Ch - Ch- Changes

It's time for some changes around here.

* * * 

Looking outside my window, I see we are in the middle of a presidential election here in Egypt. There are signs for candidates on everything. Their smiling faces photo-shopped over images of construction and a prosperous Egypt.  Posters that look almost home-made plastered on cars, bill boards, flying over the each square and fountain at each round-a-bout.

The polling is finished and a runoff between the top two contenders is sure... but not before some of the candidates challenge the first polling with irregularities and whatnot.

Oh it's complicated, but maybe not that complicated. And it is changing. The revolution hasn't made it all better yet, but it's changed the country. It seems people are starting to understand that it's going to take some time, but they are still impatient. One of the more outspoken Egyptian bloggers seems to have a pretty good idea about what's going on here... here's a link to his latest rant (definitely worth the read).

* * *

If you were outside looking into my window, you'd see that in the next three weeks we're leaving Cairo. We're off to the next adventure. There will be a short pause between family installations, but this little home we've known is gettin' stuffed into boxes as we speak.

I'm not sad this time. I don't have the nostalgia of having worked or invested much emotionally here - which is funny because it's been one of the most emotional times of my life (having a baby and all).

* * *

They say babies change fast, but this is ridiculous! In the past week my new baby son has learned to crawl, to sit up from laying or fall down to sitting, and to pull up to standing and cruise around. I've enjoyed watching him discover gravity and friction and gyroscopes.

And he got his first two teeth.

* * *

In other news, which is not a change: I am entering the Foundling Review's Pachas 50 word short story contest again. (That's the writing contest in which I got honorable mention in last year.)

I'd been told that my writing has good imagery, but needs to be worked more. So, since the first Pachas contest, I've chosen another number (i.e. not 50) and am re-writing several old poems I had written. I find the word limit (not more, not less) is fitting to force me to whittle down and shape some of my pieces and make them better. I've also done away with the line breaks on some. I must not be good at line breaks yet because I think that they often come across as pretentious.

* * *

Footloose

Loose, footloose
Kick off your Sunday shoes
Please, Louise
Pull me offa my knees
Jack, get back
C'mon before we crack 

Sometimes on Facebook or here I link to blogs or information on aid work and discussions about improving aid.  Here on my blog I tend to talk about what I do, on Facebook I try to steer my friends toward information on good giving. Today's post sort of connects the two.

One of the blogs I've shared before, "Good Intentions are Not Enough" from Sandra, has started a blog campaign to counter a silly advertising campaign. This post is in response to her call to arms. I suggest reading the whole thing, and the comments at the bottom are worth a gander as well.

But here's a summary of the counter campaign from her page:

"It’s time again for TOMS Shoes’ annual advertisement (awareness raising activity) called A Day Without Shoes. Every year TOMS gets celebrities and college students to walk around barefoot so that they are more aware of the plight of people without shoes. And of course, what better way to put shoes onto the feet of these shoeless people than to purchase a pair of TOMS Shoes.

As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not a fan of this annual event. So this year I’m proposing a counter-campaign called A Day Without Dignity.

On or around April 5th – the same date as A Day Without Shoes – we’re asking aid workers, the diaspora, and people from areas that receive shoe drops and other forms of charity to speak up in blogs, on twitter, or at school."

* * * 

Dr. Strangeshoe or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Shoe Shopping

I come from modest hippy roots, ripe with barefoot, naked, free-loving childhood memories. After a teenage bout with Guess? jeans, hairspray and make-up (my form of rebellion), I returned to my roots, joined the Peace Corps and wore nothing but home-made clothes and Chacos. When I got a paying job as a professional aid worker, I expanded my wardrobe (peace-drobe, as my uncle says) to include NGO/donor branded t-shirts, flip flops and gum boots.

As I moved up the ranks and out of the bush, I had a "need" to look nice for donor meetings, coordination meetings and "representation". The dirty aid worker look wouldn't hack it. So, for my highest goal of saving the world, I went shopping.

I was a big spender. I bought red Converse low tops from the rasta DJ for ten bucks. I bought wooden wedge heels from the fat mamma on the corner for five-fifty. I bought basic black flats from a nondescript guy for a dollar. Despite haggles, I am sure I paid the "muzungu price" (foreigner price), probably twice of normal.

