Mission to the Rayons of Republican Subordination (and back with fleas)

So not too much interesting going on here in Dushanbe. I am have been trying to get out of the city a little bit, partly to see this weird wild and wooly country, and partly because, like I mentioned, not too much interesting going on in Dushanbe. I had grand plans for a cultural tour last weekend, historic sights, museums, shopping, all cut tragically short by bad doner kebap. I spent all night Friday and most of the day Saturday battling massive food poisoning. I got up Sunday morning with the grit and determination of a passenger on a cruise ship under fire. I was going to have FUN god-damned, and no amount of personal discomfort was going to stop that.

I decided to head out to Hissar, which used to be an 18^th century fortress run by the local big man under the emir. That was of course before the Red Army blew the whole complex into dust. The government has gamely gathered enough of the scattered stones to reconstruct the gate, which is nice enough. There are also a couple of big hills on either side of that gate, which the Lonely Planet promised would offer panoramic views of the surrounding countryside. What I actually achieved was scratching the hell out of the palms of hands as I tried to use thorn bushes to slow my decent as I slid and scrambled up the nearly sheer face of this stupid hill. (The thorn bushes that covered the mountain side did at least have interesting flowers on them, which I dubbed Taliban flowers in honor of their beards.) The view was less than spectacular. I decided I had had enough cliff for one day and took the long winding path down the backside of the hill, carefully avoiding all the Tajik couples making out – completely oblivious to the presence of both me and the sensitive Taliban flowers. At the base of the gate, there was a Tajik wedding going on. It seemed mostly like an American wedding, except for the bride having that strange uni-brow thing, and the fact that all the music sounded like a snake charmer’s cover of the Star Wars Cantina. At the caravan house museum across the road, I saw some dusty relics and befriended five Canadian kids working here for the Aga Khan foundation. I used some of my copious World Bank per diem to buy them lunch, they used their Russian and Tajik skills to half the amount of time it took me to get there anywhere on the local public transportation system. Fair trade in my book.

First half of the week centered on me working in the office and getting my questionnaires ready for pilot testing. The last two days in the field. I spent an inordinate amount of that time worried about fleas. You see, the consultant that I was working with went to do some pre-pilot testing among poor communities in the capital last week and came back covered in welts. She explained that most poor people in this country have fleas and that you very often catch them from proximity. Isn’t it the same in Africa? [Editor’s note: NO!!!] She then told a “humorous” story about the last Washington consultant that she worked with, who got fleas during pilot testing in the mountains, brought them back to her hotel room, where they got into her luggage, brought them back across the ocean, where they multiplied like a Bulgarian wildfire, and infected her entire family and household. Cost a fortune to kill them all. Hardy-fucking-har, that story is a laugh a minute.

So I *really* don’t want to get fleas. There is just something about those little bastards breeding in my hair that makes me a little uncomfortable. Stomach parasites, ants, scorpions, snakes, I can deal with. No fleas.

With this perpetually in back of my mind, I got all gussied up like a Moron missionary for my foray into the countryside. We went to a cotton growing area on the border with Uzbekistan. It took a miraculously short two hours in the morning to navigate the protocol, my favorite being the stop at the local mayor’s office. He had a dilapidated desk adorned only with a tiny Tajik flag and a MASSIVE red plastic rotary phone.

The trip out went past women in brightly colored robes working in the cotton fields set against the dramatic backdrop of the mountains. The mosques have checkerboard roofs and elaborately carved doors. What was really striking though is the fact that there were no men. Anywhere. This time of year, men are either working in the city or in Russia. Only young boys, old men, and the poorest that cannot afford to go anywhere to work are left in the town. The women and children were pleasant enough though. I took some of their pictures so you can see what they look like. I also took a picture of my piloting team and our government minder, so you can see who I was working with. My mom digs that kind of slice-of-life thing.

Anyway, I got back from piloting yesterday, preoccupied with my potential flea problem. I came back to my hotel room, went immediately into the white tile bathroom, stripped down, filled the sink up with as hot water as I could, threw my clothes into it, and got into a shower hot enough to sterilize myself. Went I got out, I carefully examined myself for anything that could be a flea bite, and the sink for anything that might be a drown flea. You can bet that I am going to do the same thing today when I get home. Every itch is a sign of my coming infestation.

That is all for now. Tonight I am going to fly to a town in the mountains and take a little tour around there for the weekend, so hopefully I will have something interesting for next week. Enjoy your flea-free life in the first world, I am going to go back to itching.

Samani-a-good, Stalinabad

So this place is different. Normally I don’t start off with details about the country, thinking that if you cared you could google it, but this time I will make an exception as I am guessing most of the audience couldn’t find it on a map.

Tajikistan is the smallest and poorest of the Central Asia republics. It is bordered by Uzbekistan to the west, Kyrgyzstan to the north, Afghanistan to the south and China to the east, though the border with China is disputed because, as we all know, China could dispute a border with an ocean. The capital is Dushanbe, which means Monday in Tajik. The town’s claim to fame was its Monday market before the Soviets arrived, built a railroad and named it the capital of the Soviet Republic they created. Before revisionists got into it in the early 1960s, however, it was called “Stalinabad,” which makes me think that it figured prominently in contemporary American spy movie spoofs. “Come now, comrade, we must change Stalinabad’s name. Capitalists – they laugh at us.” It is actually a fairly pleasant capital, however, as it was a planned city mostly built from scratch in the 1920’s. Lots of wide boulevards and tree lined streets. The shade is nice since it is well into the high 90s every day here.

