel! I tried to stop them!

Conversations with new friends

2010-07-09T00:44:00.000-07:00

These messages from some of the people I've met while in Kenya are making me smile:

---

I MISS YOU MY DEAREST. Hey my friend,i ave to confess that it wasn't easy to part with you swilly ,it was such a short time having known u Emilly,but honestly its like years.i miss you so much and am lookng to see you again,u were nice to me.and incase i ave ever b offend you, (unknowngly)l pray 4 yr forgiveness,i was mad when ghana was bitten bt they left me with no choice bt to lose hope with soccer.i arrivd safely,and you?love M

---

hey hey emily...

how you keeping... its been a bit of a frenzy last week... just landed back in town this evening and luckly found out that my flight is at 8am tomorrow morning and not 11pm as i had thought... was planning to give you a call for a quick drink before i rumbled but alas my confused head and disorganisation cut that out....

so.... its a bad way to say goodbye.... though i do believe there is no such thing as a goodbye, just a pause to the next hello...

ok... time to run off into the wind and learn how to dance like a cheetah.....

chat to you soon..
mangos and magic buttons

-k

---

Hi, hw r u doing, hop u r okay. We really appreciated for ur kindness and trust even though u didnt knw us. To us u were an Angel from heaven. We r so glad we met u. Wen can u come n say hi to us n see more of kenya? We would really love that. Can u pls send me the rest of the pictures if its possible. Thanx in advance. Do have an enjoyable day.

Back to Bangata

2010-07-08T10:50:00.000-07:00

On the Fourth of July, hours before most people back home stirred themselves for a day of barbeques and sprinklers and fireworks, I squinted up into the midday sun and began walking up a muddy, bumpy road lined with banana trees.

I shifted a little bag of groceries from hand to hand as I passed a busy street market with fruits and vegetables of every color spread out on the earth, women fanning small fires as they grilled ears of corn, dogs sleeping in patches of sun with their noses twitching under the flies, bridges and small houses and a church where voices rang out in song.

My heart was beating a little faster than the long walk up Mount Meru’s lower slopes demanded. I scanned the shady road for familiar landmarks. This little patch, here, with the path running several feet above street level – I definitely remembered it. And the one and only fork in the road. Take the left one, I remembered, and you’re in Bangata.

The village hadn’t changed much to my eye, if it all. I passed the school where I spent two weeks studying Swahili all day, every day and felt a little shiver of anticipation. I was almost there – just ten minutes more. I stopped to buy a few glass bottles of passion fruit Fanta. Was three enough? Would they be home? Would they remember me?

Finally, I stood where the path ran off to the left, and paused a moment to collect myself. A little girl approached me shyly and asked what I was doing. I said, “I’m here to visit Mama and Baba Pili. Are they here?”

She nodded and beckoned me down the path. We rounded the corner and there was the house, looking exactly the same with its neat lawn and flat stone walls and cozy little front door. I walked up and knocked.

No answer. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the girl racing around to the backyard. I followed quickly, smiling a little, sure that Mama was in the kitchen in the backyard, not wanting the girl to ruin the surprise.

But she wasn’t there. The kitchen was empty. Two more little girls looked at me in surprise, and I asked if Mama Pili was home, knowing she was most likely to be the one home during the day. One of the girls said, “Hapana. Amesafiri.” No. She is traveling.

The expression “my heart sank” is really a very accurate description. I swear I felt it thud somewhere around my toes.

But one of the girls ran inside, and I heard voices. Very clearly, I heard her say “mzungu.” I edged inside, glanced down the hallway, and saw a middle-aged man, slightly stooped, shuffling toward me with a confused expression.

“Baba Pili!” I said, “Mimi ni Emily, nimerudi!” It’s Emily, I’ve come back!

And he just lit up like Christmas. He gave a loud shout, something wordless, and pulled me into a hug, and we just stood there laughing and hugging and thumping each other on the back for at least a minute. Tears prickled my eyes. This was awesome. Even if I don’t sell a story the whole time I’m here, this moment alone made the summer worth it.

I took out the food I’d brought as a gift (just in case they asked me to stay for supper, I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed). We sat, we poured the Fanta, and with Baba's little bit of English and my little bit of Swahili we started catching up. Mama was gone because she was off visiting Pili – their oldest, a daughter who is exactly my age – who is a teacher now a few hours away and who just had a baby! Fredie, the middle child, is about 21 now and at college in the capital city of Dar es Salaam. And the youngest, Farajah, who was an undersized 13-year-old when I last saw him?

He came ambling in, looking almost as small as before, but narrower and taller like he’d been stretched a few inches. He grinned at me shyly and came in for a hug. We spent the next hour, hour and a half taking pictures and reminiscing a little. The coffee table book about Cape Cod that I brought them as a gift last time was on their mantelpiece, dusty and beginning to weather, proudly open to a picture of some salt marshes. The two little girls (who turned out to be Baba’s daughters from another mother – not entirely sure what the story is there) loved the camera and once I showed them how to work it, they got a couple of really great shots (only one of which, sadly, survives for me to show you today).

I was only there a couple of hours, tops, but man! I walked back down the road from there as giddy as I’ve ever been, escorted by my little entourage until we reached the edge of the village.

“Nitarudi tena!” I promised as I hugged them one last time and set off. Back to Arusha. Back to Nairobi.

I will come back again!

On borders

2010-07-06T03:09:00.000-07:00

I know this is a little out of sequence, but bear with me... I'll get to visiting my homestay family soon.

---

I hate borders.

That’s not an existential commentary on the arbitrary divisions of our world (that’s a whole other post); it’s just a gut-level truth. Borders scare me to death. I have PTSD from a certain incident at the Montana/Alberta border in early 2008, and now, every time I approach a border or a customs official, I come over all clammy and jumpy, convinced they're going to reject me out of hand.

It doesn’t help that most officials at borders tend to be brusque at best and Grade-A douchebags at worst. From the perspective of someone who derives a disproportionate amount of happiness in life from crossing borders, these power-tripping mouth-breathers - who can decide my immediate future on a whim - are pretty much Public Enemy #1.

The result of this paranoia is that when I disembarked in Nairobi a month ago and approached the customs official to get my visa, I was a bundle of guilty-looking tension, all forced cheeriness and eye-averting nerves. Partly this was because I was planning to come in on a tourist visa instead of a work or journalist visa, and I was sure the guy knew I was hiding something. He was not disarmed by my chipper attempt at a Swahili greeting, instead gazing black holes of suspicion into my soul. He grilled me about where I’d be staying, what organizations I’d be affiliated with (“Who is Salim Amin?” “Oh, I might do some volunteering with him before I go on safari…” And the thought bubble over my head read, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME IN!)

He eventually stamped my passport, of course, and I slumped with relief. Reprieved… until the next border crossing, three days ago, into Tanzania.

I was dreading this one for the usual reasons, but because I was coming by bus I also wondered how it would work if I was denied. The bus would continue on without me, and what, I’d just cool my heels until another bus passed by, heading back to Nairobi? It was a weekend, and my bus was packed. What if there wasn’t an open seat until Monday? Maybe I could hitch a ride with someone. Maybe a Maasai family would adopt me.

There was a cruel fake-out before we got to the border. We stopped and a guy in an official-looking uniform boarded the bus and took a cursory stroll up and down the aisle. I tried to blend in. (Mental image: me and twenty-nine Kenyans. Which of these is not like the others?) He left without looking at me twice and I allowed myself to hope that maybe this was just how it was done on the road border. Maybe I wouldn’t even have to pay the obscene visa fee.

Twenty minutes later, we reached the real border, and it was just as massive and imposing as the prison-like Albertan facility where the mustachio’d asshole with the Napoleon complex rejected me two and a half years ago. It was also swarming with con artists and taxi drivers and old Maasai women aggressively hawking jewelry. Here, sister, special price for you. You need to use the bathroom? Here, my friend, I will show you! And oh, by the way, that’ll be a hundred shillings. Zip up and pay up.

After getting my exit stamp on the Kenyan side, the actual border was alarmingly unsupervised. There was just a gate, and the Tanzanian customs office fifty yards away on the other side. I sidled through, kicking up a cloud of red dust and looking around in confusion, waiting for someone to swoop down and arrest me.

But nothing happened. I wandered into the Tanzanian office to get my visa, cautiously elated. The woman behind the desk asked me the purpose of my visit, and I replied in Swahili, “I stayed with a family in Tanzania four years ago, and I’ve come back to visit.”

Money exchanged hands. I waited on tenterhooks. A stamp stamped.

I was in!

The rest of the drive passed in a bumpy haze of glee (and dust… a lot more dust). I spotted white-topped Kilimanjaro in the distance. We sped past Maasai villages and lonely tall narrow figures stilting by in their crimson and purple shukas. My grin got bigger as I watched Mount Meru get closer.

At last… back where it all started.

In which I am gobsmacked

2010-07-04T02:07:00.000-07:00

Memory is a funny thing.

Being back in Arusha is all kinds of bizarre. Maybe it's just because your first adventure is always the one you fall in love with, but Tanzania was so huge for me in so many fundamental ways that I've spent the last four years thinking back on it so much that my memories had taken on a bigger-than-life dreamlike quality. So when I found myself yesterday walking up the steps the Meru House Inn, sitting down for a coffee at the Patisserie, and rounding a corner to see the clock tower, I kind of couldn't believe it was real.

There were all sorts of little details that came flooding back to me that I hadn't realized I remembered. The way the windows of some of the rooms at the inn look awkwardly out on the courtyard walkway. The little Indian restaurant underneath that served me that one salad I later regretted. The road to the SIT office. On my way to the Phillips daladala stop, I was nervous I wouldn't remember how to get there. But just like how sometimes you can't remember a locker combination until the lock is right in front of you, or how now that I'm using Swahili again words sometimes present themselves to me out of nowhere - a lightbulb went on as soon as I saw the row of gates, with our little blue and white one down at the end.

Baba Jack wasn't there; he's in the States now that it's SIT's off-season. But I met Doreen, the new assistant, who was really friendly and helpful and who seems to be the go-to person if you need to get hold of anyone at the office (cough cough Baba Jack). There was a student from this past semester still hanging around, fresh off one last visit with his host family in Bangata and literally on his way to the airport when I got there. I asked him how the semester was and he shook his head with a look I recognized.

"Oh, amazing," he said, grimacing like he wanted to say more but really, even if he had more time, how do you explain it?

There seem to be more wazungu around Arusha than there are in Nairobi, although maybe that's because in Nairobi they're all hiding in the suburbs. There's certainly a LOT more Swahili spoken here; it's been a bit jarring but also refreshing that when my language skills desert me I don't have the safety net of resorting immediately to English; I have to make it work.