"Have I sold out?" I asked myself, as I put on black linen slacks and name-brand button up shirt.
"No, it's for the children." I justified to myself, as I tied the laces on the super-stylee red Converse. "You're gonna wow those donors! You're contributing to the local economy, feeding those people's kids," I added to really convince myself. I added a locally-made red beaded necklace to complete the look.

* * * 

 You're playing so cool
Obeying every rule
Dig way down in your heart
You're yearning, burning for some...

So, what's wrong with TOMS barefoot "awareness raising" (advertising) campaign? Isn't it cute? Not really. I'll just point out two things:


It perpetuates the image that poverty stricken people live undignified lives of squalor and need any handout they can get. "Those poor African children don't even have shoes!" Um, Maybe they don't even want shoes.

Generally, if you're really trying to help people - giving money is better than giving stuff. Even if you're dead set on shoes, send money to buy them locally - it's cheaper and more efficient and the person you're trying to help can choose the stylee shoes she likes herself.

The issues and debates are long and complicated (and really interesting!), so I encourage you to look around Sandra's Good Intents site, as well as the other blog posts participating in this campaign.

It is sexy to give in these "trying times" of earthquakes, tsunamis, droughts, floods, epidemics, civil wars, revolutions, ongoing conflicts etc. So do. But also have a good conversation over dinner about it. Disagree with me. With whoever. Just ask questions. And keep your damn shoes on.

Everybody get Footloose.

Tourist tales

It's been a while, I know. I've been on vacation and have now emptied my brain of all things.
Time to fill it back up.

* * *

I started this "10 writing contest adventure" back in April last year. I have entered 6 so far, again - no wins and waiting on 1 result. I will try to at least enter the last 4 before this April. Look for that coming up.

* * *

Two perspectives of malaria.

I have had malaria twice while working: first time in DR Congo, second time in Kenya. The routine when you are in the bush is to find someone to look at a blood slide, get some meds and rest (no big deal). Malaria fevers come in cycles. Mornings are clear, afternoons wreck you- so in Congo I would go to work in the morning, then go home in the afternoon and cry about my crazy sick malaria induced nightmares and headaches. Total cost: 10$ maximum.

The third time I had malaria, I was on vacation: I was 4 days back to "the homeland" from Haiti this past November. In the great United States, malaria was deemed "a life threatening condition". Emergency room, ICU, specialist infectious disease doctors, CDC reports, more doctors and visits from students. Monitors of all sorts of vital signs, IVs, worries about my low blood pressure, but never enough pain meds to eliminate the incredible headaches. Total cost: 36,000$ minimum.

* * *

Next leg of the vacation was Syria for Christmas time (and a weekend in Beirut, Lebanon). I was somehow surprised, and somehow not surprised, to find that Christmas in the Middle East is just as commercialized and tacky as it is in the states. Almost identical. Neighborhoods where neighbors compete with extreme lights displays. Sales. Carols in the malls.

Mario and his family were superb hosts to this intrepid in-law-come-tourist. We visited many stark, dusty, open, sunny, quiet, old sites... St. Simion church where a man stood on the pillar for 40 years and today rests an obilisk, the Citadel in Aleppo, Ain Dara site, Rasafa and Jabbar castle on a pristine lake. I guess because of the season, there was no one around.

It was as if all these ancient walls, rooms, stables, churches, mosques existed only for me to crawl around in. Mario was a good sport and waited patiently while his wife turned into a kid crawling down, down into water cisterns and up, up onto falling down walls where I thought the slight wind might blow me over.

Driving to and from such sites gave another view of Syria. Not the upper middle class apartments and Christmas lights. Not the ancient antiquities and tourists sites. Mud houses, nomadic tents of farm workers, bright clothes on the lines, black dirty workshops tucked into a tiny unfinished room, bus stops with tiny shade. Men working, drinking tea. Stooped women in heavy clothes. Boys collecting sticks. Girls collecting water on their backs, with donkeys. Agriculture. Rain fed. Irrigation- unlined canals, lined canals built parabolas leveled just so, weirs, gates, control valves, drip systems, boreholes, rotating sprays like Nebraska.