In addition to the capital, there are four states in Tajikistan: Khatlon, Sogd, Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast, and, I shit you not, Rayons of Republican Subordination. It sounds like a game that Bush and Cheney play with tazers. I still haven’t figured out if it is just an awkward translation from Russian or what. I will let you know soon. I am going on mission to the Rayons of Republican Subordination next week. (Come on, how many of you have a work schedule that could double as Doctor Spok’s to-do list?)

Despite being only 100 kilometers from the Afghan border, Tajikistan is fairly liberal. I would say that less than half of the women cover their hair here, and the traditional robes are more just shapeless and gaudy than oppressive. Plus I have seen some impressive outfits on the younger tarted-up Russian girls here. I, as a former Long Island Catholic school girl myself, would be embarrassed to wear them to the beach.

Another weird bit of Tajik trends is the uni-brow. It is apparently really hip here. Some women obviously tweeze their brows into the uni-brow shape. I have even seen one or two that have filled in the thin part between their eyes with eyebrow pencil. It is can be distracting if you are talking to them too, especially in official capacities. You find yourself talking to their eyebrow.

With work, I haven’t gotten a chance to do much in the way of tourism. I did go down to see the only major landmark in the capital, the statue of Ismail Samani, the founder of the Samanid dynasty. It was erected in 1999, which was the coincidence of the 1100^th anniversary of the founding of the dynasty and the 8^th anniversary of Tajik independence. It also coincidenced with the end of the civil war and the need to replace the largest statue of Lenin this side of the Urals.

That is about all for now. I have to get back to shuttling between my 4 star hotel, which looks like the Winter Palace, and the office, which is nothing special. I will try to do some interesting sightseeing this weekend.

Just Another Day at the Afisi

The town slogan for Bukoba – painted on all the signs into and out of town – is “Let’s be safe, speed and AIDs kill.”

I wish that I had some exciting stories about the last three weeks in East Africa, but I really don’t. Just another day at the office. Albeit at the office where geckos nest under computers, two-inch wasps size up the printer for hive feasibility and the occasional bat drowns in the bathroom. Electricity was sometimes intermittent in the mornings, so some days we just worked until the laptop battery died, then went outside to play ping-pong.

I was in the office six days a week, so that cuts down on adventure time. On Sundays, my roommate Angel and I went hiking down to Lake Victoria or just hung around and watched the previous tenants collection of pirated Chinese DVDs. Highlights of my time there included playing Taboo where all the Tanzanians cheat and use Swahili, but no one cares as long as the Kilimanjaro beer is flowing; celebrating the fourth of July as a work day when we came home, drank Kili and watched a pirated copy of the feel-good American classic – Easy Rider; and running low on booze for the last night and deciding to drink Konyagi (the local moonshine that is hyper-distilled banana wine) and grape Fanta, which combined for the smooth flavor of Robatussin.

I only got out into the real field one day to do pilot testing of the survey I am helping to develop. We went to a village about 40 minutes outside of town. It was different that the small villages that I was used to in West Africa. Here there is water everywhere, so the houses don’t need to be centralized around a well. There are sprinkled among the hills and banana trees, with clay dirt paths connecting them. The houses are made out of mud and reeds, with thatched roofs. Because most people are too poor for furniture, the dirt floor is covered with dried grass to sit on. You have to take your shoes off to walk on the grass.

It was, however, an interesting slice of life into rural northwestern Tanzania. All the surveys we conducted were in Swahili, so I could only guess what was going on most of the time. My favorite survey was in a huge compound of a relatively affluent farmer. The white lady and her survey team was apparently the big happening for that day, and friends and children drifted by to listen in. We asked the household head how many children he had. When he replied six, a spirited discussion broke out between the father and the eight year old sitting on the floor. After fierce debate, the man changed his answer, actually, there were seven. Oops, better not tell Mom.

Another household was the Tanzania version of that idiot neighbor we’ve all had at some point in our lives. He has bicycle parts strewn around his yard (the East African equivalent of a Pinto up on cinderblocks). There was a chicken in his living room. He had no furniture at all, but a shiny Chinese boom box that was belting out the Snoop and Tupac to a mud-rattling-roar. His wall was decorated with 20-30 photos of him in his younger days, with someone that I have to assume was his idiot cousin – because guys like this always seem to have an idiot cousin to fill this role – dressed in their gangster finest, posing hip-hop style and flashing what might have been poorly impersonated gang signs – or early onset arthritis brought on by vitamin deficiency – one can’t really be sure. Another testament to the universality of mankind.

So I am writing this from my hotel room in Kampala. Tomorrow, I fly out to London and then, barring any flaming doctor attacks, on to Washington. I will be there for five whole days before heading to a wedding in New York (congratulations Kristin and Bobby) and then uncharted waters – Tajikistan.

Kagera, Tanzania

So I have to admit I was a bit worried. The guidebook described the town where I would be spending the coming weeks as filled with lake flies and earnest Christian missionaries, two pests certain to make my personal tormentors list should I ever end up in hell. But it turned out okay. Those swarms of both are sometimes visible in the town below, neither appear in great numbers where I live and work.

Today is the winter solstice here in Kagera, Tanzania – shortest day of the year. Which when you are about one degree south of the equator translates into 11 hours 45 minutes of daylight instead of the usual 12. I am here, living in a big beautiful house high on a bluff overlooking Lake Victoria, to formulate new and better ways to count poor people for the World Bank’s research division. I have had two revelations since I have been here. The first is that as silly as my job sounds, it actually has a purpose – no one has any idea about the statistics of things like poverty or if programs are working to change those statistics. The second, which occurred on my balcony while watching the sky graying at 5:45 last night over the azure blue water, is that there are other people which consciously choose to make a living doing other things. I lifted by pineapple cocktail in toast to all the suckers in cubicles in the world – no offense meant to any suckers in cubicles that may be fans of this blog, I obviously am referring only to the other suckers in the cubes around you.