The amount of nostalgia I feel is out of control. I think back to the 20-year-old me, flushed with every new sight and smell and just beside myself with the freedom I felt here, glowing everyday with the sense that I was finally getting to be the person I'd always known I could be. You know. Intrepid, confident, blah blah blah. Every blond ponytail I saw yesterday, I thought for a half second was Caty or Katie from my old group. I kept thinking of all the SITers who I wished I could share this craziness with, because they're the only ones who could really get it.

Most of my old group knew that I was coming here from messages on Facebook and such, but it struck me yesterday that there was another SIT Tanzania alum who I should have contacted: Matt, who did the program the year after me and who I met through a random twist of fate when he turned up in Durango two years ago working for Mark Udall's campaign while I was volunteering with the Obama campaign. What WAS his last name? Matt... Something-With-An-R. That was so random, I remember how astonished I was when he said "SIT Tanzania, yeah,with Baba Jack." And then there was his partner in crime, Mike Kenney, who left Durango after the election and now lives just a few minutes away from me in Williamsburg. Life is funny.

So I was back at the hotel last night, brushing my teeth in the communal sink that's situated rather oddly out in the hallway, and the door across the hall from my room opened. A tall mzungu guy stepped out. With my mouth full of toothpaste, I glanced over to give my neighbor that half smile of acknowledgment, and almost choked, because it was Matt Something-With-An R.

In reality I think I spat out my toothpaste in the sink before yelping, "No.Way. NO (expletive deleted) WAY!" But I was very close to spraying it all over him, so great was my astonishment. Probably the most accurate word to describe it is "gobsmacked." I was gobsmacked, gaping at him, and meanwhile Matt Something-With-An-R is giving me this helpless, shocked look, like he KNOWS he knows me but we're so far from the context of where he knows me from, and I'm no help, freaking out and gasping incoherent things like "I can't believe this, this is too much, holy crap..." and finally he says, pleadingly,"You're going to have to help me out," and I'm able to collect myself enough to sputter, "Durango. SIT. Emily!" And he goes, "Ohhhhhhhhhh!" but he's still not nearly shocked enough to do justice to the ridiculousness of this moment.

And I mean, okay. It's not so weird that an old SIT student would come back to work here for awhile, and it's only natural that he would stay at the Meru House Inn; it's cheap, and it's where most of us stayed when we were here. But the room across the hall from me? The same day I was trying to remember his last name? Really?

Anyway, we met up later when I was able to form complete sentences again to watch Spain play Paraguay and caught up a little. It was good to have an old friend to talk to.

Okay, time's almost up on this internet cafe computer and I have a host family to visit.

Happy Fourth!

Phillips daladala stop and Mount Meru.

The clock tower got an upgrade.

The Patisserie... or the Hot Bread Shop, as it's apparently known now.

In which I get a little sappy

2010-06-30T03:45:00.000-07:00

I'm a little homesick. It's taken me by surprise. I knew I loved my New York friends, but I wasn't really aware of myself falling hard for the city itself. There were definitely some moments when I realized that I loved it, like late nights on the subway when everyone's a little drunk and their hard New York edges have gone soft and people smile at each other and each musician playing on the platform seems put there specially to make your heart go all warm and fuzzy. But I didn't realize it felt like home until I left it.

Being away from New York has also, interestingly, made me homesick for Durango in a really intense way. I've lived in a lot of places by now and I've put down some roots in all of them, but the only places that have really felt like home are Mattapoisett (as complicated as my relationship with that town has been at times, and as strange as it feels to go back sometimes, as long as my family is there, it's home), Durango, and now New York. And maybe Tanzania - it's funny, I was there for less than four months and never had a consistent address - and yet somehow I spent parts of the last four years missing it as fiercely as I've ever missed a place. But then time doesn't mean much. I lived at Bucknell second longest of anywhere, and I've barely looked back at it since I left; only once or twice have I even had an urge to visit.

I suppose that being sort of a nomad means that I'll spend my life missing someone or some place constantly. That's a little sad. But it's okay. Smile, the Chinese girl staying in my dorm at the hostel, has a little trouble with English but a wonderful ability to capture a lot of complicated things in very few words. The other day, when she talked about how traveling a lot makes her "noleny" (lonely) sometimes, she said she thinks of her friends back home who settled down young and started accumulating cars and homes.

"I'd rather be noleny," she said, "than boring."

So anyway, I'm alternating between "Empire State of Mind" and "Wagon Wheel" on my iTunes playlist. You know what, let's throw in a little "African Queen," too.

The songs that will always be my anthems for the places I'm missing:

Edited to add two things.

1) "African Queen" just came on the radio, just two minutes after I posted this - the first time I've heard it played since I got here!

2) I was telling my friend and coworker Wanjiru that I hadn't realized how much I would miss New York, and she said, "Like yesterday, when you were gone." (I was out at museums all day trying to get some interviews for my current project.) "You're one of us now - people kept coming in and saying, 'Where is she?'"

Looks like there's one more place I'll be missing after this summer. Awww.

Where was I?

2010-06-26T02:37:00.000-07:00

Continuing where I left off:

I went back to the hostel, where I was met by my Swedish friends to go watch the later game downtown. I only stayed a little while, though, because I was waiting on a call from my new lawyer friend, who texted me with the time and location of the press conference: 2:00 Sunday at the Serena Hotel. I went home to the hostel rooftop before midnight and fired off a round of emails to NPR, BBC, and a few other publications to see if they’d be interested in the story.

I got there an hour early – never really necessary here, of course, because start times are generally more like guidelines than actual rules – but hey, I’m a baby journalist and I was covering East Africa’s biggest story of the day (for American audiences at least) so I was an eager little beaver. The hotel was super swanky and full of Western tourists in spotless new safari gear. I ended up waiting around for an hour and a half, befriending the AP photographer Azim and eventually the bureau chief, Jason Straziuso, with whom I had exchanged emails in the spring (I almost interned there; he said they’d be happy to have me if my schedule didn’t overlap with that of the intern they already had; unfortunately, it did). He was full of good suggestions for me – pitch the Minneapolis Star Tribune, for one, because Erlinder is a professor at a school in St. Paul.

It felt really nice to be out in the field reporting after two weeks sitting in the Camerapix archive. When it started, I was busily snapping photos and checking my sound levels, wondering how much of an amateur I looked to the seasoned journalists around me with their bigger, more professional cameras and microphones. Whatever; it was fun.

Rwanda’s in an interesting and somewhat scary place right now, leading up to the election in August. On the surface it’s progressed amazingly; the economy is growing fast and relations between people are remarkably civil considering it’s only been 16 years since the genocide. But that’s also because Kagame brooks no opposition and the official position is to sweep any and all ethnic distinctions under the rug. I get the sense that the current stability is a spring being smushed flat by two strong hands that are starting to tire.

Erlinder – who was representing the would-be opposition leader and has talked at length about how the Tutsis were hardly blameless in the conflict – was detained for three weeks for denying the genocide and was released on bail for health reasons. He was very well-spoken; he credited his lawyers with saving his life and teared up when he said they had risked arrest themselves by coming to his aid.

Anyway, it being Sunday, no one at any of the organizations I was contacting could be reached. I wasn’t able to sell the story, but it was still well worth going. In addition to meeting some hotshot journalists, I cold-called the New York Times to see if they would be interested in the story because I hadn’t seen their man, Jeffrey Gettleman, at the presser. The woman I spoke with at the foreign desk said they don’t accept stories from people they haven’t thoroughly vetted… BUT.

“But I like the fact that you picked up the phone and called,” she said. “Let me get your contact information and I’ll give it to our guy in Nairobi.”

Woo!

So that was last weekend. This past week, this went up on the A24 site, edited by yours truly:

http://photography.a24media.com/index.php/african-soccer

Other than that, it was a pretty uneventful week. Ghana vs. USA tonight!

Zen and the art of giraffe kisses

2010-06-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone! I've been bad about posting, but I actually had a pretty eventful weekend. Saturday, I went to the open-air Maasai market in downtown Nairobi. These craft markets, I remembered from Arusha, are always fun if you go into them in the right frame of mind: game for a laugh, patient, and ready to bargain like crazy. Otherwise, the slick salespeople ready to descend on all the wazungu who pass through might drive you a little nuts.

Luckily, I always manage to have fun. It was a blast talking and laughing with the vendors, many of whom enjoyed mugging for the camera - and I got my first Kenyan marriage proposal.

This was my suitor. We're thinking a spring wedding.

The jewelry here is SO my style... it's all I can do not to buy every pair of earrings I see.

Next, I headed out to the suburb of Karen, so named because of Danish adventurer and writer Karen Blixen (aka Meryl Streep in Out of Africa), whose beautiful colonial farm is now a museum. I checked it out. It was pretty cool, though overpriced.

I also visited this sweet giraffe breeding center not too far from the museum. There are at least three full-grown adults there and the staff gives visitors pellets of food to feed them. It was shamelessly touristy, and I loved every second of it.

From the giraffe center, I needed to get back to the Karen Blixen Coffee Garden to watch Cameroon vs. Denmark, so I hopped on the back of one of the many motorbikes that seem to be the preferred means of getting around in the suburbs. Less than two bucks for a 20-minute ride, and man! I was so utterly happy, speeding through the shady back roads. I'm in Africa! I was thinking, and I'm on a motorcycle! This is AWESOME!

The Coffee Garden was a sweet place to watch the game. Karen is kind of this bizarro land, though; it's where all the white people are hiding. There were a ton of them at the bar. It was a little weird. I struck up a conversation with some folks at the bar, one old guy who used to live in the Bronx and was very mysterious about why he came back to Kenya, and another, younger man who turned out to be a lawyer for none other than Peter Erlinder, the American attorney who was jailed for three weeks in Rwanda, and who, it turned out, was flying into Nairobi as we spoke.

And that's how East Africa's biggest story of the day dropped into my lap. This post is already too long, so I'll just say, to be continued...

Celtics love, no matter what

2010-06-18T03:14:00.000-07:00

I had my fingers crossed all the way into work on the matatu this morning, thinking, "People in Boston are either really really happy right now, or really really not." As soon as I got in, I opened my computer and saw Kobe's smug little mug on ESPN's home page and said, aloud, "Ah, NO!"

I got some sympathy from the small group of people who work in or next to the archive room who I'm becoming pretty friendly with. Once they discovered that I speak a little Swahili, they were pretty stoked, and they've been speaking it with me more and more. It's good to practice - I was really, really rusty.

There's David, who's obsessed with rugby and constantly Twittering about sports from his BlackBerry; there's Wanjiru (her first name is Becky, but everyone calls her Wanjiru), a photo editor who's really talkative and hilarious; there's Abdul, who was Mohamed Amin's sound man back in the day and who is unexpectedly funny under his grave demeanor; there's Zaidi, a quiet, older man who spends most of his time sorting through slides of old pictures; and there's Moses, a goofy guy who is constantly telling me Wanjiru is his girlfriend, eliciting only eye rolls from the would-be object of his affections.

