Catching Up

The close-call heart attack I had this morning was quickly remedied: Blogger kindly restored my cooking blog after I wrote to them that I had no idea why it would have been removed (because I didn't, though I suspected it was somehow related to the hacking of my gmail account) and shortly thereafter Cooking The Globe was back online with additional site moderation. Yay!

In other news, I have been unfortunately slack in keeping up-to-date with the news, be it international, local or personal. I blame it on the stresses of moving and relocating (which is legitimate enough: last weekend was the first time in two months Seth and I didn't have to go anywhere. I felt guilty not doing anything.) I also have no idea how to comment on the plethora of shit going on in the world currently so I will do what so many Americans do and simply ignore it. Weee, now life is simple!

Oh, except I am still writhing in pity and self-doubt as I attempt to write cover letters for potential jobs. I have finally written two sentences describing that I am, indeed, awesome; now I just two paragraphs detailing that assertion (nay: fact.) My lack of faith in my abilities amazes not only me, but my husband as well. Woe is me, I know.

On a positive note I have been learning Austin streets through the age-old tactic of driving around and getting lost; my kitty is adorable and will stick his face in mine in the morning, meowing, until I pet him - yes, that is adorable rather than annoying; and my friend Kerry and I solidified our undying devotion to the movie Showgirls with tattoos. Our love is eternal.

 

Pretty good silhouette on our legs, eh?

And there it is. Damn, I currently miss Uganda (and Africa in general) something fierce right now, though unsurprisingly, not Kuwait. Hopefully Seth and I will be able to make enough money to be able to travel a bit (albeit not at frequently as before.) Of course, I also hope I will get a job in the (near) future that will pay me to travel around the globe. How can I cover it without visiting it? There, I just gave myself a third excuse. I should add that talent to my list of awesomeness in those cover letters.

HIRE ME!

Happy Anniversary!

I know it's been a while since I've posted anything and even longer since I've posted something worth reading, but before I go into posts about Showgirls (teaser!) I want to say "Happy Anniversary" to my wonderful, handsome husband Seth. Two years ago we married in a circuit court in Austin; one year ago we celebrated our anniversary with a wedding ceremony on the Nile (see above); and this year we celebrate our marriage where it began: in Austin. It's been fantastic so far, Seth, and I can't wait for more!

Happy New Year! and Goodbye Kuwait!

 It's only been 1 1/2 months since I've posted anything - nice consistency with covering the globe. The biggest news on 2011 (the five days we've had of it) is that Seth and I are leaving Kuwait, me in early February, Seth around the middle. At first both of us were worried and I was slightly panicked, but at this point we are both excited for a variety of reasons, including my mental health.

Seth has asked me if I am depressed and I have repeatedly answered "no" because I don't feel depressed, sad, lost - any of the "telltale" signs of depression - but if I take time to think about myself I suppose I have fallen into a certain state of melancholy. I sleep cat's hours, find it difficult to write my thoughts even on my personal blog (I have several half-sentences save over the last 6 weeks), hardly leave the apartment. I say to myself (and Seth) that I have become a better cook over the past few months yet if I am honest with myself I would say I use cooking as a crutch, as a reason to not leave the apartment to go for a walk; to not leave past four in the afternoon; to keep my mind focused on that one easy detail: what's for dinner. I began the Master Cleanse today yet am considering making broths for tomorrow and juicing my lemons early because I am accustomed to planning my day around food preparation.

I know it's my own fault, that another person may have written four novels and started two businesses by now, all while sculpting a nymph-like body; I end up, as my friend Kerry described, floating, which is probably why I haven't considered myself depressed. I am floating, no rising in exuberance or sinking in despair - just here. In 2009 I spent months trying to find work while possessing only a tourist visa and was overcome with rejection; I came back in 2010 and began the job search again but just didn't have the heart to give the search as much effort as I had before because nothing had changed except the year. So I floated. And then I turned 30. I never thought I would have a problem with turning 30, but leading up to my birthday and then on the actual day I was struck with the thought that I have peaked, that if I haven't accomplished anything significant with life by now then I have lost my chance. That may have caused me to sink a little.