I landed in Kampala, Uganda on Monday morning. It is the closest major airport to where I am staying, a mere six hour bus trip. My partner in crime (a fellow researcher and former West African Peace Corps volunteer which will be from here on be referred to by his porn alias “Angel Derlon,” as he was christened by the bus company passenger manifest, just in case he wants to have a career someday) and I took the bus down on Tuesday. Uneventful trip. Driver drove recklessly, some kid was always screaming, border crossing took a third of the total trip time… There is always some mystery item that screws up the crossing. We will all be cruising through, and suddenly some bum has to have something weird. Tuesday it was the twin adventures of chainsaw and boat engine. Then the unfortunate exporter of said goods gets to play let’s-make-a-deal with Customs. Similar to the old game show, Monty Customs Guy asks, would you like to give me X number of dollars *or* would you like to play what’s-in-the-tariff-book. The exporter will hem and haw, trying to negotiate down the fees, and, if no agreement is reached, out comes the government book, whereby it all starts again. Is it a new engine or used? Does running it in a water barrel outside count as used because I think I saw one back a couple hundred yards? Is it a large engine or small? Couldn’t you actually interpret this as a large electric paddle? And so it goes, until the final result is something like, okay, the official tariff on one small used engine, plus 15,000 Ugandan shillings, $30 in hard currency, two packs of Chinese cigarettes, and the exporter’s shoes. At which time everyone is all smiles, we load back up into the bus, drive 15 meters across the border, and the poor bastard hops out with his motor to pay Tanzania import taxes.

Putting the Rain in Rain Forest

It has been a really insane last couple weeks with graduation and the new job and moving and everything, so I haven't had a chance to post this. I wrote it the last day I was in Bogata and wanted a chance to edit it and make it, oh, I don't know, funny, but I just haven't had a chance. But I am off to Kagera, Tanzania (middle of holy bloody no where), so I should have some zany adventures there to make up for it. Here you go:

So I am in Bogata, waiting to head back to the United States on the red eye. Unless something really unlikely happens, I will have made it through two weeks in Colombia without any more major calamity besides sunburn and mosquito bites.

The week on the coast was relaxing. My buddies from school and I hung out on the beach, went scuba diving, swam in the pool and drank enough Club Colombia beer to pickle ourselves. Happily for my mother and unhappily for the blog reading audience, nothing too much exciting went down.

In Colombia in the months of May and June, it rains. It rains every day at some point and it rains hard. It doesn't rain at the same time every day, which would be convenient from the planning point of view. The general way it happens is we get up early in the morning, take a minibus then hike out to some beautiful secluded beach, the entire hike out thinking "Man it better not rain" and on the way back it pours. This leaves us trying to cover ourselves in whatever towels, blankets, tee shirts whatever, slipping and sliding over a Colombian hillside, looking like a cross between wet puppies and runaways from Cirque du Soleil. At the Tayrona National Park, what was on the way out a beautiful hike through jungle, carefully stepping around the piles of horse and donkey droppings (the only modes of transportation in the park), down to a protected swimming beach, on the way back was an ankle deep muddy slog through horse shit. Which leads me to ask why it is that I have spent a measurable portion of my adult life slopping through the tropical rain forest in Converse sneakers.

The only other thing of note was the Rumba en Chiva. Since I can't speak Spanish I have spent most of the time signing on to things that I can't really understand and hoping they work out for the best. This definitely did. I found out later that the Chiva is a Colombia tradition where passengers board a vehicle that was in its former life a school bus, but has since been stripped down to open air and painted with wild colorful murals. The bus has a live band in the back seats and everyone gets a bottle of rum. We drive to various points in the city, singing the Colombia national songs, get out onto the sidewalk (with the band), drink and dance. Then load up and keep going. We were accompanied by 40 other Colombian tourists, including the very nice fat lady sitting behind me that (physically) taught me how to shake my tits. We had a little snaffu at first because we had to get the bus from the hotel parking lot on to the main highway, which involved a tight turn and a quick merge into traffic. I don't know if it was just the drum that fell out, or if we actually lost one of the drummers too (I was making amigos with the rum bottle), but we had to stop for a few minutes to sort that out.

There were also a couple of younger people from Miami who could intermittently explain to us what the hell was going on. One of these guys had a bottle of "Colombian moonshine" in one of his back pockets and a near boiling bottle of Canada Dry in the other. You poured the stuff down your throat and chased with the the ginger ale. It had the subtle flavor of super concentrated floor stripper. And it was a total vicious cycle. The more you showed you could handle it, the more that bottle came back around your way. The night ended (hazily) with the guy (who I was old enough to have babysat for), trying to teach me (unsuccessfully) to salsa dance. Next day was not particularly productive, even for vacation.

I spent the last two days here in Bogata. I had enough of the heat and humidity of the coast, and the pteradactyl sized mosquitos, and decided to see what the capital had to offer. Definitely a break from the heat, it doesn't get much out of the 60s here, due to the elevation. The city itself is nice, big and cosmopolitan. I spent my time looking at colonial churches, the gold museum and taking the funicular to the top of the city. All and all, a good trip.

Pirates of the Caribbean

So I have been out of touch for a while, studying, finishing school, finding a job and the like. I will be done with this grad school nonsense on June 8th and start my new job with the World Bank on Monday June 11th. (The ghost of my anti-gloablization 15 year old pink haired self is having a heart attack about that...) I will be leaving on a month long mission in East Africa and Central Asia on June 17th, so they aren't wasting any time in getting me into the field.