Syria is under drought.
Like Kenya. Like Afghanistan.
While others are under water.

To the right is me in a huge water cistern. Long ago it was filled with rain water, collected runoff in a desert in northern Syria. While differing in construction and style from those in northern Kenya, it is basically the same thing as what is called a birkad in Somali.

* * *

Then the great return to Kenya for 2 weeks. A week at the beach. Few days in the mountains. Our old haunts. Saw lots of wonderful friends.

Driving in from the airport to town, some things seemed to have changed. Some roads were repaired. A new overpass and bridge was under construction. Many new apartment buildings going up too quickly to be built to code. The slums are so big, you don't notice they grow.

Reading the paper, nothing seemed to have changed. The International Criminal Court has publicly named 6 politicians for inciting the last bout of ethnic violence associated with the 2007 elections (see post from 2008). The unity government promptly dedicated millions to defending them and is on a major campaign to keep the 6 in Kenya for trial. Meanwhile, the northern areas of the country is being thrashed by more (repeated without recovery) drought, animals and livelihoods dying, people are threatened by lack of food and water, while the farmers in the bread basket area of the country have ruined crops.

It isn't as simple as one paragraph. Or even two.
It never is.

Unemployed men still seek out small shadows under trees, bushes, skinny lamp posts on every median, every corner, every small park in which to curl and hide from sun and sons and wives during hot afternoons spent waiting.

* * *

Next up, first impressions of my new home, Cairo.

Shifting stances

I'll try to keep it short, but the stream is moving and I am going with it.

* * * 

Business first.

So on the contest front, I was 3/5, awaiting the results of two contests. Now I am 4/5, awaiting 1.
Contest #3 results are in and, as I predicted, I didn't win. This does not break my heart because this was a high level competition. Students in professional writing programs are nominated. You can't see the poems on the site yet, but I am sure one or two of the poems will blow my (your) mind.

During my off-time I have gotten to see so many old friends, and with some I have had the pleasure of chatting about this adventure in writing contests or writing in general. I am blessed to be friends with poets, editors, dreamers like me and my mom. I was hesitant in all this. Professionals confirm it is hella competitive. Friends are honest.  Moms are always encouraging.

I said: I don't want to say my goal is to write a book, because - what if I don't or I can't?
Friend: But by saying it, you might be more motivated. And your friends will care and encourage you.
Mom: And if you don't that's okay too, just do what god makes/lets/encourages you to do. 

That's pretty paraphrased, but I kind of agree with all of that.

* * * 

Breathe out.
I am headed out.
New country.
New adventure. New organisation. New role.
Same me.
How will it all combine and entwine and rewind?
To become my life?

* * *

More to come about the past two weeks which have indeed been learning for me in a small van, with fog, with sunshine, with micro climates and with...

Stateside besides

Don't let it fool you. Negativity isn't negative. 

It is simply down. It is a valley. Drainage.

* * *

California business: Threw out 15 years of bank statements and nice skirts that will never fit me. Dug out my high school writing which led to some rare, fictional fun (that's the teaser...).

California fun: Joined my dad and his cat in Big Sur. We passed Bixbey Bridge and watched sunsets from the best lookout along the coast. Wildfires 2 years past could not stop the beauty here. If not for fog, one could see 180 degrees from San Francisco to LA. (As a science geek I have to admit that the curvature of the earth may hinder more than the fog.) I climbed to Cone Peak Lookout and could see 360. If I were a lizard I could enjoy this view each day.



After two weeks, it was time to head north.  Golden rolling hills become cooler and greener. Fewer grasses, more bushes and trees. The ones I remember picking... ferns, mustard, thimble berries, salal, douglas fir. The hills become steeper up, the bays become wider across, the sky becomes gray. Today I arrived in Washington. When Luis and Clark arrived here in 1805, it was overcast too and December (not July). They too could not see across the Columbia in this dank drizzle that defines the Pacific Northwest. Ah.

* * *

I must have written this around 1992 as a high school creative writing assignment. It is a fable and it made me laugh.