Beautiful Wanjiru!

Photo evidence for the eventual lawsuit.

Moses being Moses. Abdul is not sure what is going on here. Neither am I.

Coming to work has gotten better and better as I've started joking around with these guys. Yay friends!

Welcome and unwelcome visitors

2010-06-17T03:32:00.000-07:00

I made a new friend yesterday, an Australian journalist who was passing through Nairobi on her way back to Uganda, where she lives. We went to this sweet pub called Sippers that is rapidly becoming one of my favorite places in Nairobi - it has an outdoor patio with a flat screen TV. I went there Monday night to watch Italy vs. Paraguay with fellow New York grad student Sam (who, as a big fan of Italy, was furious at the 1-1 draw), and last night, we watched Uruguay absolutely destroy poor, sad little South Africa.

Life's been pretty quiet, which I think I needed after the insanity of the semester, but it felt great to be out and about with an awesome new friend. And Laurie and I didn't have to pay for a single drink! I'm planning on visiting her in August when I travel through Uganda, and she's going to hook me up with some interesting people in Nairobi who can help me find stories and freelance.

In the wake of my suspicion-leaning-towards-certainty that there are bedbugs in my bunk, chance encounters like this are a good reason to suck it up, buy some new blankets, and stick it out at the hostel.

Side note: I am not alone in experiencing disbelief from Africans that I don't iron my clothes. According to Laurie, not only has she gotten blank stares in the past because of that very thing, but some of the people she works with are so fastidious that they'll miss work or school to go home and change their pants if they get mud on the hem. Often, they just won't leave the house at all until it dries.

Home sweet hostel

2010-06-17T01:43:00.000-07:00

Nice, right? Too bad about the bed bugs...

Fun facts

2010-06-16T04:21:00.000-07:00

The first time I took a matatu, it got in an accident. Just a minor bump, not even any damage. But still.

I don't carry a purse. I keep my money in my bra. It can be a little awkward when I go digging for it.

I met another western journalist staying at the hostel. She lives in Uganda. We're getting together tonight to pick each other's brains.

A co-founder of Kenya Breweries was killed by an elephant in 1923. The lager he helped create was named "Tusker" in his memory. And I believe I said something to this effect already, but Tusker is the best beer ever. Also, the other night I had some Amarula for old time's sake. Delicious.

Last but not least... BEAT L.A.

Wildlife Alert

2010-06-15T06:44:00.000-07:00

Just saw some monkeys on the A24 roof - vervets, to be specific. A mother, her baby (looked like a newborn), and another juvenile. A very welcome dose of East African wildlife!

Unfortunately, I didn't bring my camera into work today, but I'll try and get a shot of them if they come back another day. For now, though, they look like this:

Owie

2010-06-15T04:43:00.000-07:00

Gah! I woke up with a gnarly rash all over my arms, legs, stomach, and hands. Did the allergies strike again? Or do I have bedbugs? We don't know.

Wrinkles

2010-06-13T02:46:00.000-07:00

Most Kenyans seem to take a lot of pride in their clothing and their appearance. On the bus in the morning, the businessmen and businesswomen in their suits wear the crispest, most starched shirts I've ever seen. The women who live in the dorm with me iron their outfits every day.

Cut to me rummaging through my backpack yesterday and throwing on a white sun shirt whose wrinkles had wrinkles. When one of my dormmates, Cecilia, got a load of my ensemble, she looked horrified.

"Emily, do you want to use the iron?" she asked.

I looked down at my shirt. Ironing is not something that really ever enters into my consciousness, and I figured in an hour or so the worst of the wrinkles would start to sort themselves out anyway. I briefly considered launching into an explanation of the word "crunchy," but she seemed so distressed that I decided to try ironing, just this once.

I gave it my best shot, really I did. But there was some weird melty black stuff on the iron that started to get on the bright white shirt, and I was having issues with the settings and may have slightly singed one of the sleeves. I didn't want to do any more damage, so I decided that half done would have to be good enough. The back was more or less wrinkle-free, but the sleeves still looked like the skin of a Shar-Pei puppy. I told Cecilia, somewhat guiltily, of my difficulties, and she gave me a disappointed look. When I ran into her again later in the day, though, she smiled.

"Ah!" she said. "It has ironed itself!" (It didn't look perfectly pressed or anything, but the wrinkles had relaxed into the crumpled-casual look I go for most of the time anyway.)

I feel like I should extrapolate some deep meaning from this story. Take your pick: Some people just shouldn't iron! Embrace your wrinkles! Have faith that things will work themselves out! But only if you're wearing synthetic fabrics!

BAFANA BAFANA!

2010-06-12T06:58:00.001-07:00

People here are sooo pumped for the World Cup. It's not like I really follow soccer, so I am admittedly the most bandwagony of bandwagon fans - but man! It's so infectious! I watched the beginning of the S.A./Mexico game with some of the A24 team last night and even though I was on my way home when that first goal was scored, I had a feeling because I could hear the vuvuzelas going nuts from my seat on the bus. Their loud fart-wails were echoing out through the Nairobi evening breeze till all hours last night.

And of course, it's not as much about the soccer as it is about the excitement of being on this continent for a moment that is so epic for Africans. The Kenyans I've spoken with have such a huge amount of pride that the Cup is happening here for the first time. I'd root for Ivory Coast over the U.S., to be honest. In a heartbeat. Who would it mean more to? The U.S. only cares about soccer once every four years. (Though I'll be pulling hard for us to destroy England tonight.)

Speaking of our lack of interest in soccer - why is that? Why do we only care about domestic sports? Every time I go abroad, there's always soccer, cricket, or rugby on TV with matchups like Romania vs. Cameroon or Australia vs. Brazil. It's like this giant worldwide party that we're not invited to. I want in!

In other news, I thought my allergies were slowly getting better, but they worsened with a vengeance day before yesterday. I've come to the conclusion that I'm mostly allergic to my bed, because I'm fine when I'm out and about during the day, and the seeming improvement happened when I had adjusted to the jet lag and was spending less time sleeping. The only thing I can think of is that the nights have been a little cooler so I've started sleeping with two blankets. Double the allergens, double the fun? Anyway, I went to a "chemist" today and bought some drops (for about 85 cents) that I sprinkled liberally into my eyes and nose, and my life just got a little bit better. When you can barely see for sneezing, it's hard to focus on anything else. Phew.

My week in pictures

2010-06-11T04:08:00.000-07:00

Wretched excess... leave it to Dubai.

The A24 Media offices and grounds:

Downtown Nairobi:

Grolled corn I bought from a woman on the side of the road. She rubbed it with red "pilipili" - pepper - it was good, but my jaw ached from chewing it.

My nemesis, the matatu. Hello, Newman.

Kenya's purdy.

By the way...

2010-06-10T07:09:00.000-07:00

...it's official, I live at the Nairobi International Youth Hostel. I dropped 7,000 Ksh this morning for a month's rent - a whopping eighty-six dollars and twenty-six cents!

Victory

2010-06-10T00:31:00.001-07:00

Made it to work six minutes early. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, matatus!

Sun!

2010-06-09T05:16:00.000-07:00

The weather was all doom and gloom for the first few days I was here, but yesterday the sun came out and man, it makes such a difference! Nairobi can appear a bit sinister when it's all fog and drizzle, but today is pretty glorious. It seems I picked a good time of year to come; just as it's starting to get sweltering and gross in New York, it's Kenya's "winter" - if winter means warm and lovely during the day and cool at night. Everyone at the A24 office has been bundled up in their jackets, talking about how cold it is. Ah, life. One man's toxic sludge is another man's potpourri.

I've started to fall into a little routine. I try to shower in the evenings because there's only one shower with hot water for an entire dorm full of women (capacity: 16 over the weekend, currently only 4 or 5). Because I don't have a kitchen or a fridge, I can't really pack a lunch, so each morning I swing by the hostel restaurant and get either an andazi (essentially a piece of hollow fried dough) or a samosa with beef and peppers for breakfast (about 30 or 40 cents, respectively) and then run around the corner for fruit salad to pack for lunch (a dollar). Work from 9 to 5:30.

In the evening, I might grab some rice and beans from the restaurant or run across the street to the Nairobi Java House for my daily dose of fresh veggies (salad with grilled chicken is about 4 bucks) It's expensive, but in East Africa it's easy to find yourself with a diet that's like 90% carbs so it's worth it every other day or so. They play really good music there and have free wireless internet, too, so I can unwind and get caught up on Glee.

When I get back to the hostel, I try and do some yoga on the roof if no one else is up there, read a little, and study a few new Swahili words each day. The relaxed pace is really, really nice for a change. I feel healthier already. Thanks to my matatu escapades, I've been walking pretty regularly, and sleeping more plus eating very simple foods means I've already started to drop some of my J-school-induced stress weight.

I've been bad about taking pictures because I don't want to carry my camera around any more than I need to. Sorry, I'll try and get on that!

Latest Standings

2010-06-09T00:33:00.000-07:00

Matatus: 6 Emily: 2

"But," you're thinking, "Emily, you've only gone to and from work once since the score was 2 to 1. How is this possible?"

In a nutshell: a missed opportunity, an inadvertent trip to the slums, an evil door guy deliberately overshooting my stop (meaning a mile walk home at dusk), and I was 4 minutes late to work this morning. Gah! One point to me because I've been a little less late every day, and at least the first branch of my commute today went smoothly.

Matatus, you are my Everest.

Quote of the Day

2010-06-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

Guy at the bar: "I'm looking for a white chick."

Me (laughing, sputtering, trying not to choke on my beer) "Ah... well... I have... a boyfriend?"

Guy at the bar: "No, not you. When I move to Pennsylvania. Do you know any?"

Friends in Philly, sign up here!

A few notes

2010-06-08T00:26:00.000-07:00

I live by the rule "Try anything once." Mexican food in Kenya? Maybe I coulda just skipped that one.

When "Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely" played on the matatu this morning, I couldn't still identify each of the Backstreet Boys' voices. Not at all. I swear.

Speak of the devil, things currently stand thus: Matatus: 2, Emily: 1. But it's actually not as close as it sounds. I WILL conquer you, matatus.

Finally - hello, Tusker, darlin'. Did you miss me?

Day 1

2010-06-08T00:25:00.000-07:00

First days are always a little weird, but I have reason to believe it's going to be a good eight weeks. Okay, for starters - generally speaking, aren't interns supposed to get coffee? Isn't that usually part of the deal? We, the lowly noobs, are expected to do all sorts of humdrum and slightly demeaning things in the name of paying our dues.