In the mean time, however, I am on vacation in Colombia. And, contrary to popular belief, there are other things to do here besides cocaine. And it is not anywhere near as dangerous as the hype would suggest. I have been here four days and haven't ONCE been shoved into a car trunk by a naro-terrorist.

I am currently in the colonial city of Cartagena. It was a bit of an odyssey getting here. I took Avianca airlines, which those of you that grew up on LI will remember for flying a plane into a Glen Cove hillside when we were in about fifth grade because it ran out of gas. Indeed, lesson learned, one of the many things they delayed/aborted take-off because of during my 12 hour delay at Kennedy was lack of fuel. Others included engine problems, general mechanical failure, restless illegals that were being deported, late arrival of other flights, etc. I got to Bogata at 1 am, having missed my connection by, oh, a full work day. They put me up in a hotel and let me sleep for three hours before getting up to make the morning flight.

Cartagena is one of the first port cities founded by Europeans over here. It was rather unfortunately (1) founded by the Spanish, and (2) situated a smidge too close to where the mythical city of El Dorado was supposed to be. As a result, English pirate Sir Francis Drake cannoned the holy living crap out of it a number of times during its existence.

My first day here I wandered around the old city, visiting the churches good Sir Drake missed, plus a few of the local museums. The gold museum was nice, and not only because it was free and air conditioned. (Cartagena is hotter than the sun with 100 percent humidity.) It had some pretty pieces that weren't melted down to make dubloons. The Inquisition museum was a little more bizarre because it was completely in Spanish, which of course I can't read. So I had to speculate as to exactly what these giant hooks and cranks and spikes make have been used for. I hope I have an overactive imagination.

The next day I went to the local volcano. It seems that every Latin American city has a local volcano but this one was truly special. The local legend is variations of a theme of a priest coming upon a giant fiery pit which was a portal directly to hell, and turning it into mud. So what is left is a 50 foot high mound with a bottomless pit of mud in it. Tourists jump into it and get "massaged" by a group of local professional 18 year old males. (Not surprisingly rubbing the foreigner girls with mud for six times what your father makes as a farmer is a coveted career choice in the nearby village.) So in we went. (I was traveling with a pair of Irish girls, one of which repeated the mantra "fer fook's sake!" pretty much continuous throughout the ordeal, er experience.) The mud had the consistency of a well-stirred clay slip bucket and you floated in it like the Dead Sea. You couldn't touch the bottom (it's a volcano after all) so you just kind of hung around in suspended mud animation while some cute guy rubbed your back for an hour. Then you go wash off in the lagoon and eat fried fish.

The next day I decided to head to Playa Blanca, the famous local beach. It is an hour ride in a packed motor boat to the beach itself, but you can only do it as part of a trip to the local aquarium and islands, which are a further 1.5 hours away. The boats are as crowded as bush taxis and go way too fast. Every so often one will hit a submerged log and sink. Guide books generally recommend against it. I spent the entire ride hanging over the side with a look a pure bliss on my face most akin to a Labrador with its head out the car window.

One the way out we passed a full masted pirate ship with a five man sword fight going on on the upper deck. As we were in the middle of the ocean and the only tourists in sight, it was a little confusing until the guide explained that its wasn't the reincarnation of Sir Frankie, but rather just a filming of a Mexican soap opera. On we went. At one point we stopped to admire a group of houses from a little bay, and a man in a canoe and a beach umbrella appeared to sell us lobster with ketchup. My mouth watered as I had skipped breakfast. Then the kid from Seattle sitting next to me started to rail against eating lobster from a marine park. I sighed and watched the little boat putter away. Best not to piss off your translator.

The beach was nice, white sand and fried fish. It also had its share of heavily armed government troops, just in case any naro-terrorists had specially installed car trunks on their motor boats. One struck up a conversation with the sister of Mr. Kill-Joy-No-Lobster. Though it was in Spanish, apparently he spent a hour trying to convince her to go to a cave with him so she could try his M-16. I still haven't figured out exactly what that was a metaphor for, but wisely she passed.

Which brings us to today. My buddy from school is coming down tonight so I am just killing time until he gets here. In the mean time, I got a manicure and am going craft shopping. I went to the best neighborhood in the city and just walked around until I found a salon (in a strip mall with a FedEx, a Citybank, Blockbuster and a Curves gym - who says you can't bring Long Island with you!) We had no idea what we were saying to each other, and some of their implements were certainly on loan from the Inquisition museum, but it was a nice time anyway.

That is all from here. There are no pictures with this one because I don't have my laptop with me this time. I will post them when I get back. And for those of you that have questions about anything, don't worry about e-mailing me, just post them after this entry and I will answer them next time I log on. Hope all is well.

Masai Mara

I am back in France and heading back to the US tomorrow. Back to the really real world tomorrow – back to class and three job interviews next week alone, plus I need to finish that pesky master’s thesis thing. I didn’t do too much today but sleep off the flight and go to lunch in Versailles on Matt’s motorcycle. Blasting around the outskirts of Paris on the back of a motorcycle should be really badass, but in late January, it is mostly just cold.

To recap what you missed, the last day in Rwanda was taken up by a visit to the genocide museum and souvenir shopping. I think the former put somewhat of a damper on the latter. The genocide museum commemorates the horrors of the Hutu massacres of the Tutsis in 1994. It is graphic and unnerving. There are pictures of churches filled with hundreds of bodies, all killed with machetes or bludgeoned to death. The survivor pictures aren’t much better; children with huge gaping head wounds were their skulls had stopped the machete blow. It was a tough morning.