The Lions

Far, far away there was a huge forest that was ruled by a great, beautiful, old lion. He had a great golden mane and a beautiful roar that filled the forest like the wind when he spoke. He was charismatic as any leader of the free world, yet he had little wisdom. But being a good lion at heart, not hungry for power, he left the general ruling of the forest to his Royal Council of Owls. 

One day the old lion fell extremely ill. His mane looked dull and his voice was soft. Seeing this the Royal Council of Owls decided to send word throughout the forest to summon all of the old King's many sons. (For in his more vivacious years head been quite the ladies lion fathering many children.)

The first of his sons to arrive had the greatest, most golden mane any lion had ever seen. When the sun fell upon it, golden reflections scattered about. As he reached the entrance to the Royal Lair, the guard dogs stared at his great, golden mane and bowed their heads as he walked through the door.

The Owls complemented his mane, and asked him a riddle:
"What is beautiful, but not conceited?"
"What is wise, but not arrogant?"
"What is compassionate, but not lenient?"
The young lion shook his mane, almost blinding the night-loving owls.
"His current King, His majesty." He said, trying to gain points.

The second son to arrive could roar so beautifully that when he sang, every animal sopped what he was doing to listen. When he reached the entrance to the Lair, he roared loudly as if to prove his relation to the dying King. The guards lowered their heads as he passed.

When he was asked the same riddle, he cleared his throat showing off the strength of his voice.  But his response was the same, he too trying to gain popularity with the owls.

When the last son arrived, the guards barely noticed him. He was handsome, with a sweet voice, but he did not flaunt his royal lines. The owls were tired of the parade of lions, but asked him the riddle:
"What is beautiful, but not conceited?"
"What is wise, but not arrogant?"
"What is compassionate, but not lenient?"
"That is what I wish to be," the last son answered quickly.

The last son was crowned King by his dying father and they all lived happily ever after in a well-run forest. Except the old King of course, who was dying and did not live very long. The first son found happiness as a successful model and the second son launched a singing career.

The Second Tanking

- Contest results so far - Self-soothing - Photos and a poem -

* * *

Writing contest summary statistics
Contests entered: 4/10
Contests complete: 2/4
Contests won: 0/2

Contest #1) Didn't win.
Contest #2) Awaiting results.
Contest #3) Awaiting results.
Contest #4) Not purchased. Didn't win.

My Super-ego is a little upset.
My Ego has authored the next section.
My Id still having fun, still learning and still has lighthearted expectations.

Any wagers on the 2 contests in progress?
I will give you odds of 1/300 for #2 and 1/10,000 for #3.

* * *

Sometimes victories are not found where you are looking. Sometimes they come and tap you on the shoulder; you turn your head and are pleasantly surprised by what happened to your right. Sometimes they fly in from the far left and knock you over.

The first minor victory that makes me happy is explained in my last post. (You should be aware of my bias: I value the opinion of Google as the most-awesome search engine out there.)

The second victory is on Helium. Despite the 2 failed contests, there has been some progression since my last analysis of the Helium sphere. First, I achieved 2 writing stars with only 9 eligible articles (I have 11 now). The calculation of this I can not explain, but it is a measure of the quantity and quality of your Helium articles. Most users seem to get 2 stars after 30 articles and since I did it with only 9, I think that is good. Second, I mentioned back in April that my essay percentage was only 48%. Today, after reading and revisions, it is a big fat 92%. I guess I can say I have learned a bit how to write to this audience. Small, but it soothes.

* * *

I just returned from 1 week in Garbatulla. My last week in Garbatulla. My contract is complete on 30 June 2010. I have a long history with the Kenya Mission of ACF. I started here in 2006, came back in early 2008, and then came back again in July 2008 to be the WASH Coordinator, which I have done for the past 2 years. I am happy. I am nostalgic. I am ready to go.

I see many countries out the windows of Land Cruisers. Going a little too fast:
Mis-spelled signs.
Half built cement buildings. Half falling apart mud buildings.
Goats. Camels. Cows. Sheep. Skinny, fat, pregnant, as the seasons change.

Dusty men pissing. Dirty men pissing. Men pissing. The most common sight. Disgusts me. I don't want to see the stream of your piss. I don't want to smell your piss on the wind. I want you to have as much dignity as the women.