Well, get this - someone actually brings me coffee. Twice a day. Without being asked. And there was cake! It was the boss's birthday, so it's not like this will be an everyday thing, but still. An auspicious start.

The A24 Media/Camerapix office is actually stunningly beautiful. It's in a lush, affluent part of Nairobi and it's connected to the boss's home. Salim Amin is the son of famed photojournalist Mohamed Amin, a total rockstar badass who lost his arm in an explosion in Ethiopia and compiled a massive archive of millions of photographs and hours of video footage - an archive that surrounds me as I work.

I met Salim on Sunday when I stopped by the office in a bit of Nairobi matatu reconnaissance (matatus are the local public transportation - tiny vans/buses with a baffling number of routes and shortcuts that, as yet, don't appear to follow much rhyme or reason - despite my scouting trip, the score is currently Matatus: 1, Emily: 0). The best way I can think to describe him is that he's a very cool cat. Smooth, stylish, assured. A powerful guy, but not above making fun of himself. The cake his wife had made him had a roll of film made of sugar wrapped around it, filled with funny pictures of Salim throughout his life. "We already ate the one where I'm naked on the toilet," he said.

I met with Asif, the other boss, who briefed me on what I'll be doing. They want me to do multimedia projects - slideshows, mostly, that showcase photos from the archive. I pushed for something that involves more actual reporting, and I think I'll be able to make all of us happy by pegging the projects to current events and collecting audio to go under the slideshows. He also said I could tag along with some of the Camerapix guys on some shoots. I'm hoping to go see our very own Joe Biden tomorrow. He'll be in Nairobi for a couple of days. Stay tuned for my exclusive!

Settling in

2010-06-07T02:02:00.000-07:00

I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself after sleeping an insane amount the first few days – partly because of jet lag and partly because I was all Benadryl-ed out with my nutso allergies. Red eyes, constant sneezing, the works. I’m adjusting little by little. Two naps on Friday, one on Saturday, none yesterday. And this morning, I was finally able to put in my contacts without yelping. Onward!

It looks like finding a place to live is going to be harder than I imagined, and I’m actually okay with that. My backup plan of staying at the hostel for the duration is looking better and better. It’s cheap – just a little over a hundred bucks for a month. It has hot showers, lockers for my valuables, wi-fi if I sit on one corner of the roof with my fingers crossed, a restaurant where I can get chapatti and beans for roughly $1.25, a coffee shop and a bank across the street, and delicious fruit salad for less than a dollar right around the corner. It’s a five-minute bus ride into the center of town and about a 30-minute bus/matatu commute to the A24 office.

View Nairobi in a larger map

And best of all, there are interesting people! Since I came here by myself, I don’t want to be holed up in a one-bedroom in a leafy but remote part of Nairobi, crying into my Konyagi that I have no one to talk to. The beauty of the hostel is that it has a good mix of local people and fellow travelers, and there are a good number who are staying for a month or more. Yesterday, I went to watch a rugby tournament with a Tanzanian guy and a Korean guy, teamed up with several Kenyan women in the dorm to help our Chinese roommate (an adorable little dynamo who, fittingly, goes by the name "Smile") distinguish the letter "n" and the letter "l," and had a long chat with another grad student from New York who's here studying nutrition at three local hospitals.

The instant bond two people can make when they're both thousands of miles from home is one of the best parts of traveling, and at the same time, I didn't come all the way to Kenya to hang out with other wazungu. This place has a good balance.

Internship starts today. Here goes!

Quote of the Day

2010-06-06T08:16:00.001-07:00

"Are you married, or are you a spinster?" - Rwandese guy at the hostel

And I thought Massachusetts was bad.

2010-06-04T23:26:00.001-07:00

Given my history with regions of high humidity, I probably should have seen this coming, but seriously, Kenya! You are my Perfect Storm of allergies!

Overlooking Nairobi from the hostel rooftop:

Flight, etc.

2010-06-04T23:17:00.000-07:00

Copied from email home:

The flight was sensational. I got a random upgrade to business class on the 12-hour leg to Dubai. It was amazing. Complimentary champagne! Dividers so I didn't have some guy drooling on my shoulder! A seat with a mattress that reclined ALL THE WAY, with a built-in massage! All the movies I could ever want to watch! Hot towel for your face, miss? Don't mind if I do!

Got a glimpse of Dubai before we touched down. What an intense-looking city. Even the airport is a trip. I wish I could have explored it a little. Oh, well - next time.

The 5-hour flight to Nairobi was back to business as usual. I was able to sleep a little, but I was still swaying with jet lag as I disembarked, filled out my visa form, withdrew shillings from the ATM and busted out my first few Swahili words (positively flaky with rust) in 4 years while arranging for a "teksi" to the hostel. I had a stupid grin on my face the whole drive into town. The flat-topped trees! The people selling bananas in stop-and-go traffic! The SMELL! I was back!

The hostel is seven or eight bucks a night and the staff is super-friendly and helpful. There's a restaurant attached where I had a celebratory meal of chapati and beans before passing out early. This morning I met a couple of Swedish college students who are here researching their economics theses. They showed me where to get delicious fruit salad for breakfast, pointed me toward a coffee shop with free wireless internet, and tipped me off to a place where I might be able to rent a room for a reasonable price that's not far from the A24 office. As soon as I have a phone and an address, I'll send my new contact info.

I love you all madly. I'M SO HAPPY! :)

Em

---

Later, from my sister: "I read your email aloud to Ryan this morning and he said, 'Your sister is always so happy when she's homeless!'"

Hello friends, family...

2010-06-04T12:15:00.000-07:00

...and maybe the one or two other random people who have ever stumbled upon this blog. Welcome to Tangy Little Mango! Crunchy Big Apple will be taking a break for the next couple of months as I am no longer IN the Big Apple (not that being there did much for my posting habits the last few months. Whoops. Anyway...)

This is where I'll be posting stories of my adventures in Nairobi and around East Africa. I arrived yesterday and am getting my bearings at the moment, but you can expect to hear some juicier updates soon.

Lots of love!

Emily

So much more than a coffee mug

2010-02-21T13:39:00.000-08:00

This coffee mug is one of the best purchases I've ever made. So much so that after I lost my first one, I made a special trip to Gardenswartz for a new one when I went back to Colorado over winter break.

What's so special about it? you ask. Good question. See, this isn't a coffee mug. It is so much more than a coffee mug. It is a French press WITHIN a coffee mug.

Being the coffee shop fly that I am, it has saved me a considerable amount of money since I moved to New York. I make my own coffee at home. I take it to school and make it there. I take it to coffee shops and ask for hot water.

From the website:

Big Sky Bistro - The original coffee travel mug from Porter Products. This classic mug boasts a timeless design. The unique plunger offers you excellent coffee and/or tea anytime and anywhere. Especially compatible with outdoor activities such as camping, back-packing, boating and sporting events. Great for the road, the trail, travel, the boat, the office ... anywhere you want a great cup of coffee or tea!
-Compact and lightweight at only 7.1 ounces
-Insulated to keep coffee and tea hot longer
-Fast to use; takes only four minutes
-Drink directly from the bistro or pour into another cup
-Makes 16 ounces of perfectly brewed coffee or tea

A number of people have asked me where to get one. I haven't found them for sale anywhere in New York, but you can order your own here.

Urban Survival Tip #3

2010-02-20T13:09:00.000-08:00

Last night, I saw one of the best shows of my life at the Highline Ballroom in Chelsea. The Ryan Montbleau Band, which happens to be one of my favorite bands, opened things up with a set that included most of their feel-good foot-stompers, including one of their best numbers, "Honeymoon Eyes."

The band was cooking. Great solos from the keyboard player and the viola player (yes, viola), and then there was Ryan Montbleau himself, all cool charisma and playful intensity, who just totally rocked the place.

Then. THEN. Oh, man. Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue took the stage and proceeded to scramble what remained of my functioning brain cells into disbelieving goo.

Trombone Shorty is from New Orleans and almost literally sang with his trombone (and his trumpet, which he plays just as well). This guy's raw ability and presence is absurd. And the band was an exuberant, criminally talented bunch of guys who looked like they would have to lie about their ages to join the military. Seriously, the guitarist looked like he might have been fifteen, and he was shredding like a mini-Hendrix, sparkly shirt and silver jewelry and all.

Most of the crowd was wearing Mardi Gras beads and Saints jerseys, and I don't think I've ever seen an audience so beside themselves. After making me almost die from an overdose of awesome with a cover of "Let's Get It On," the band finished off their epic set with a bring-down-the-house rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In" during which they came down onto the floor and played their way out around the room. People were practically weeping.

And get this: I saw all this - at a swankified place in Chelsea where tickets were about 30 bucks a pop, more for VIP tables - for free. I even got a free T-shirt out of it.

And how, you ask, did I manage this? The answer brings me to your third Urban Survival Tip: selling merchandise.

Like many people of limited means, I want to take advantage of all that New York has to offer, but often find myself stymied by how expensive everything is. I can't emphasize enough how much a little research and resourcefulness can pay off if you want to get out and experience some culture. In the last few months, I have seen a free Barefoot Truth show at the Canal Room, free NY Gilbert and Sullivan Players' performances of "Pirates of Penzance" and "The Mikado" at New York City Center, and then last night what was, again, possibly the best show I've ever seen - all for free. And I just had to sell some T-shirts to do it.

A free show usually isn't the only perk, either. I got to mingle with the actors and musicians. I was invited to an opening night afterparty. Barefoot Truth gave me some free CDs as thanks for helping out. NYGASP even paid me 50 bucks to run the merch table and coordinate the other volunteers one day.

So get on mailing lists of all your favorite bands. Check their websites for upcoming performances and see if they need a hand. Make friends at theaters and ask if they need volunteers.

We could all use a little more awesome in our lives. And FREE awesome is even better.

The List

2010-02-09T19:06:00.000-08:00

No, not THAT list. (Bear Grylls and Dave Salmoni, btw.)

Sometimes, if I'm feeling stuck and unmotivated, I like to revisit the list of things I want to do in my life. It feels good to check off the things I've done and add new things that have occurred to me, and it generally reminds me of how much I freaking love life.

Be a ski bum.

Hike for a living.

Get a guitar.

Get a tattoo.

Be a freelance writer.

See the Grand Canyon.

Go to Las Vegas.

Ride a motorcycle.

Go white-water rafting.

Go water skiing.

See the Red Sox win the World Series.

Go to journalism school.

See Saturday Night Live live.

See the Northern Lights.

Go to Burning Man.

Go to Bonnaroo.

Go to Glastonbury Festival.

Road-trip America with my sister.

Go to Mardi Gras.

Get a short story published.

Go sky diving.