Leaving Kuwait will be a needed change for me, so Seth, for our marriage - hell, for this blog. I completely abandoned my genocide series for no reason other than I lost the drive. Screw that: I can cover the globe from anywhere, including the eclectic land of Austin. Bring it, 2011.

Is Powerlifting A Blue-Collar Sport?

Seth is a powerlifter, therefore reads a variety of lifting magazines. As these magazines are often in the bathroom I read them when I have a bit of time - also, you know, to support my husband. In the November/December issue of Power there is an article by lifter Mike Tuchscherer on squat depth, as in the need (or not) of an agreement on how deep a squat should go to be considered valid. It's a topic that, for the most part, only matters to those within the sport, but a particular statement, quite unrelated to the article itself, caught my attention: "Powerlifting has always been a blue-collar sport that rewards hard and diligent work."  Such a claim seems a bit presumptuous on the part of Tuchscherer: how is, or has, powerlifting been a "blue-collar sport"? Is it because it's assumed the basis is just "lift a bunch of heavy stuff" that doesn't require any special or expensive equipment? Last time I checked (which is often, because of the husband) the gear required - or necessary - for powerlifting is pretty steep, not to mention the cost of gym memberships. Is it because it's a sport in which "hard and diligent work" pay off? Is there a sport where that doesn't apply? (And is it elitist and non-blue-collar of me to point out that "hard and diligent work" is redundant?)

This idea intrigues and I plan to look into further. Get excited: I might be up to some investigative journalism.

Thankful: Seth

Normally November is the time when Foxy by Nature blogs about the things in life for which she is thankful. However, considering she is neck-deep in her first semester of grad school at Sarah Lawrence I am not sure if she will do those posts this year. So I have decided to steal the idea.

I am truly thankful for my husband, Seth. It was serendipity that we met (at BWI airport); a happy surprise that we got along so well; and I big shock when I realized you were the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I remember having a conversation with the aforementioned Foxy and she whispered to me, "Do you think he's The One?" I never thought someone would say that phrase to me, but she did and I happily giggled back, "Yes!" My life has been a fantastic adventure ever since and I couldn't imagine spending the expat life with anyone else. Kisses to you, handsome.

On Fantasies

I enjoy MMA and watching UFC fights, particularly those with GSP - Georges St. Pierre - both because he is an amazing fighter and kind of nice to look at. I casually mentioned this to our roommate one day and he, being ardently against GSP, was disgusted. To annoy him I played up my interest, which is reality is slight. Now Seth playfully(?) becomes irritated when we watch an episode of the current Ultimate Fighter or he sees me reading a magazine featuring an article about GSP. Attempts to assure him that I am not fantasizing about the man go unheard, but Seth really should believe me: I don't indulge in fantasies because I am bad at them. Let me explain.

Say I see a celebrity or some such whom I find attractive, maybe even interesting. "Oh, if I could get him in a room alone," I think, but of course I can't; that's the reason behind fantasies. Unfortunately, that's also the reason why mine fail. Sure, I concentrate I can have one great, steamy - er, romantic - fantasy, but after that they begin to unravel. I close my eyes to imagine a scenario and my rational kicks in: how the hell would you be meeting this person? At a party? How the hell were you invited to a party like that? Just in a bar? That sounds pretty far-fetched.

