A hand on my knee

When he placed his hand firmly on my knee for the second time, after my skillful maneuvering to remove it only moments before, I had an inkling that things were not going to end well. The little boy that had been relegated to the flatbed portion of the truck despite plenty of room in the cabin was no longer a buffer and we…we were driving through the bush far off the clay-packed ruts that passed for a road. 

The driver stopped the truck, the suddenness of it jerking me forward in my seat, and told me he couldn’t take me the rest of the way. More angry than scared in that moment, with the thorny bushes poking through my skirt and the sun beating down on my head, I cursed him. I cursed him as I walked several kilometers to the school I was visiting nestled in the hill I’d been deposited on.

Earlier, when he had stopped to ask me if I needed a ride, he seemed vaguely familiar. He was someone from the expansive village that was to be my Peace Corps home for two years. That he recognized me immediately was no surprise, everyone knew me - not-quite-leghowa (white person/foreigner) but definitely not local- I was destined to be known and  to never know everyone. 

When he'd slowed down and pointed out the shops he owned in the village, smiled and acknowledged my host family, and then offered me a ride, I jumped at the chance to shorten my commute and get to know someone from my community better. The cutie in the front seat, staring in the curious way all of the children in the village stared at me, sealed the deal. 

Never mind in America I would never climb in a strange man’s car, small child present or not, in the village context it seemed reasonable. And so I tried to skootch the little one over only to hear him directed to the back of the truck. 

Now we were two. 

The story could have ended so much worse. Rather than walking through the bush with no trail to guide me and arriving late to the school, I could not have arrived at all. 

Rage welled up in me, not fear, although in the coming months the incident would feed my fear. 

Being female has always made me …aware. Wherever I am in the world I understand that there are certain vulnerabilities both real and perceived. I maneuver the world with this in mind; not necessarily at the forefront of my mind but definitely there.

In the early months of my time in South Africa, my vulnerabilities  almost drove me home. More than homesickness and limited resources (no electricity or running water) fear crept into my mind in tiny increments and then with blurring speed. 

Everything in South Africa was new to me. I was fascinated by the newness. Like a small child waving hello to everyone and everything, I wanted to experience my surroundings. Coupled with the fact that while I am a black woman, nothing about me announced me as anything but foreign. So I drew attention. Children stared, women asked if I was a missionary or a student (I always had a book with me), and men proposed. This was my reality on foot, on khumbis (minivan taxis), at the market,  at the local police station.

Even after the newness factor wore itself to normalcy for me, I was still an anomaly in the village, on local transpiration, wherever I went. Reading was often interrupted by questions. Where are you from? Why are you here? What religion are you? Are you married? People greeted me constantly- partly because greeting is a cultural norm and partly because everyone remembers the random leghowa in the village. Everyone remembers and so people were offended if I didn’t remember them form a khumbi ride 6 months ago in a different city. 

There were a lot of questions an comments bred from curiosity and then there was harassment.

Marriage proposals from complete strangers started off funny, I assumed they were excuses to speak to me. But sometimes they weren’t jokes and laughter or a “no thank you” inspired hostility and entitlement. My American-ness posed its own problems. The common assumption about American women is that we are promiscuous. Coupled with the absence of family, I was untethered. I was a sexual object outside the accepted cultural norms of behavior. 

The absence of tethering made it possible for the police at my local police station, to feel me up when I arrived to introduce myself as a safety measure- the irony was not lost on me. That interaction with the police prevented me from calling for help when a khumbi driver in Louis Trichardt felt me up, running his hands from my torso beside my breasts and down to my legs. Those things are what stopped me from doing anything but freezing up inside when a man I met at the Reed Dance Ceremony in Swaziland extended a handshake too long and circled his finger in my palm, refusing to release it, in a common if adolescent request for sex.

Getting banished from the truck in the middle of the bush happened before I experienced most of those other things; back when everything, including harassment, was still new to me. So it didn’t scare me, not the way it scared the teachers at my school I was going to visit. Of course they were scared for different reasons. They were fearful for the American in me. Fearful that I would lose my way or stumble and fall in the bush. Fearful that my delicate Western ways would falter under African conditions. No one mentioned a man’s hand on my knee and neither did I.

About six months into my life in South Africa, with almost two more years before me, I contemplated coming home. 