Go bungee jumping.

Thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.

Run a marathon.

Do Crow pose on top of a precarious rocky mountain at sunrise.

Brew my own beer.

Learn how to surf.

Speak Swahili, Spanish, French, and one other language.

See the Grand Canyon again, with my family.

Own a Subaru with standard transmission.

See Machu Picchu. See Petra. See the Great Wall of China. See the Taj Mahal. See Igauzu Falls. See Ankgor Wat. See the mountain gorillas in Rwanda. Backpack Europe. Climb Kilimanjaro. Visit the Galapagos. Scuba dive in Micronesia. Surf in Australia. Snowboard in New Zealand. Visit every state. Visit every continent.

Live and work in Africa.

Work for National Geographic.

Write and publish a novel.

Have a dog. Have ten.

I feel better now!

These scruffy Canadian dudes have a pretty sweet list.

---

Barnes and Noble

2010-01-31T16:09:00.000-08:00

My last Urban Survival Tip was eerily timely. Last night's episode of Saturday Night Live had an excellent suggestion, one that I have used in the past but didn't think to include.

The origins of Barnes and Noble:

There's a Borders by Penn Station that I used just the other night!

Hair today, gone tomorrow. (Forgive me.)

2010-01-27T12:08:00.000-08:00

I never went all-out and did dreadlocks or anything, but my hair has typically been a dead giveaway of my crunchiness. For the last few years, it's fallen somewhere on the spectrum between "Just-Got-Out-Of-Bed Waves" to "Homeless."

For the majority of my time as a field guide, it leaned more toward the latter. I am convinced this is why - even in Durango, the Mecca of Crunch, for crying out loud - I used to attract a lot of suspicious glares at the public library. The librarians loved to bust me for eating granola bars at the computer stations.

The last time I got a professional haircut was in October '08, and that was because I was ambushed for a makeover during Durango's Fashion Week. Yes, believe it or not, The Worst-Dressed City in America has a Fashion Week. I was a classic "Before" picture, too - I went to Trimble Hot Springs the night before, slept on wet hair, and threw a hat on before going to the farmer's market in the morning. I looked glorious.

In the past, as many as three years have been known to pass between visits to the salon. I am simply reluctant to cough up money for something I can (sort of) do myself. I have scissors. I have a mirror. What's the big deal?

But today - well, today I took the plunge. Fresh semester, fresh start. (I also don't want to frighten anyone out of an interview.)

Ladies and gentlemen -

Before.

(At my absolute grodiest in the field. Estimated time since last shower: seven days.)

After.

(In my fancy-pants Brooklyn apartment. Estimated time since last shower: three hours. What is HAPPENING to me?)

Urban Survival Tip #2

2010-01-21T19:38:00.000-08:00

It’s one of those perfect, sparkling Sundays in New York City. You rouse yourself and meet some friends for brunch. You drink some water to cure your Saturday evening indulgences, then a cup of coffee that your well-intentioned server is kind enough to top off a few times. Since it’s so nice out, you decide to go people-watching in the park, after which you’ll walk the river trail, grab a hot dog from a street vendor, and window shop on St. Mark’s Place.

That’s the plan, anyway.

By the time you reach the park, your bladder has started to nudge you and say, “Hey, genius, maybe that last refill wasn't such a hot idea.”

By the time you hit the river trail, a small child appears to be tap dancing on your kidneys with every step.

Finally, you reach St. Mark's place. You waddle past a store window, spy a small water feature in the display, and keel over dead in a puddle of urine.

Which brings me to my second Urban Survival Tip: KNOW YOUR PUBLIC BATHROOMS.

In retrospect, hitting Dunkin' Donuts was a poor choice.

If you're used to popping a squat behind any old tree, this may seem odd at first. Be patient. It took a little adjusting for me, but I'm starting to figure it out. Here are a few nuggets of my hard-won wisdom.

1. Have a game plan. Plan your route through the park to pass by one of the restroom buildings, have a sit-down lunch or hit a museum.

2. Keep a mental (or actual) Rolodex of restrooms in places you frequent. I spend a great deal of time way out in Canarsie, Brooklyn, because it's the neighborhood I report on for school. There's a McDonald's a block from the L train station on Rockaway Parkway that is my go-to place to pee. If I venture too far from there, there's always the beach.

3. Know your standbys. In addition to fast food joints, there's always Starbucks. A good percentage of city Starbucks still have public restrooms that are ostensibly for customers but do not require you to borrow a key from behind the counter. I've bolted for the restroom, done my business, and then made a show of browsing the shelves before leaving more times than I care to admit.

You're wondering if all of my urban survival tips will have to do with bathrooms. It's anyone's guess at this point.

Pixie dust

2010-01-20T18:02:00.000-08:00

(Written on Jan. 7th)

I’m sitting at Gate 1 of the bus station-sized Durango - La Plata County airport, waiting for my flight back east. It’s been a perfect Colorado visit.

An old picture of Durango with Smelter Mountain in the background.

I hit all my favorite hotspots – Steamworks Brewing Company, Home Slice Pizza, Animas Trading Co., Magpie’s Newsstand, Durango Coffee Company - to name just a few. I walked the river trail and went snowshoeing and ate good food and drank a few Conductor Imperial IPA’s on nitrogen. I’ve seen more of my favorite people than I had any right to expect. I’ve gotten lots of hugs. People in New York don’t really do hugs so much, I’ve noticed. Here, they’re like handshakes.

When I first got into town and walked down Main, I found myself looking around at the storefronts and the snowy hulk of Smelter, absolutely giddy. I can’t believe I’m actually here, I kept thinking. And I realized how much of a mythical place Durango has come to occupy in my mind. I lived here for the better part of two years, but somehow, in New York, none of it felt quite real.

The little hippie mountain town that I used to call home sits in the Four Corners – where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah meet. But someone told me once that it was known as Four Corners before those state lines were even drawn. The Mountain Utes and the Southern Utes believed it was a place where four different energies collided. Fire from the desert to the south and water from the ocean to the west and earth and air from the mountains to the north and the east.

The river that cuts through the middle of Durango is the Animas – full name, El Rio de Las Animas Perdidas. The River of Lost Souls. A fitting name, I always thought, for a river that lures so many people to Durango; people, like me, who wash ashore looking for something, stay for awhile, and then leave having found whatever it was where the desert meets the mountains.

Last night, I was talking to my friend Vanessa, one of the several saintly yet badass girls who let me crash on her couch (for an absurd length of time) last summer. She told me that she’ll be leaving Durango at the end of this coming summer. Many of the field guides I worked with were talking about moving on, too, even some of the ones who arrived long after I did – to schools in Oregon or jobs in Washington. I won’t have any more visits like this one. Every time, there will be fewer people who will shriek and hug me. Fewer bartenders who will hail me across the room and give me a drink on the house.

Reunited with Vanessa (on the infamous couch).

This, we realized, is because Durango is Neverland.

If you ever want to grow up, you can’t stay. Unless you want to be a field guide or a rafting guide for the rest of your life, there’s not much to keep you. And that’s what makes it such a perfectly beautiful, tragic place. It's fleeting.

I’m in the air now, looking down at a vast expanse of mountains, their white peaks just catching the rays of the sinking sun. The San Juans. How many hours did I spend gazing at them from campsites or shady, lazy lunch spots on the Southern Ute reservation? How many times did I orient myself in the Utah desert by picking out the La Platas in Colorado, Shiprock in New Mexico, The Abajos in Utah, and Monument Valley in Arizona? And now they’re all vanishing behind me again as I head back to New York.

Summer '07. My old office on the res.

New York – the London to my Neverland. And that’s okay. It’s where I need to be. After all, if Wendy hadn’t gone back, she never would have… hmm. What did she do after she returned? Got married and had babies, I think. Allowing for the fact that a hundred years have passed, I guess this metaphor that I am beating to death still works.

(And may I remind you that I was a guide and mother figure to a group of impish, very literally lost boys in the wilderness? WENDY. Okay, I’ll stop now.)

Still alive

2010-01-05T14:07:00.000-08:00

The end of the semester was a blur of working hard and playing hard, with no time for much in the way of playing outside - save for a broadcast project that took me out to Paerdegat Basin in Brooklyn and the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. (After which I stirred the wrath of the equipment guy at school because there was sand in the tripod I had borrowed. Whoops. )

Anyway, here's the final product. (Try to ignore my evil glare at the end.)

Against the Current from Emily Johnson on Vimeo.

More on my holiday travels and a new urban survival tip later.

Three days later...

2009-11-29T07:56:00.000-08:00

...and I'm still full.

Thelma and Louise

2009-11-21T14:32:00.000-08:00

My friend and fellow field guide Peggy came out from Colorado for a visit this past week. It was awesome to see her, and her presence was a welcome breath of wilderness-y air in my tiny Brooklyn apartment.

I mean that literally, actually. She brought me some wild sage from the Utah desert, but even better than that was her water bottle. It was blackened from who knows how many hours of sitting in a campfire, and I couldn't stop smelling it.

"I half expected to see you spooning it when I woke up this morning," she told me the next day.

She was here almost a week, which is peanuts compared the number of
nights I spent crashing on her couch over the summer when I was doing the homeless thing. It was nice to repay the favor a little.

It was funny to have someone around who acts, well, kind of like I do. As we were cooking dinner one night, I said something about the lack of counter space. She said, "Eh, whatever," and plopped down on the floor with a cutting board in her lap. This is the kind of thing that tends to cause raised eyebrows around civilized folk but seems perfectly normal to people who scrub pots with sand and use W a g B a g s to do their business.

Peggy and I trained at the same time, and I remember the very first day that we arrived at the office in Durango. One of the senior guides who led the training came in, took one look at us, and said, "I can already tell the two of you are going to be just fine."

"How come?"

"Because there are plenty of chairs available, and you're both sitting on the floor."

Playing with Photo Booth. Sitting on the floor.

Tailor-made

2009-11-13T13:39:00.000-08:00

I just made an exciting discovery. I can't believe it took me this long to find out about this society, because its mission is to provide exactly what this blog is all about. And it's based in New York.

It's called Adventure Society. They do archery, horseback riding, hiking. Holistic things like cooking, massage classes and yoga. Dog sledding. Cross-country skiing. I'm excited.

Some of their trips are a little too rich for my blood (dog sledding, $203 for non-members - yikes!) but others look doable in moderation. $65 for a winter Delaware Water Gap hike with optional beer tasting? I could get behind that.

I created an account to get on their email list and was asked a number of questions. My favorite of these was "What is your secret fantasy?" Cheeky. I like it.

Just search for "Trekkie69"

2009-11-08T17:43:00.000-08:00

Internet, meet Priscilla.