But I persevere, determined to go through with my scenario, until self-esteem issues arise: so why has this person noticed you? Because you look "natural", real face and boobs, aren't anorexic, have opinions that aren't vapid and shallow? How do you know his opinions will be any better? Do you seriously think you'll stand out? At this point I have two options: count my losses and look at some porn or stubbornly push on, determined to see this thing through to the end. This is usually a bad decision. At this point I have met my person-of-interest, which means I need to create dialogue with how I'd like this man to be while maintaining some level of honesty to his true character, which of course I know nothing about. I want him to be charming, polite, not pushy, wanting more than sex (I am a lady, after all), but with sexual tension so thick you can taste it. This is where it's get tricky, as though my imagination is fighting with my rationality over whether to continue the dream or not and it always ends the same way: maybe I play too coy or my would-be lover begins to demand sex while I politely decline, until he rejects me. I am rejected in my fantasy, ultimately in all of my fantasies. Try masturbating to that.

So, Seth, you have nothing to worry about. You are the only man on my mind.

By default.

Big Things Comin'

Over the past two months I have become so much better at regularly posting (until this past week; oops) that it has made me reassess why I even have a blog.  What do I want to accomplish?  Whom am I trying to attract?  In other words, where is this going?  How many italicized question words can I use?  (Five.)  I am having trouble managing my life, but I am sure I can micromanage the hell out of it!

That said (written), Seth and I are heading to Cyprus for the next week (tough, I know.)  I will be teka, teka (thinking, thinking) and promise that, come September, I - and this blog - will have definite focus, a purpose! Meaning: more than just a personal journal.  I hope.

I have several things on my mind but have been unable (or unwilling) to put them into coherent paragraphs, but feast your mind on these tidbits:

--> There is a large wage gap here between Westerners and Easterners.  I understand that the exchange rate of Kuwaiti Dinars into whatever local Eastern currency (Indian rupees, for example) highly favors the local currency - that is, these employees are earning a wage largely unattainable in their home country.  However, there is a tendency by Westerners to treat Easterners as lesser people, yet not feel guilty about such actions because said Easterners are so much better off here than they would be in their own country.  I can't get behind that kind of skewed logic.

--> According to my Indian cookbook, "Vindaloo is notorious for being hot and spicy."  The recipe calls for 4 dried chilies, which you then pound or grind into a powder.  Not having dried chilies, I decided 2 teaspoons of chili powder would be the same (note: it is not.)  Combined with the 4 fresh chilies you also add (with other spices, of course) what resulted was a powerful inferno.  I had sweat pooling on my eyelids.  That shit was so hot (yet also delicious) that my endorphins were increased to the point that I felt like I was on uppers.

--> While my loving husband has assured me that I don't need to find a job right now; I can focus on writing and whatnot; he just wants me to be happy; I personally want to make some money.  I want to contribute!  But I become paralyzed when I have to actually apply, envisioning the possible rejections that follow.  Nothing to fear but fear itself - and multiple job denials.

--> Pay attention when chopping or you will slice off the top of your thumb.  Oops.

It's looks like my thumb's brain is poking through.

--> There are so many actors involved in the DRC that I feel as though I am trying to figure out a puzzle.

Bang.

Wrecking Ball

I have been procrastinating on my next genocide post like it's an end-of-term paper. It's been almost four weeks since my last. Who the hell do I think is grading me? I partially blame my renewed addiction to the internet: the slow and sporadic internet (and power) I lived with in Uganda did not allow for hours upon hours of mindless surfing, but now with no job but endless power and connection, I am reminded how quickly five hours can tick away.

Today it was with Cake Wrecks. Oh, funny site, very funny site, which left me giggling hysterically for almost an hour straight. Yet it is also one of those sites that you can't show to someone else and automatically expect them to find it funny, too; I think you need the hour or two build-up.

"Oooh, okay look at this one. No, you have to read the captions." Pause. Silence. "Isn't it hilarious? Ahahahaha! No? This one, then. No, remember, the captions are part of the fun! Just keep reading . . ."

You know what it's like. While I may have failed forcing guffaws on my husband and our roommate, check it out yourself, by yourself. Especially if you have something more important to do.



All photos courtesy Cake Wrecks.