The next day we took the early morning flight from Kigali back to Nairobi. The ground staff at Jomo Kenyetta airport managed to lose my bag yet again – 0 for 2 now – but a few minutes of righteous squawking managed to get someone to get on the walkie-talkie to locate one well-worn red backpack. It had been loaded on the flight to Kilimanjaro.

We dropped off our big suitcase at the safari office downtown, picked up our vouchers and headed out to the Mpata Safari camp in the Masai Mara. Instead of the 6-8 hour bus journey, we decided to fly out. We took a tiny little plane with four other passengers. Similar to the system to the Belize islands and most city buses, you tell them where you want to stop and they drop you off. The weather turned as we flew and a massive thunderstorm turned the sky black. It was an incredible contrast to the big green grass and the red clay dirt landing strip. Gazelles, zebras, and giraffes were everywhere, munching on the grass at the sides of the runway and causing the pilot to hit the horn (I had no idea planes had horns) to clear the runway before landing. The terminal was a wall-less thatched hut in the middle of an empty field.

We were met by the guest liaison in a safari truck. We did a little tooling around to look at the nearby animals before heading to the lodge, but not much as the storm was bearing down. We were about 3 km into the 15 km drive when the sky opened up. After a few minutes, *%$@ four wheel drive, you needed an ark. The driver was really moving too. On the way to the lodge, there was an old 1930s concrete bridge that floods over in heavy rain. We needed to get across the bridge before the water got too high. We slid and fishtailed the whole way, but got there. There rushing water was only a foot or so deep and we made it across. Pause for a quick high five and up the escarpment to the lodge.

The Mpata safari lodge was built in the early 1990s by a Japanese architect. All the cabins are made of interlocking circles (like cross sections of snail shells) with odd shaped skylights. I believe that Beetlejuice was called in as a consultant on the furniture. And the view is unreal. We can see for miles and miles over the valley below. The suite we are staying in has a jacuzzi out back too, so you can soak in the hot water after a long day of safari and watch the sun go down over the vast expanse of green below before going to eat you five course French meal for dinner. My life is very hard, as you can see.

One of the most intriguing things about the camp is that it is almost completely Japanese. It is owned and operated by a Japanese company, and most of the other people here are on package tours from Tokyo. We can’t talk to anyone, but on the bright side it takes a little of the Colonel Mustard in the Drawing Room with the Lead Pipe edge of the isolated safari lodge life.

It poured all night.

Next morning we got up at 5:30 am to go on our morning game drive. We loaded up before dawn and headed down the mountain. When we arrived at the bridge we noticed something rather interesting. The concrete bridge was no longer there, replaced by a rushing torrent of water. Safari vans piled up and Japanese tourists took pictures. The drivers thought the fact that we were marooned on top of a Kenyan escarpment with now way to get out or for supplies to get in was quite possibly the funniest thing that had ever happened to anyone. Especially the whiteys that were pitching a fit about making it to the airstrip. No safari drive that morning. I have instead included a picture of our furniture.

By afternoon the waters had receded enough for us to take an alternate route to the park. The wildlife viewing was incredible. We saw six cheetahs, including three lazy cubs, and two males running at full speed trying to take down a baby topi. (Topis are like smaller, dumber versions of wildebeests, about on the same size and intelligence of a standard household washer-dryer.) Momma Topi was having none of it though and cut the cheetahs off. They can only run at top speed for a very short amount of time though, and the topis were able to get away. The two cheetahs then strutted around for a while like a couple of gang-bangers at prep school, then took a nap in the grass.

We saw some other neat stuff too. A bunch of lions just waking up from their morning snooze and some really hungry elephants. We then went back to the lodge to relax in the jacuzzi and eat steak au poivre.

Over the next three days, we saw a bunch of other animals. Highlights included below:

Lions, in bunches. We saw different groups every day. They mostly travel in large packs of females, sometimes with one or so males present, but not always. And they are not receptive the big-maned brothers rolling in on their territory. One group of six females we saw was much displeased by the prospect. Similar to my girlfriends and I in a crowded downtown Boston bar on a weekend, their growls can loosely be translated as “I KNOW you are not trying that tired ass line on my girl here…”

We actually had somewhat of a close call with a lion too. We were down by the Tanzanian border – going to take our pictures with the border marker. As we rolled to a stop, the guide spotted a long fury tail slip into the bush next to the concrete marker. Lion. Older lone male – which are distinguished by the fact that they can’t run well anymore and are known to take out easy targets – like people. There are numerous stories about these old guys attacking railroad camps during colonial times – munching on the help. The guide was a little unnerved and took us to another marker in the middle of a huge open field. No bushes there to conceal predators.

Hyenas – which I had never seen before – are quite possible the vilest creatures to walk the earth that do not hold an elected office. They just slink around looking like they just ate a baby something. The Lion King portrayal was spot on.

At risk of boring you, I will stop there.

At risk of boring you, I will furnish an incomplete list of other things that we saw: black rhino, cerval cat, giraffes, zebras, Thompson’s gazelles, topis, wildebeest, hartebeest, baboon, African buffalo, waterbok, vulture, golden crested crane (among another billion species of birds that went by too fast to identify), hippos, crocodiles, and I know I am forgetting a bunch of stuff. There are so many things on the Mara that you couldn’t always tell where to look.

Well, that will be all for a while now – back to school. I will see if I can arrange something interesting for spring break in March.

Gorilla Tracks

So my two weeks in Kampala, Uganda working on my master’s thesis went smoothly. I had a few amazing discoveries in research, such as the fact the “farm gate price for coffee” refers not to the price a farmer receives at the village level for a kilo of coffee, but rather the price of a packet of imported Nescafe instant crystals, but that’s fine. There were the brief minutes where I heard my thesis crash and burn, but like a phoenix I rise from the ashes to hypothesize another day. In addition, I knocked out a couple other papers for classes due during the break, both written in Africa, by me an America, one about Latin America and another, co-authored with two Europeans, about the Middle East. High five globalization.