Priscilla is a 12-year-old Trek Mountain Track Sport 800. She didn't really want me to post this picture because she's sensitive about her weight these days - so many light-weight young aluminum models on the market and all - but I maintain that she looks pretty damn good for her age. She likes Tom Waits, long rides on leafy trails, and wax-based lubricants. She's got kind of a thing for Cannondales. Interested young studs can check out her full profile on Match.com.

At first she was a little irritated with me for leaving her in the shed all those years while I was away in college and out west, but we have too much history together. She can't stay mad at me. (If she can forgive me for that time I rode her up and down Killington knowing full well that she has no suspension, she can forgive me for anything.)

Twelve years ago, I was broken-hearted and disillusioned about bicycles. I had spent weeks trying to rehabilitate an old three-speed purchased at a yard sale for ten bucks, and what thanks did I get? A runaway front tire, a face-plant on the sidewalk, and a broken jaw.

I was slow to trust again. But Priscilla showed me that some friends will never let you down.

Yesterday, we took a nice long ride around Central Park. It was a perfect golden November afternoon, and while we found some cool little spots to go off-road, mostly we just moseyed around taking in the scene.

After that, we decided to play the game of "How close can we stay to the East River while making our way downtown to the Williamsburg Bridge?" Not an easy task. It involved many detours and a lot of backtracking, but it was worth it.

Twelve miles, three hours, and more hills than I would have believed possible in New York City. Spend too long here, and you start to forget it's built on an honest-to-goodness chunk of glacier-carved geography, bumps and all.

Almost a gear post

2009-11-05T20:31:00.000-08:00

The moment I saw her, I knew.

I had only been in New York a couple of weeks, and after living for almost two years in the worst dressed city in America, I was surrounded by people who looked like they just stepped out of "Sex and the City." It was freaking me out.

I watched with the fascination of an anthropologist as women sashayed down the street in stilettos so high that I tripped just looking at them. There was jewelry without the tiniest bit of hemp. There were skinny jeans and trendy gladiator sandals and onesies for grown-ups. (I later learned these were known as "rompers." Sure.)

Anyway, I met Sophia at an orientation get-together in the heart of New York's fashion district, and as soon as I got a load of her outfit, my heart swelled with sandalwood-scented joy.

She was one of us.

Oooooh, she was crunchy, all right. She was wearing Chacos, pretty much a giveaway in itself. But what really sealed the deal was the cotton retro-print dress that she was wearing over jeans.

I knew then and there that we were going to be friends. (My first guess was that she was from Portland. Turned out she was from San Francisco. Surprise, surprise.)

The dress over jeans thing is a staple of my wardrobe. I have several light, casual dresses that I love and I refuse to go through a whole winter season without them. I am not alone in this. I have encountered female ski bums and wilderness guides all over the western U.S. who love the look.

I predict that the fashion plates along Seventh Avenue will be copying me

by this time next year.

Out of this world

2009-11-03T19:28:00.000-08:00

Between the NYC marathon and the insanity that was Halloween, it was a big weekend around these parts. There's also a certain team from hell in the World Series right now, which a lot of people seem to think is a really big deal, but whatever.

Watching finishers swaggering around in their metallic space blankets made me want to start training for next year's marathon immediately. Runners wrapped in those babies may as well have had "BADASS" branded on their foreheads. Crowds parted for them. Swathed in mystique, they flaunted those tinfoil sheets like battle scars. A gritty glint in their eyes said, "Yeah, I just ran twenty-six miles. Now get out of my way, because I'm about to puke."

I saw one guy running in a pair of FiveFingers, which made me happy beyond all reason.

This was my first New York Halloween, so I checked out the Greenwich Village parade despite the rain. It was as if a big soggy lingerie bomb had exploded in Manhattan.

It was fun taking in the scene, but I also found myself jumping out of my skin because I hate not being able to walk freely. I relish stretching my legs with a nice long stride, and now that I think about it, crowded sidewalks are one of my least favorite things about city living. I frequently get the urge to punch slow walkers in the back of the head.

Later in the evening, I headed back to Brooklyn where the costumes were a lot less slutty and a whole lot more ironic. They do loft parties right in Williamsburg - there was a keg of Brooklyn Lager. Good stuff.

As for my costume... well, lately I am tempted at least a dozen times a day to be that Red Sox fan starting "Yankees suck!" chants in the middle of Manhattan. So I chose to fully embrace that urge and go as Belligerent Bostonian Killed By An Irate Baseball Bat-Wielding Yankees Fan.

I pretty much acted as obnoxious as possible. It went over well.

Thank you, YouTube

2009-11-02T17:10:00.000-08:00

I just stumbled across this little gem.

Lady, I wish I could help you out, but I live in Williamsburg. At first I was stoked because I thought there was an abundance of outdoorsy guys here, but that was before I realized that a flannel shirt in Brooklyn does not a mountain man make.

Jailbreak

2009-10-27T18:13:00.000-07:00

Sometimes being crunchy in the Big Apple means getting the hell out of it.

That's just what I did over the weekend. Went home to Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, hugged a few trees, and went for a bike ride with my dad. We got caught in a crazy downpour, which was amazing. I may have frightened a few people near the wharf with my exhilarated whooping. Have I mentioned that I love fall in New England?

I also ran to Ned's Point lighthouse in my FiveFingers. Man, it felt great to take a deep breath and smell living things!

I took Megabus there and Lucky Star back, since Megabus doesn't let you transport a bike. There are all kinds of cheap bus options going from NYC to other major cities on the east coast. A couple more are Fung Wah and BoltBus.

Other trips I'd like to make at some point are the Long Island Railroad to Montauk and Bus 137 to Toms River, NJ. I've been dying to visit the fabled Pine Barrens of New Jersey ever since I started reading about Tom Brown, Jr. I highly recommend his book The Way of the Scout, if you're into stories involving ridiculous tracking abilities and badass psychological warfare.

But that's another post for another day.

Urban Survival Tip #1

2009-10-25T18:36:00.000-07:00

In my experience, if you find yourself in a pinch somewhere in the middle of civilization, a willingness to forego some of society’s more frivolous conventions can be a real advantage.

For instance, I packed a yogurt in my lunch recently and found that the kitchen at my school was out of spoons. In the wilderness, I would have simply picked up a stick and whittled myself a utensil. Since there is a dearth of woody debris just south of Times Square, I peeled off the tinfoil cover and fashioned it into a scoop. Worked like a charm. Then there was one morning last week, when I got out of the shower and couldn’t find my hairbrush. In a rush to get to class on time, I pulled a Little Mermaid and used a dinglehopper. Effective, efficient, and probably caused less breakage to my hair.

Today’s urban survival tip is one I’m sure most women will be able to relate to. You’re at a concert, or a bar, or an airport, and you have to pee. Bad. You’re at the point where you’re even breathing carefully, lest a particularly jolting inhale cause you to wet yourself. You waddle up to the ladies’ room – and alas! There are twenty-five women ahead of you in an unmoving line.

And -- naturally -- there’s no line for the men’s room.*

We’ve all done it. We’ve all stood in that interminable line, shifting our weight and stealing resentful glances at the occasional guy who breezes right through the door. We’ve all ground our teeth at the sound of that merry stream.

My advice to you ladies? Do what I did at an Arby’s somewhere between Boston and New York this afternoon and tell that long-suffering line of women, "I'm going in."

1) Maybe I’m unusual in this respect, but after months of playing fart baseball in the wilderness with a bunch of teenage boys who subsisted on a diet of whole grains and rehydrated chili, I just can’t get too worked up about bodily functions, mine or anyone else’s. So if a dude wanders in to use the urinal while I’m in the stall, I’ll just wait patiently for him to do his thing, zip up, and depart before I mosey on out. (You don’t want to startle the poor guy into early-onset prostate issues.)

If a man walks in just as you’re leaving, give him a saucy smile. If you’re shy, you'll save face because you seem confident. If you’re like me, and find that an irrepressible streak of mischief surfaces in such situations, you can delight in his discomfort when he stammers out a “Sorry!” because he thinks for an instant that he’s the one in the wrong place.

2) The other women won’t judge you. In fact, they’ll probably thank you for it. I guarantee you that most of them have been eyeing that door the whole time, wishing they had the nerve to just go for it. They just need a little push. You can be their William Wallace. (After I emerged from the little boy’s room at Arby’s today, the next girl in line smiled at me and was in there before the door had started swinging shut.)

#3 Public men’s restrooms aren’t that bad. Okay, sure, some of them are atrocious. But there’s a rule I just invented that says that on a scale of one to ten (if one is a bathroom at the Ritz Carlton and ten is a Tau Kappa Epsilon bathroom on a Saturday morning), the men’s room at a given establishment will be only one or two points more disgusting than the women’s room. Girls are gross, too.

Try it. It will set you free.

*Sporting events are an exception. Often the line for the men’s room will actually be longer because of all the beer that has been consumed since 8 a.m. Guys, crash the ladies' room at your peril.

And the moon is the only light we'll see

2009-10-22T21:27:00.000-07:00

The Playing for Change fall tour is coming to New York this Sunday. You should go.

Man, that video gives me "Where the Hell is Matt?"-type feelings. (You
know what I mean. The part where all the people crash together in the
plaza in Madrid? My heart grows three sizes every time.)

Playing for Change is such an incredible idea. Music? Facilitating
peace? All over the world? My music-lovin', travel-buggin' little ass
can barely even handle it.

From their website:

Musicians from different cultures uniting together for the common purpose of peace through music is a powerful statement. For the past four years Playing For Change has traveled the world with a mobile recording studio and cameras in search of such inspiration. Throughout the journey we created a family of over 100 musicians from all walks of life. We connect these musicians together with "Songs Around The World."

They'll be at the Town Hall at 8:00 on Sunday - just three blocks from
where I go to school! gah! - and I'd be all over it if tickets were a little
cheaper and I wasn't planning on being out of town this weekend. But
as it is, I'm getting out of Dodge and going home to Massachusetts to
see my parents and breathe in a little non-city air.

My hometown on Buzzard's Bay.

So please send some of those musical vibrations my way.

I'm also planning on bringing my old bike back to New York with me. Stay tuned for some island bike trail adventures!

Refined taste

2009-10-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

What does it say about me that at a comedy show I attended recently - one that contained a fair amount of intelligent political and social humor - the thing I found funniest, by far, was a poop joke?

Don't answer that.

So long, 3.4 oz toiletries

2009-10-19T19:37:00.000-07:00

After a nice long day of swimming and yoga-ing at Chelsea Piers, I just put both my feet behind my head at the same time. I think I was like 14 the last time I did that. Yesss.

It's counter-intuitive because school is absolutely balls-out insane right now, but I feel like now that I'm in New York, I'm way less stressed out than I ever was when I was living out west.