Sitting on the khumbi in Petersburg, waiting for it to fill and begin the journey back to my village, a man sat beside me and attempted to strike up conversation. I kept my head bowed, pretended to read, pretended to be deaf and unable to feel his hand tapping me lightly on the shoulder. Two hours later, on the last leg of my journey home I relaxed a little. And in relaxing, I realized that same man was on this khumbi. Realized he was someone from my village. Realized he had only been trying to say hello and I had treated him like a ghost – invisible and unwanted. 

Fear had driven me so far from myself, so far from the reason I travel. How could I experience a country if I couldn’t or wouldn’t experience the people? And of course, how do you experience people if you are too wrapped up in fear?

With time I figured out how to navigate my fear. Figured out how to tether myself to my host-family, how to use humor as deflection, how to weave myself into cultural norms instead of floating outside of them. I made friends. I asked questions. I trusted my gut. With time the fear receded into memories, but not the strongest memories of my time in South Africa. Not stronger than Hunadi giving me a bowl filled with homemade biltong when she learned I didn't have any meat at my house, or Naniki sliding through the fence to discuss books, or Mr. Mokopo making me dinner. Not more than my host-mother sticking her finger in my hand-whipped lemon meringue pie to assure me it wasn't cooked yet (it was), or Magajedi laughing at me as I stood on a chair crying about the rat she'd purposely trapped in the kitchen with us.

Fear, like that man’s hand on my knee, was pushed aside and I was left to chart my own path forward.

DailyPost prompt: Safety First

I left him stranded there...

He looked lost and a little afraid. His eyes darted back and forth and he was pushing an airport cart heavy with luggage that telegraphed a long journey. I remember thinking how awful it was to land in America, not even able to access American currency, and being charged for the cart to haul your luggage.

He was small. 

Standing outside of DFW, cars and buses flitting to a curb and then away in ever thinning clusters.

I recognized his expression. I’ve worn that look a couple dozen time at an airport, any airport, in a new country. Knowing I stand out, knowing I don’t know what I don’t know. It is always the most exposed and vulnerable I feel in a new country. In Sri Lanka that look led to a $40 taxi fare instead of a $2 one. In Peru it led to an hour walking through town with my luggage until finally agreeing to pay for a taxi. In Ethiopia it felt dangerous, a late flight and a poorly lit parking lot and me with no convincing language skills to speak of.

This man was of my nomadic tribe. I recognized myself in him. 

I also recognized fatigue. In me. I’d been traveling. I don’t know where I’d been or how long. I think my flight had been delayed or maybe I’d had to check luggage and they’d misplaced it. I don’t remember the particulars, only that I was tired. I averted my gaze and searched through the glaring orange lights and receding darkness for my shuttle bus.

I stood on the curb too, a little bit away from this man. This man with all of his belongings in a cart by his side. I watched him look at the same signs repeatedly hoping, I imagine, that they might make more sense each time he looked. Disheartened that they didn’t. 

He scanned the few faces on the curb looking…looking for me I imagine. Not the actual me but the me that recognized myself in him, the me that understood his trepidation and could help. Our eyes finally met and I stopped searching the bus lane for my bus. At least for a moment he had my attention.

The details are fuzzy now, only my guilt is crisp and clear.

He was confused about where he should go. I remember pointing to the sign, repeating the information, having him repeat the information. I think I made a phone call on the airport information phone. I nodded encouragingly as I gave him information, hoping he’d nod comprehension back, and he nodded. I’m certain his nodding mirrored my nodding, wasn’t an indication of clarity. But he nodded, I told myself.

Part of the helpful crew from Bahir Dar

My bus finally arrived. After standing on the curb for what seemed like forever, I was tired and ready to go home. I boarded the bus, watched the small man from the window, assured myself he’d be fine.

But it was late and he was far from home. 

Its been late and I’ve been far from home. In those moments I am forever grateful for the people who recognize my carefully concealed terror. The old woman on a bus in Durban who fussed at the driver and demanded he take me directly to my hostel, the two young men in Bahir Dar who drove me to a less sketchy hotel, the nun in Flores who helped me figure out where I was going. I didn’t even have to ask, didn’t have to stand on a curb clutching my bags. 

I have basked in traveler’s grace.