So we left at 2 am on Wednesday morning I left Kampala for Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. The bus trip was uneventful. As usual I spent the time admiring the scenery and speculating as to exactly what type of methamphetamines the driver was on. We arrived at the border at 9 am, and did the usual song and dance with customs. As I was boarding the bus again, however, the customs guy asked me to open my suitcase. He was looking for plastic bags. They were illegal in Rwanda. My heart soared. Having traveled in over 20 African countries to this point, my mind wandered back to the piles of plastic bags that litter the roadsides and villages across the continent. Disgusting. Marring the scenery. Harming the environment. I swelled with pride as I thought of the new generation of Africans, fostering development while still holding tightly to Mother Nature’s hand. Radiating this inner glow, I fished out the thin black plastic bag that until moments before had held my laundry. I held it high. I asked the inspector, beaming with hope, into which receptacle I should throw the offending hydrocarbon derivative.

He told me to toss it on the ground.

I sighed, tossed the bag on the ground, and got back on the bus. Onward to Kigali and Ruhengeri. We were only in Kigali for about two hours. Long enough to pick up our gorilla permits and accidentally try to check in to the Hotel des Milles Collines (from the movie Hotel Rwanda and the real-life genocide).

Ruhengeri is the town used as the base camp for visiting the mountain gorillas. You hike about 1 1/2 hours up - into the mountains as it were - and then spend an hour hanging out with a family of gorillas, then head back down. This was the single most incredible experience of any of the travel things that I have ever done. You get SO close. The gorillas aren't afraid at all. And the troupe we visited had 3 little baby gorillas. I could bore you to tears with every single second of the experience, but you really owe it to yourself to go yourself someday. I will stick to the highlights and let you check out the pictures. (Incidentally, I literally have 100s more, so let me know if you want to wallpaper your new bathroom or something...)

(1) We were walking down a path from one part of the gorilla group to the other. Suddenly the guide tells us to stop, and stand to the side. I turn back to see what happened. The others in the group stepped to the side and a 300 pound mountain gorilla with a baby on her back went walking by. She brushed against the legs of the person next to me. I had been the first on the lines and a little way down a rocky path. I stepped back as much as I could, but not quite far enough. She stepped on my toes walking by. Just the tips and not enough to hurt, but how many people do you know have had their toes stepped on by a wild mountain gorilla?

(2) The troupe had 9 members, 1 adult male silverback, five "wives" and three babies. The adult male is HUGE. We got within five feet of him while he was eating. They are so much like us. While he was sitting there, lounging in a tree eating bamboo, we had the same posture and expression as a number of adult male humans I have known in my life have while watching football. (You know who you are.) When we are that close the gorilla, you can't make any sudden movements. While is all well and good until he figures out there is no more bamboo within arms reach and decides to pull down a tree. You ever try to move slowly out the way of a falling tree? Twice I was smacked with branches. Damned inconsiderate to the guests.

(3) There was one female who was HUGELY pregnant. She was irritable and ate all the time. And there are people that doubt evolution is real.

(4) There was another female with a baby. The kid was about the human equivalent of the terrible twos. He was all over the place. He wanted to run in the trees. Then climb on dad. Then climb the bamboo. Then see what the deal with these weird pink hairless things with the cameras. At one point he got a little too close to the guide. The female walked up and slapped the guide on the shoulder, encouraging him to perhaps move his troupe of weird pink hairless gorillas away from the baby. Then the baby wanted to get a better view of use so he climbed in the tree on top of us and started to jump up and down. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of the working of all his limbs yet, so he ended up hanging by one arm. Mom grabbed him down, said something in gorilla that mothers all over the world have been yelling at their kids for millennia, and made him sit with her under the tree. He sulked.

I could really go one forever. I have added more pictures than usual this time because they really offer much more of an accurate picture of the experience. Absolutely incredible.

After the gorillas, we caught a minibus to the resort town of Gisenyi on Lake Kivu. Gisenyi is a cute little town right on the border with the DRC city of Goma. Most of the cars and people here are Congolese. (Editor’s note: Goma used to be a provincial backwater in the middle of war-torn eastern Congo. Then in 2002, the nearby volcano erupted, and Goma became the provincial backwater in the middle of war-torn eastern Congo half covered in lava.) We stayed at Hotel Kivu Sun, which is the nicest hotel in town, even if it is the former headquarters of the genocide government. You can't really swim in Lake Kivu. The guidebook says "it is very dangerous to swim, as volcanic gases are released from the lake bed and, in the absence of wind, tend to collect on the surface of the lake. Quite a few people have been asphyxiated." I took a pass on the experience. We only spent a day there, before coming back here to Kigali. We will take a look around town tomorrow, then fly on to Kenya on Sunday.

Paris and the Luggage

So for New Year's I decided to do something a little different, a little change for me, nothing drastic, but just give it a little go and see where it takes me. I went on vacation to the developed world. Paris specifically.

The four days were nice. Matt and I walked around Paris, ate crepes, talked French, etc. We only went to one museum because the lines were around the block because of the holidays. We went to the new museum of developing world art, which is Chirac's answer to the British Museum. The verdict: British museum is much bigger and has a much better collection of stuff, which Chirac's has really neat architecture, and in both cases, the countries from which the artifacts were taken would probably like them back. And the kids all say that colonialism is dead.