That's right. The city that doesn't sleep is chilling me out.

I can totally feel it physically. I'm not as wound up. Even my blood pressure's lower. I think it comes down to the difference between the toll that normal, day-to-day busy stress takes on me and how I handle emotional stress. The normal stuff feels like a breeze right now.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely loved my time out west. It was a ride and a half. I smirk when I look back at some of my my escapades. At various times I was homeless (voluntarily, and never friendless), literally down to my last dollar (I may or may not have visited the plasma center in Spokane, Washington a few times), and marooned at a motel in northern Montana after Canada rejected me.

Snowshoeing in Canada after I finagled my way in. Suckers.

I was also freaked out, in love, terrified I was making huge mistakes, adrift, far from my family - a ridiculous cocktail of WHOA THERE WHAT AM I DOING? I lived out of a duffel bag a fair amount. And sleeping on the ground and backpacking all the time really did a number on my body. No wonder I was wound so friggin' tight I couldn't get my feet behind my head.

I know I'll start to get that adventure itch again, probably before too much longer, but for now it's really nice to have a breather. Last week I went to Duane Reade and bought the gigantic bottle of Listerine because I'll actually be in one place long enough to use it all! IT WAS AWESOME.

Getting in touch with my inner spider monkey

2009-10-18T14:59:00.000-07:00

I took advantage of my Groupon today and went climbing at Chelsea Piers.

It was sweet. I tried three different routes and even if the second one might've gotten a little dicey, I made it to the top each time. I like how climbing is as much a mind game as it is a physical one. You really do have to think a few steps ahead.

Now everything from my elbows to my fingertips is burning. A lot of my friends in Colorado were really into climbing, and now I get why their forearms were bigger than their biceps.

There were a few people there who were obviously really experienced climbers. I overheard them talking about how they used to live in Calfornia. (Of course. Sophia, were they part of your crunchy crowd out there?) It was crazy watching them scurry across the part of the wall that was nearly horizontal. It's billed as the biggest wall in the Northeast, which wouldn't surprise me. It's huge.

I can see why climbing is so addicting for some people. I'd love to keep doing it, but I can't afford a membership at the moment. The Groupon gives me access to the whole Chelsea Piers facility for a whole week, though, and I'm planning on making the most of it. They have everything, even an indoor beach volleyball court. I have my eye on some yoga classes, maybe some boxing, and definitely the pool.

Oh, yes. It's gonna be a good week.

I might even crack the window open tonight

2009-10-16T22:42:00.000-07:00

It has been absolutely freezing in my apartment lately. The heater is broken and my wimpy quilt just hasn't been up to the task at night. I started wearing layers and more layers to bed, and when that didn't cut it, I brought in the big guns.

That's a -20 degree bag. It kept me warm on many a frigid night in the desert last winter. It smells like campfire and unspeakable grody-ness, which is making me nostalgic. (After 100+ field days, it might be due for a wash.)

Didn't expect to need it here, but let this be a lesson to all of us. New York is a wilderness full of drafty buildings and unresponsive landlords. BE PREPARED.

When you get old and start losing your hair/Can you tell me who will still care?

2009-10-16T22:10:00.000-07:00

Since my last post,

1) The Red Sox left their heads most decidedly up their asses and got themselves eliminated.

2) The Rockies, my backup team, flamed out shortly thereafter.

3) I don't even want to talk about the Patriots.

4) I saw Barefoot Truth, and they were an explosion of awesomeness and flannel.

I took some pictures, but either my camera was having issues or I just suck at taking low-light photos. I salvaged a couple that weren't too horrible and tinkered with them a bit in Photoshop so that instead of crappy and blurry, they look cool and artistic. Or maybe pretentious and contrived. Your call.

And the next night?

Okay, look. I did something that you might judge me for. And it's cool if you do. I'll understand. But if seeing Hanson in concert makes me a bad half-assed hippie, then I don't want to be right.

With the exception of a few guys (either gay or putting forth an inspired effort to get laid that night), the audience was female and mid-twenties: legions of "MMMBop"-singing teeny boppers all grown up. It was glorious.

Oh, the days when a toss of Zac's long tresses made my heart flutter. I remember going to the orthodontist's office in eighth grade after someone threw a frisbee into my teeth during a game of Ultimate (yet another reason why I'm a bad half-assed hippie: I now freak out when a disc whizzes even remotely close to my face). I had to get my front teeth fixed and I was a teary, hyperventilating mess.

But then a Hanson song came on, and I felt like everything was going to be okay. (How adorable was I? And pathetic?)

Anyway, my point is this: I would have done terrible things for a chance to see them when I was twelve, and I never got the chance.

...until yesterday. Boom. Full circle! No regrets!

As for why I'm talking about them in a blog that's supposed to be about crunchy stuff, they actually organized a one-mile barefoot walk earlier that day as part of their "Use Your Sole" tour. They're raising money for a number of different causes including AIDS treatment and research and drilling wells for clean water in Africa. Good stuff.

I've heard a lot of 1997-themed punchlines in the last 24 hours, but the crazy thing is, Hanson is actually totally legit now. Great musicians, great performers.

And yes, they played "MMMBop."

Barefoot Truth: Certified Crunchy

2009-10-10T08:32:00.000-07:00

Music post!

Fellow New Yorkers, there is a band I would like you to meet. I've known about them for a few years now, but I recently rediscovered them, and holy crap have they gotten even more awesome since the last time I checked. They're playing at the Canal Room in Manhattan this Wednesday, and they're called Barefoot Truth.

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking, are they a hobbit band?

Wait, wait, just kidding. (BFT, if you're reading this, you know I love you.) Here are some better ones.

There we go.

I first started listening to these guys when I was in college. Back then they were just "Barefoot" (for a cautionary tale in karma and what happens when a big label muscles out an independent band, check out these clowns). It started with just two of them: Will and Jay, college boys out of Connecticut. They were really mellow and acoustic, great beach-y music that reminded me of Dispatch (my first love). I actually bought their album "Changes in the Weather" on CD Baby.

I say "actually" because I was a dedicated music mooch who copied all my music off my hallmates' iTunes libraries. But no one else knew about these guys, and so I shelled out some money, figuring it was the least I could do to support a young independent band whose music made me happy. I was glad I did. Soon other music mooches on my hall were approaching me to tell me they'd ripped off the entire album from MY iTunes library and who the hell was this Barefoot band, anyway?

They sort of fell off my radar screen after I graduated. I didn't have a functional computer or an iPod over the next two years, so updating my music collection wasn't much of a concern. But then a couple of months ago, I landed back on the east coast, bought a laptop, and thought, "Huh, I should see what those guys have been up to."

Hello.

Are you familiar with John Butler Trio? They're this really sick band from Australia, and when I saw them live in Philly in 2005, it was easily the best show I'd ever seen. The musicianship was astounding.

When I caught up with Barefoot Truth and started listening to their song "Broken Road," I thought, "Whoa, am I listening to John Butler Trio?" Except it was like a JBT with a fuller, richer sound. And a better lead singer. (Sorry, John Butler! You know I love you!) Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about, but trust me on this. I can't think of much higher praise. The bass, the slide guitar... it just sang.

The dudes in BFT have graduated and added three more members, an upright bass, a harmonica, a Weissenborn lap guitar, a keyboard, a didgeridoo, and a whole lot more rocking-your-face-off. The growth they've shown as a band is startling.

They have a new album called "Threads" coming out early next year, and they'll be playing some of its songs on this fall tour. They streamed the first half of it on their website for a limited time recently, and it's all kinds of awesome. A great song to check out now is "All Good Reasons," which I may or may not have had on repeat for about a month. I may or may not be listening to it right now.

Tickets for their Wed. Oct. 14th show are ten bucks in advance, twelve at the door. It's 18+ and the show starts at 9, with Spiritual Rez opening. Come on out and say hello!

Now I'm going back to bed, because I did more than 100 sun salutations before 9am and I need a nap. The yoga-thon raised $1,652 to feed and educate Maasai girls! Night, folks.

P.S. Red Sox, get your heads out of your asses!

Bringing the mountain to Mohammed

2009-10-09T13:19:00.000-07:00

What's a girl to do when, after basically living in the wilderness for a year, she moves to Brooklyn where there isn't a mountain or a desert in sight? How does she keep from going all "Requiem for a Dream" from tree withdrawal, digging through the pavement with her fingernails and forlornly howling at the light pollution-obscured moon?

A) She sets up a shelter in Central Park and learns Jiu-Jitsu to help her fend off the crazies.

B) She flies back to Colorado every weekend, because she's filthy rich like that.

C) She busts bowdrill fires on the sidewalk for loose change.

D) She crunch-i-fies her room.

If you guessed D, congratulations! You win some granola and a 30-pack of PBR!

It's not finished yet - I still have to fill in those purplish areas, add some shading, tweak a few things. I might even get super fancy and attempt a tromp' loeil kinda thing where it looks like there's a hole in the wall opening onto the scene. (But let's not get ahead of ourselves here, Emily.)

That's not the only thing I've done to make my room feel like a little oasis in a concrete jungle. Note the earth-toned wall paint. That's important.

A few potted plants (low-light plants, because my window is almost entirely bricked over by another building) go a long way. And check out my prayer flags.

Gotta have prayer flags. They remind me of my beloved Eastern religion-obsessed hippie friends. And I found them at a really sweet Tibetan store on St. Mark's Place in the East Village. I have a feeling it's going to be my new go-to store, since the Animas Trading Company in Durango is now about 2,000 miles away.

Then there's the obligatory incense/candle collection. (Note that the picture of aforementioned Eastern religion-obsessed hippie friends is strategically located next to the Nag Champa.)

Then there's the token guitar that I can't play very well. That's key. I might pick it up every once in awhile and pluck out a few Dispatch or Ben Harper tunes, but mostly it sits there looking impressive for anyone who happens to visit my room.

Finally, there's my prAna yoga mat.

I'm no yoga master, but I did whip a bunch of unruly sixteen-year-old boys into sun-salutationing shape last year, so I feel that I can say with some credibility that prAna has some excellent products. This mat was a little on the pricey side, but it's super sweet and I got a pro deal with them when I worked for Open Sky. So, neener neener.

And finally, for an extra little dose of the wild, my roommate's fat cat can occasionally be spotted stalking through the room. Don't be fooled by her unthreatening appearance - she's dangerous, all right. In fact, she once peed on my bed! Talk about taking a walk on the wild side!

I hope you enjoyed your little tour of my crunch-tastic abode. Namaste.