I should have stayed. I should have walked that man on the curb to where he needed to be. I should have been his English translator; I didn’t know what language he spoke but I could have cared enough to figure out a way to translate his needs. People have done that for me. I should have paid it forward.

I think about that man often. I send good travel vibes into the ether and hope that they found him another one of our tribe who was not so selfish as to choose 20 extra minutes of sleep over helping someone lost in the transition that is travel. 

That man and he has become, for me, a reprimand, a reminder, a mantra for who I should be at all times, not simply when I’m well rested or flush with time.

Blog prompt courtesy of Daily Post: Sorry, I’m Busy.

Restless Soul

Ty dubbed me Flight Risk (his explanation for not pursuing the romantic me). I have to admit it resonated as much as it stung because I’ve never lived in a place longer than four years. Never.

My dad did a 20-year stint in the military, and while he retired by the time I was 10, my family continued to move for a few years after. I guess after his nomadic life, settling down took some settling into. 

Up until the age of 18 I can blame transience on my parents but after that…after that it was all me. I spent four years in college, and I spent every summer in a different place. Those moves were temporary, like training wheels; after graduation I set my sights on much more distant lands and coasted on my own.

Enter South Africa.

A Peace Corps volunteer with no electricity my first year and a lot of time on my hands, I started making lists. Lists gave me things to ponder and things to work toward. 

It started with things I wanted to do while I was living in South Africa and quickly morphed. I don’t remember everything on that list but seeing the big five and going to Victoria Falls were both there. My list became a mélange of things to see, places to go, activities to experience. Never static, I added new points of interest and crossed achieved ones off. 

I can't think of any substantive lists for myself now without thinking of those early lists scratched out on reused paper by the light of a paraffin lamp in my village.

One of my besties used to make a habit of sending me birthday gifts early. A big box would arrive a week or so before the actual day and she’d call to ask me, joy in her voice, if I’d opened it yet. It took her a few years to realize that the waiting didn’t bother me. In fact, it didn't bother me at all but my not opening it bothered her. 

She struggled to understand that I relished the anticipation. Like the days before an international trip- it hasn’t happened yet- the world is full of infinite possibilities. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love the actual traveling. I love the actual gift. But there is a beauty to the anticipation. My love of anticipation, however, does not extend to travel lists. I don't relish daydreaming about theoretical good times in lieu of actual good times. Although my temperament basks in the "could be" aspects of life, where country selection for travel is concerned, I'm a rip-the-wrapping-off-and-see-what's-inside kind of woman.

Turkey was on my "to visit" list, and Peru. Peru got crossed off last year and Turkey earlier this year. Ethiopia made tap danced on my desires and turned out to be so nice I had to visit twice. Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos are on my list at the moment, but all three of them are on my travel schedule for early next year. 

Cappadocia, Turkey last year.

I'd be lying if I said there are no lingering places that are growing dusty from lack of my attention. India pops up first. Time and resources never seem to align in a way that would allow me to experience India in the way I would like. When I moved back to the United States after living in Uganda for a year, that break appeared to be the perfect time to go, but I was looking for a job and unsure how soon that search might yield fruit and after stopping in a few other places (Ethiopia and Italy) it was close to Xmas and I missed my family.  More recently I’ve contemplated the trip, but with only three viable weeks of vacation in a year, it seems hardly feasible to work my way through even a single Indian state. 

Excuses excuses.

I don’t believe there will always be an opportunity to experience the things in life that I want to experience, so at some point in the near future I’ll have to suck it up and go, short stint in a single state or not. 

Another country that has been batting around in my head for years is Brazil, specifically, Bahia. The current deterrent is the Olympics, an event prone to upset Brazil's norms and increase the cost of pretty much everything…Brazil will have to wait until 2017. Then there’s Mali. The year I planned to go, just a few weeks out from what would have been my departure, there were a few kidnappings of Westerners. I often joke that no one would kidnap me but I’m not trying to test my theory. 

Random breakfast in Tokyo, Japan.

That list is only three places long, driven by food (India), fascination with the worldwide African diaspora (Brazil), and a feeling of mystery and uniqueness (Mali), is all I can conjure at the moment.  Of course there are a million places in the world I'd love to experience and would jump at the chance but those three are the ones that spring immediately to mind for reasons beyond, "why not?".