The other thing of note we did was New Year's. We went to this restaurant whose name translates to "In the Dark?" It is a restaurant run by blind people so you can see what it is like for one meal. The dining room is completely black. Not a pinprick of light anywhere. You are led to your seats conga-line style - being dropped off by your blind waitress as you go. There are no menus, you get what you are served. You fill your wine glass by sticking your finger in it and pouring very very carefully. You locate your plate by touch, and figure out which section is duck and which is butternut squash by sticking your fingers in it. (In a weird way, it was like the ultimate foodie test - it's amazing how much we rely on our vision to identify what we are eating.) After dinner, we went back to our hotel to watch the Eiffel Tower to light up the new year. Instead of the little TV provided in our hotel room, we snuck out on to the fire escape, went up to the top, then climbed this rickety little metal ladder to the roof. We had a beautiful view of the tower. I took the above picture of the skyline in the other direction. It was weird and bizarre being the only ones up there and with the light refelcting off the clouds.

Then I took a two hour nap and headed off to the airport to go to Kenya. My eventual destination was Kampala again, but it was cheaper to fly to Nairobi and then grab an overnight bus from Nairobi to Kampala. After all, once you have been on a plane for 9 hours, what's 12 more in a bus?

The only little snaffoo was that though I arrived safe and sound , the Luggage did not. So I faced the choice of being in one of the most dangerous cities in East Africa, at midnight, alone with no hotel and no luggage, or to get on an overnight bus departing from one of the nasty sections of the city, alone, with only my laptop bag. I didn't even have any toothpaste because the rat bastards at Charles de Gaulle confiscated it because it was 4 oz and therefore MUST be plastic explosives in disguise. Well, off I go. KLM assured me that this happened all the time and that Luggage would be along to K ampala on the next flight. (This happens all the time? Management should have a quick review of what to tell and not to tell the paying public...) So off I went. The bus trip went as smoothly as any 12 bus trip through a developing world backwater. I arrived and checked into the hotel. No Luggage. Next day, no Luggage. KLM has no clue what continent the bag might be on and can I please come back tomorrow? So I decided that the only sensible thing to do would be to camp out at the office until they found my bag. It took 30 minutes before they were calling baggage claim offices around the world to get the crazy white lady OUT of there. They found the bag. They would have it at the hotel by end of business.

Around 3:30 they called. Good news, Luggage had arrived in Kampala. Bad new, it had promptly been confiscated by customs and I had to go down to the airport (which is in another city 30 miles away) and get it out of hock. The round trip took three hours and I managed not to pay any bribes. Most of the time at the airport was taken up with a Kalfka-eque process of obtaining a security badge, which I didn't even need. There was no one manning the security check. But - in true African style - people still formed a somewhat disorderly mob to put their belongings down and pass through the metal detectors, even though there was no one there to look at what was in the bags or stop us if we set it off. I did the same.

So Luggage and I are back together again in Kampala. I will hopefully get enough accomplished on my second year thesis in the next two weeks to do some interesting stuff before I leave East Africa.

Happy New Year.

Black and White Stripes

So there are times when even if things don’t work out as planned, the ride is fun anyway. I spent the first week of December in Johannesburg, South Africa, looking at options and interviewing and whatnot. It turns out that I didn’t get the job that I had flown down there to try for (with McKinsey and Company), but I had a couple other things turn up and may end up there eventually anyway.

I flew in on Sunday afternoon last week. Jo’burg is nothing like what I expected. I thought that I had been in large developed African cities before, Dar es-Salaam, Dakar, etc. but nothing prepared me for this. Johannesburg is a modern city, on par with ones in parts of Asia, Latin America, parts of Eastern Europe, and maybe even the non-coastal US. There is huge amounts of infrastructure, real LA style freeways with triple level overpasses and cloverleaf junctions. There are glittering malls with every designer store imaginable. There are also the townships, which, though extremely poor in parts, for the most part have electricity, running water, sewer systems, paved roads, malls of their own.

I was a little worried when I got to Jo’burg because South African ex-pats that I have met living in Cambridge usually describe it like LA during the crack wars. The city in fact, is laid out very much like LA – spread out over long distances and impossible to navigate without a car. It is the car-jacking capital of the world. At night, you don’t stop for red lights unless it is a busy intersection. At any point during the day, there are certain areas that are no-go districts if you are the wrong color and income bracket. Despite all my fearlessness, I avoided them too. No sense being stupid about things.

So Sunday night, this guy Chris, who graduated from my program last year and now lives in Jo’burg, picked me up at the hotel. We went for a drink in one of the posh areas, then he took me on a freeway drive-by tour of the CBD or Central Business District. The CBD is no man’s land at night. The district is made up of a large number of tall buildings, some ranging up to 50 or more stories. During the 1980s though, when cities all over the world were experiencing capital flight, and especially in the early 1990s when South Africans of a certain mindset, or just economically skittish, took off for Australia, the CBD collapsed. Crime went through the roof, all of the business left, and most people wrote it off. Today, there is a big push for urban renewal in certain sections, but the CBD is left largely abandoned. The huge hotels and office buildings are inhabited mostly by squatters. Chris and I drove by on the highway at night during a huge electrical storm. There was no rain, but lightening bounced off the clouds behind up. The lights illuminated this city of dark, or only minimally lit buildings. It could have been some post-apocalyptic scene out of Mad Max.

The next day, I hung around the hotel, trying to get some work done and rent a car. I wasn’t particularly successful in either endeavor. Automatics in South Africa are just about impossible to find, and there is no way in hell that I would be able to drive a stick shift on the wrong side – shifting with my left hand. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to sort out all those pedals. That evening, I went with Chris and friends to this posh part of town for dinner. The waiter at the restaurant was great. It was like Chelsea meets game warden. He was unshaven, in a flannel shirt with a greasy pony-tail, but described the antelope special with truffles and red wine reduction like the trendiest West Side hotspot. And with crazy accent they are sporting down there. Dinner was fantastic.