108 Sun Salutations

2009-10-03T21:36:00.000-07:00

Three years ago, I spent a semester in Tanzania with the School for International Training. While I was there, I did a three-day homestay with a family of Maasai, the traditional pastoralist people who believe all the cows in the world are theirs by divine right. Here's an excerpt from one of the emails I sent home in March of 2006:

They dressed me in traditional Maasai garb; long blankets draped over the shoulder and tied at the waist, and lots of beaded and metal jewelry. With my hair in braids, one of the other students told me I looked like Pocahontas. I felt a little ridiculous, but mostly fabulous. I used my outer blanket to carry jugs of water over my head and played with the kids under a tree, hoping all the while that the warriors who stopped by would take me dancing when they left at dusk.

On Wednesday night, my last night of homestay, my yeyo put one of the big beaded collars over my head and showed me how to shake my shoulders so it jingles the way the young Maasai girls do. My papa beckoned me to follow and with three of the girls from neighboring bomas - all from around 8 to 11 years old - we set off across the sandy hills to where the warriors, who had returned home with their cattle now that the rains had come, would dance with the girls who might eventually become their wives or mistresses.

It was a walk that will always stand out with complete clarity in my memory, though it felt surreal at the time: the silhouette of my Maasai papa with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders and fembo walking stick in hand, navigating with only the moonlight softly illuminating the land to guide him, the three little girls in their head wraps, their necklaces tinkling as they walked, the approaching lightning flashing silently, still too distant to hear the thunder, and behind me, the faint red glow at the summit of Oldonyo Lengai.

As we entered the boma, the layered chanting of the warriors and the high-pitched responses of the girls started and I was swept into the dancing. Warriors would stomp forward and whip their blankets under a girl's chin as a sign of flirtation. Several did it to me and once it coincided with a lightning flash that showed the whites of his eyes inches from mine. They're not messing around. Girls would disappear with a warrior for a time and then return, giggling, and jump back into the dancing. Loud thunder signalled the arrival of the storm that had been threatening, and the dancing was cut short so that we could walk back to the boma in the pouring rain. I fell into bed next to sleeping little Monica, sopping wet and deliriously happy.

Those were the craziest three days I'd ever experienced. Sleeping on a cowskin with my host mother and her three children, a volcano erupting ten miles away... man. It was epic.

Me and my little brother, Troima, at his boma by Lake Natron in northern Tanzania, March 2006.

At the end, along with the rest of my American classmates, I was given the opportunity to ask a group of women questions, and they were astonishingly candid about any number of topics, including circumcision. Many of them regarded it as a normal rite of passage and didn't seem to feel too strongly about it, but there are women out there who want something else. They were all very young when it happened to them, and there was no alternative in order for them to become women in the eyes of their culture.

I think it's important to respect unique cultures like the Maasai and the traditions that make them so distinct, and also to respect the rights of young girls who historically have had very little say in their own fate. I don't think I can emphasize enough how important it is for these girls simply to have THE OPTION to pursue a different path.

So, this coming Saturday, I will be participating in the Houses of Hope Yoga-thon in Central Park. From the website:

"The organization is run by Agnes Pareyio, a Maasai woman, who has been working to end FGM for over a decade through education and the development of an alternative rite of passage for young women... Agnes has built two safe houses where young women live, are educated and do not face pressure to undergo FGM. There are plans to build 6-9 more houses across Africa."

I feel like this is a small way I can create a little more good karma in the world. Thank them for the amazing experience, you know? And I love yoga. It's all one big win!

If you're interested in helping me support this awesome cause, go here (or, better yet, create your own fundraising page):

http://www.americansforunfpa.org/netcommunity/ejhargraves

It's the little things

2009-09-26T10:16:00.001-07:00

It makes me unreasonably happy when I see a Subaru parked on the streets of New York.

Drinkability... check.

2009-09-19T21:27:00.000-07:00

Photo credit to charliebay

Went to the Brookyn Brewery recently. Awesome place. It's just what I want a local brewery to be: no-frills, all about the beer, with the evidence of the actual brewing process all over the place.

I tried a few beers: first, the Brooklyn Blast Pale Ale, which is quite strong and very tasty. I love double pale ales - thank you to Steamworks Brewing Company's Conductor Imperial IPA for showing me the way. The Blast had kind of a piney taste to it. If you're looking for more specific information on the maltiness and the nose and whatnot I'm not really qualified to help you out - even though we had a "beer focus" at the beginning of every shift at Steamworks, I'm not nearly enough of a beer connoisseur yet to give an expert opinion. I've been broke enough throughout my twenties that I still consider PBR to be a champagne of beers. There are only a few questions I ask when I try a new beer. Is it drinkable? Yes. Does it give you a bang for your buck? With the Blast, at 8.00% ABV, the answer is yes, indeed it does.

It was my friend's birthday and the bartender was a sweetheart and gave her a free six-pack of their pumpkin ale. Of the various pumpkin-flavored beers I've tried, this might actually be one of my favorites. It has a nice spicy taste - cloves and cinnamon and nutmeg - but isn't overwhelmingly pumpkiny. Which brings me to the question - why isn't pumpkin-flavored beer available year-round? It's so good.

The brewery is open Saturdays and Sundays from noon to 6pm, and they give tours at 1, 2, 3 and 4pm.

Fun fact: the Brooklyn Brewery has been 100% wind-powered since 2003. You gotta love a green local company that's all about renewable energy.

71% Off Rock Climbing At Chelsea Piers

2009-09-11T03:31:00.000-07:00

I was hoping for something like this when I signed up to receive NYC Groupons a little while ago. I was starting to wonder if they were going to offer me anything except discount tanning, and voila!

I've heard good things about Chelsea Piers. I will definitely be taking advantage of this deal - $59 for a climbing lesson AND a week-long pass to the whole facility. Not too shabby. The thing is, Groupons works based on collective buying power - so at least fifty people need to take advantage of it for it to work. So come join me!

Ode to Fall on the East Coast

2009-09-07T13:58:00.000-07:00

There were two mornings last week when I woke up and was actually cold. After the miserable, hot, sticky nights we'd been having, I was positively giddy. I didn't know what to do with myself. It's warmed up again since, but that little tantalizing taste was enough to get me daydreaming about my favorite time of year.

Photo credit goes to Paul Keleher

Fall is the one season the east coast does better than Colorado. Summers in the west are cooler at night and drier. In the winter, the powder is phenomenal. In the spring, it doesn't get as rainy and muddy and the kayaking is at its best because of the snowmelt. And the fall? It's beautiful, don't get me wrong. The aspens turn a brilliant gold and the already spectacular views get even better.

But the thing is, out east, you get the full palette. I like some red and orange in the mix with my yellow. Then there's cranberry bogs, apple orchards, cider mills, pumpkin picking - and even though some of those things can be found out west, for me, the thrill of them will always be inextricably linked to that multicolored backdrop set against a pristine blue sky.

Chilly hands after bike rides through crisp air, goose-bumped knees and flushed cheeks after running through the woods... I can't wait. Leaves burning. Hot apple cider, haunted houses. Halloween. Bundling up in jeans and a soft sweater and a warm scarf. That smell in the air. And with luck, the Red Sox deep in the postseason.

(I know this is a New York blog, but I'm a Massachusetts girl by birth and I'll be damned if I pander to Yankees fans.)

A few crunchy things I have on the docket headed into the fall:

Free tai chi at Bryant Park
The Long Island Fall Festival
Free kayaking on the Hudson
Minor League baseball on Coney Island - give it up for the Brooklyn Cyclones!
Biking around Staten Island and Governor's Island
Running on Roosevelt Island
Brooklyn Botanical Garden
Astoria Beer Garden (hey, it's a garden!)

I'm also working on making my room in Brooklyn feel less like an urban concrete cage and more like an earthy retreat, not an easy task seeing as the window is about 80% bricked over by another building and when I got here, the walls were a color I will dub "Mint Vomit." But I'm giving it my best shot.

Vermont Is For Lovers

2009-09-01T18:29:00.000-07:00

This is awesome. Ben and Jerry's has renamed its "Chubby Hubby" ice cream "Hubby Hubby" in celebration of Vermont's first day of legal gay marriage.

What a great company. A delicious product made by people with a conscience. Fun fact: when Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield started the company, they created a three-part mission statement.

I love that.

They're only selling "Hubby Hubby" in the great state of Vermont, so sadly we will be unable to get hold of it here in New York. We can, however, be on the lookout for another new product. Ben and Jerry's is looking into making a new ice cream that can be shipped and sold at room temperature to cut down on emissions.

Lizard Feet

2009-08-31T21:01:00.000-07:00

Gear post!

The topic of the day: Vibram Five Fingers.

There was an excellent article about these babies in the New York Times on Saturday. I've had a pair for a couple of months now, and I adore them.

I wore them as my camp shoes when I was a field guide and found them to be perfect, not as unwieldy or heavy as Chacos or Tevas, but tough enough to protect against sharp rocks and thorns. I wore them rafting, for which they proved ideal - they stick and provide traction even when wet. I have friends who've worn them climbing, and though they're not quite as effective as climbing shoes, I'm told they work well enough as long as you're not trying anything too crazy. I even hiked in them; interestingly, I came to prefer them to hiking boots because I tend to roll my ankles a lot and I'm convinced they helped me avoid that. With hiking boots, if you step on something wrong, there's only one fulcrum point: your ankle. Wearing the Five Fingers, I was far more aware of what I was stepping on to begin with, and then my whole foot was capable or curving and wrapping around whatever wobbly rock or loose log I was stepping on. Very prehensile.

Finally, I've been wearing them running. The New York Times piece I linked to gives a pretty clear picture of the barefoot running vs. cushioned running debate. As the article allowed, most people have different needs when it comes to running, so what works for me may not work for everyone. That said, I'm surprised and delighted by how well they've worked for me. The first couple of times I ran in them, they made my calf muscles extremely sore because of the way they force you to run on the balls of your feet. That wore off after a few outings, leaving only a beautiful sensation of extreme lightness and the sense that this is how I was meant to run: unencumbered and agile. They've actually made me more excited to run.

A side benefit is the reactions you get when you wear them - reactions from New Yorkers, no less. These are the people who are supposed to have seen it all, the people who are fazed by nothing. A lot of incredulous stares, sure. A few disgusted comments: "Dude, they make you look like a lizard!" I mean, they are undeniably freaky-looking things.

But mostly, I've found that they are a fantastic conversation starter, the ice breaker of all ice breakers. I've made more random five-minute friends in the short time that I've been a Five Finger owner than the previous 23 years combined. Everyone who catches sight of them is gobsmacked. They feel compelled to say something and find out why the hell you're wearing rubbery toe socks on the subway. When I wore them to Trader Joe's on 14th St. (a crunchy Manhattan hotbed if there ever was one), I thought they were going to make me their queen.

A bonus: if you walk through a field, flowers get stuck between your toes.

It looks like Five Fingers can be found in at least eight locations throughout New York. You can check the store locator here.