Life, you beauty

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!

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...

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

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

R.I.P. Ethel

May 5, 2010 - July 7, 2010

Ethel on her birthday with her proud mama.

Message from an old friend

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...?

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!