For all of the places that pique my interest there are others that I never think about. New Zealand is pristine and beautiful, it wasn’t remotely on my list of places to visit though. And while it isn’t my favorite country, I found friendship and love and an assortment of experiences there.

Guatemala snuck up on me as I wallowed in depression and desperation after evacuating and then doing recovery work in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. I met amazing people had one of the most exquisite meals I’ve ever had, and danced like a crazy person on its Caribbean coast.

Most recently that place I wasn’t interested in visiting was Japan.  Until I visited, I didn’t know how much I deeply adore Japanese food. I didn’t know how fascinating order (on trains, in lines, with food) could be. A friend invited me into his world in Japan and I was smitten.

Those were all places that never made it onto even the tail-end of my traveling lists and yet they were amazing for all of the reasons that visiting a new place and experiencing new things are amazing. I will never have a list of five places to visit. My curiosity and nomadic reality will continue to introduce me to places and, once visited and scratched off of whatever impermanent list I'm keeping, will be replaced with someplace new and probably unexpected.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post:The Wanderer.

Obsessed

I’m obsessed. 

I own it. 

I’m obsessed with Stephen Curry and the Golden State Warriors. 

Doing high school in Texas, I’ve always had an affinity for football because in Texas God may rule most days of the week  but on Friday nights prayers are for high school football.

That said, I’ve gone to sleep each night for some embarrassing number of nights, watching highlights and interviews of the Warriors. I find it cathartic. I find the hustle and flow of the game relaxing. I find the antics of the team humorous. I can watch it all over and over again. And I do. 

Steph and his family are endearing and relatable…not the insanely rich and famous part but definitely the closeness part. Listening to Steph’s father talk about his mother reminds me of my dad talking about my mom. I smile when I see his parents at his games, holding Riley and jumping up and down like the crazy fans parents should always be for their children. It reminds me of a more animated version of my dad, dressed in a three-piece suit, shoes off, sitting in the stands of my middle school basketball games cheering me on during a small break in his day before heading back to work. 

None of that has anything to do with how he plays the game but it is part of the reason I enjoy watching him so much. I don’t know Steph Curry, I only know his persona. But given how few people are able to cultivate and maintain a likeable persona in this age of 24/7 coverage on every medium possible, even if he and his family aren’t as endearing as they seem, they get kudos for putting on one hell of  a front. Truth be told though…I believe they are who they seem to be.

Steph being a nice guy is only a part of it. Steph is amazing because Steph gonna Steph…and he’s been Stephing all over this season so far. Only 20 games in, people are making incredible predictions about him and the Warriors squad, about what they will or should accomplish this year. As much as I enjoy contemplating the possibilities, what I love more is watching them. I love watching the whole team.

I like to watch Steph launch 3s from so far beyond the 3-point line that it seems insane, until he makes it, and then it seems like that was the only thing he could have done. I love watching Draymond Green fight for every ball as if the game depends on it; it makes it so natural for him when the game does depend on it (go to 8:50 if you want to see what I’m talking about). I love when Klay Thompson finds a rhythm and sets fire to the net with deep 3s (yes this is last season but WOW!). 

I love Andre Iguodala, Festus Ezeli, and Shaun Livingston stepping up always. I love that our bench is deep, that on any given day we have heroes emerge seemingly from nowhere…like Ian Clark and Brandon Rush.

Today a friend called me a bandwagon fan. She said I’m only into basketball right now because of Steph. The truth is that the Warriors have made basketball fun again. I remember feeling this way about basketball way back when Warriors Coach, Steve Kerr, played for the Bulls. Of course, then, like now, everyone was a fan of the Bulls. How could you not be? Their bench was deep their talent varied, their superstar subject to set the net on fire.

And no, I’m not trying to compare Steph to Michael Jordan. I don’t see the point in all of these comparisons and declarations about who is the best now or in all time. I only bring up Mike because like Steph, he didn’t shine at the expense of his team, they all shined the brighter. Everyone was the better.

 And they were fun.

The Warriors are fun. Presumed niceness aside, I am awed and wowed and giddy with joy when I watch these guys. I love the teamwork. I love the unselfish approach to the game. I love that even when they are flawed they can rally. I love Curry. I love them all. 

Bandwagoner or connoisseur of basketball joy, whatever my label call me Dub Nation!