Dusty, wrinkled, calloused women. Bent forward with straight backs, always lifting up the house. Her faggot; heavy strapped to the head. A pile of grass, only legs are visible. Yellow plastic jerry cans of water. A child.

A Kenya Picture Poem:

Kenya is iconic Africa

Savannah grasses

Flat topped trees

 Elephants lumbering through vines

Silent only becuase we didn't stop to listen.

Communities
make thier houses out of white dust
and iron sheets.

The mother cracks stones

hammer on old truck parts

pliers prized possesion

sorting saphires on a worn mat.

Because
the left hand is stagnant

while the right hand evolves
and the head is on backwards
this country
explodes

in a thousand directions.

My first buck

* * *

Business, first:

Contest #1) Helium… That's where it started, and it will apparently continue into oblivion, but is none-the-less an interesting background to my adventrue in writing. I haven’t submitted anything new here since the last posting, but I am earning good money. To date: $1.05, at this rate I'm going to need a piggy bank! The biggest earner by far is my masterpiece on beauty tips- more than 1/3 of my total earnings are from this article alone. How about that. Deep. Fufilling. $1.05.

Contest #2) Poetry contest for charity… 2nd round of cyberetic-domocratic judging completed. The quality of poems is better in this round, so I guess that should give me confidence in the merit of the contestant-come-judge approach. There is no feedback from the contest organizers if you passed to the second round or not, so I have no idea what people thought of my poem. I will only know if it passes to the final 12 in the next few weeks. If not I will never know how far it went. Oh woe goes the fragile Ego who sits atop her fence.

Contest #3) The more professional poetry contest… No idea. The contest is closed, and if I don't win then I don’t expect any feedback. Wish I had a clue. Wish I had a chance.

Both #2 and #3 should have results in July. I am honestly pretty nervous at the idea of the outcomes. Discouragement? Depression? Elation? Egomaniacal striation?

 * * *

Writing, second:

So, the artist. Is so deep. Is so idealistic. The process is supposed to be moving and personal and involve a muse. The artist is not supposed to create for the audience or for appreciation, but for the pure and simple joy of creation.
Creation of any sort seems to involve some evolution.
And evolution involves some reflection and adaptation and revision to improve upon that creation. And sometimes that involves some sort of opinion that is not your own. Which by definition is involving the audience and by-passing the muse and maybe isn't so deep. But it's still being an artist, I think.

So here is some creationist evolution by an amateur artist who is perhaps not so idealistic.

Here are two versions of something. Which do you think came first? Which one do you like better? Did it evolve at all? Should it have even been created?

*

Shifting nomadic sporadic emphatic
transient walking with steps automatic
a basket a bundle a trundle crate casket
reflective packing with questions to ask it

I tell myself I am not in the race,
not influenced by the incompetence
of the electoral college, not capitalist, not racist, not American.
I tell myself I am not in the bottom,
not affected by the incompetence
of taxes called inflation, not corrupt, not tribalist, not African.

*

I tell myself I am not
in the race, not
influenced by the incompetence
of the electoral college, not
capitalist, not racist, not
American.
I tell myself I am not
in the bottom, not
affected by the incompetence
of taxes called inflation, not
corrupt, not tribalist, not
African.

*

Here is my answers to my own questions: I sort of like the two part one because it is more playful, but it doesn’t seem finished yet, needs more to make it strong. The bottom one seems to take itself too seriously, trying to be deep, trying to speak for everyman - but could be complete as it is.

* * *

Personal, third:

We are moving. My next 3 months are pretty unclear, but (as life seems to keep on going whether or not one has a plan) the next month promises much more excitement in my life than just the outcome of the second two contests. I will definitely leave Kenya by mid-July. I might get a job. I might not. I might go surfing. I probably won't. Either way, there will certainly be some interesting blog posts. Currently I am a little bit reflective, as one tends to be upon the brink of leaving 2 years of inspiration, frustration and fun.

There is no fastlane

where 

potholes appear

with overnight rains, 

where

streetlights are standing

with bulbs dark, 

where

I saw a dead man

hit last new years eve.