Tuesday I went on a town of the Soweto township. The first thing that I learned is the Soweto is not an Africa word, it is an abbreviation for SOuth WEst TOwnship. The second thing I learned is that certain parts of it are really nice, paved roads, sewers, running water, well-nicer than anything I have seen even in some of the better neighborhoods of West Africa. And it is 100% black Africa. I asked the guide if that could really be true, I mean even Harlem in the 1920s had some mixing. Nope. No white people live here. Maybe maybe one or two in mixed marriages, but even that was unlikely. The tour guide who had Bob Marley dreds and well displayed apartheid chip on his shoulder told me it was because white people wouldn’t live here. Later, someone else told me it was because real estate prices collapsed during the white flight of the 1990s, and most people can afford to live among their own kind (which is incredible nuanced –people of English decent and Boers and Indians and blacks and all the colors in between – everyone has their own neighborhood.) In any case.

There were some very poor parts of Soweto – about as poor as you would see in Burkina. It somehow seemed much stranger in a country where you can go to the Jimmy Choos store in the same city.

The best part of the whole tour was driving by the power plant. What brilliance!

One of the things that really sort of turned me off the whole township thing was the guide. He was all about telling us how he was going to show us that black South Africans during the 1980s were not terrorists and really freedom fighters. I tried to explain that at least in the part of the United States where I grew up, Nelson Mandela was a hero, even before he got out of jail, and that my issues were generally with white South Africans. I remember having cupcakes and watching him walk out of jail in Ms. Mosley’s fifth grade class. He was having none of that – somewhere deep inside I must have thought ANC a terrorist organization. Oh well. The whole country is still trying to shake off this massive apartheid hangover, can’t fault the little snags along the way.

The next day I went on safari! Well, it wasn’t really a safari. The roads in the park were all paved and you could drive around without a guide in your little Clio with your buddies and a cooler of beer. It was more like a 100 acre zoo pen where things could eat each other. The most interesting part of the trip was the company. I had spent the previous evening thinking about race relations in South Africa, whether I could really live in a country like that, etc. I get on the safari van the next morning and meet the 4 African American Southern Baptist preachers and their wives that I will be spending the day with. It was a very quick and humbling reminder that I really don’t understand race and regional relations all that much in my own country – so who am I to judge?

The trip was fun. I got to see my first zebras. (Only gorillas and polar bears left and I will have checked off everything in a box of animal crackers!) I saw my first African rhinos. I had the best elephant experience I have had yet. There was a big group with three little babies. It was balls hot so the whole herd was playing in the watering hole. They looked just like big kids. They would stand and sway their trunk back and forth, then just haul up and fall over like a tree, kicking and splashing and spraying each other. The little ones were really having the best idea. They looked just like they do in the cartoons. Running in and out and splashing around. It was great. The driver was happy because we were happy. (Things had been a little tense for a while because the Baptists had apparently put in some advanced prayer for a lion and the driver wasn’t delivering.) In order to keep us happy, he kept backing the van closer and closer to the edge of the water. Then one momma elephant caught wind that maybe we weren’t a big white shiny metal elephant. And she charged. The driver threw the van into gear and hit the gas. Fortunately Toyota can still outrun mother nature in a dead 100 meters. It was especially tense for me, who was sitting along in the back seat watching the elephants waves its ears and chase us.

For a late lunch on the way home we stopped at the Johannesburg version of Las Vegas. Slot machines are depressing in the first place, but way more so when the people are funneling a measurable portion of their yearly income into them. There was also this horribly gaudy hotel that was supposed to be African safari meets Italian renaissance. In place of gargoyles, picture 15 foot high stone sculpted antelopes leaping from the turrets. Horror show, and not in the edgy cool Clockwork Orange sense.

The next two days were occupied by interviews and me desperately trying to get some school work done before I returned home. I didn’t get the job at McKinsey. It might have had something to do with my lack of enthusiasm for mining, which is a huge chunk of their income. “Why yes sir! Even as a little girl I dreamt of being part of the exploitative mineral extraction business in Africa!” Probably the best for everyone involved.

The last day that I was there Chris and I decided to go on a little adventure to see the other half of South Africa. We went to the Voortrekker monument. This was built in the late Art Deco (translation : fascist) style and could best be described as what Robert Moses would have built if he had been a raging racist. The monument commemorates the trek of the early settlers (chosen people) through hostile Zulu territory to the land that is now Johannesburg. It is big and stone with incredible beautiful and intricate bas relief carvings. The whole thing had the air of doing the stations of the cross before Easter, and the place does had an almost religious significance to the Boor population. The problem is that the original carvers did not have a particularly flattering opinion of either the actions nor physical traits of the Zulu actors in this little drama. So now the new government doesn’t know what to do. It is tough to enough tourism to something that is so unabashed in its message, but at the same time, if you try to flatten or even change it, 15 percent of the population is going to go absolutely apeshit. So it just sits there.

Then I headed back to collect my things, and began a 28 hour epic trek of my own back to Boston. It was a little tense when a mechanical failure left us stranded on a Dakar runway for 3 hours (time was ticking down and I had finals to take…) but it was all good and I made it home. I am heading back to Africa on January 1st to spend a couple weeks doing research for my second year policy paper. It probably won’t be all that exciting. (And then, on Tuesday, I sat for four hours trying to meet with THIS mid-level bureaucrat… and on Wednesday, I sat for only two hours before I met THAT midlevel World Bank official.) But I will try to get into at least a little bit of trouble so that I have something to send…