Death and Writer's Block

Yesterday was the three-year anniversary of my mother's death, but rather than reflect on her affection or lost personality traits, but considering the difficulty I am having with my publishing my "genocide theory" posts, what comes to mind is how her death affected my writing.

Mom died the summer between my first and second (final) year of my Master's program. Not surprisingly, I had no idea how to cope with her unexpected death. I considered taking time off from school, but listening to my father's advice ("that's not what she would have wanted") I soldiered on - in my own way. Simple coursework (and papers) didn't fill my mind enough, so I applied for (and was hired) as a full-time employee at REI. (I was already working there, part-time, but became the full-time frontline specialist. Oh, and I was good, for whatever that counts.)

I contented myself with working 38 hours per week, going to school on my two days off and reading (for school) in the evenings. I also had AA meetings and alcohol education classes to fill my time (requirements of my drunk-driving arrest the previous year.) No time to think about death or my mother or anything, really - which was the point. Complete focus on everything except the devastating reality of Mom's death. I also drank a lot.

I didn't fully realize what I was doing until I attempted to write my end-of-quarter research papers. I admit I don't remember too many details (I hate to sound cliched, but that time really is a blur) but one course's paper revolved around the initiation and circumcision rituals of Nilo-Saharan (African) tribes, though I don't remember the actual point of writing about it. (That particular laptop suffered horribly under some pornsite-inspired virus - obviously not my doing! - and, still stupid enough to not back-up information, I lost everything on that hard-drive. Though, considering the paper in question, not such a loss to posterity.) What I remember is sitting at my desk and typing: The majority of Nilo-Saharan tribes performed circumcision, with the exception of a few who didn't for various reasons. Yep.

I am fairly sure that "yep" was in my original draft - if you consider two sentences a "draft." It was while staring at my pitiful opening (and current best attempt of the paper) that I realized I was avoiding my mother's death. Of course it wasn't central-African circumcision rites that provoked such a realization, but rather my inability to think, much less write, analytically. I had spent the past four months actively suppressing my emotions and memories; writing anything of value required that I open my mind, thereby freeing those emotions I was desperately trying to Forcing my brain to work beyond basic functions freed emotions I was desperately trying to suppress. Yet no matter how much I tried to avoid life, subconsciously I couldn't avoid my mental breakdown. And that's what it was: for a time, I completely lost my grasp of reality and refused to acknowledge what was before me. Writing forced that acknowledgment on me and, ultimately, I was better for it.

And here I am again, trying to write while trying to avoid something. Not death this time - I have accepted the loss of my parents and though I miss them terribly, painfully, I no longer have to ignore those feelings to function - but rather the realization that I need a guidance counselor. Do they have those for adults? My life has taken so many unexpected turns that I can no longer guess where I'm headed. Not just death, but marriage - when did I ever believe I would get married? Never, until Seth came along, so now I not only think about "where is my life going?" but also "where is our life going?" A year into wedded bliss and that one still stumps me - how do I think about two people when I can't even manage one? If there's ever a time when I miss my parents' guidance, this is it.

Seriously, though, about that guidance counselor: where can I make an appointment?

Oh, Uganda (4)

Oh, Francis' Joint, how I will miss your chips/liver! Seriously, when I was in Kuwait over the Christmas holidays I found myself craving the muchomo from this place, so I can imagine how bad it will be for the first couple of months after leaving.

Francis' Joint: the best chips in Kabale. I could eat here for several days in a row (and have.) Unfortunately this means Francis' Joint is also partially to blame for the few pounds I've put on since September, but that's what happens when you're eating french fries all the time.

But it's not just that the food is delicious - it's also cheap. 2,000 shillings for chips/liver, chips/beef or chips/egg - not even a dollar. Add to the fact that a cold (or somehow cold) Eagle is only 1,400ugx and you'll easily understand how this is the perfect meal.

However, as I tend to eat lunch here, the beer has the unfortunate side-effect of putting me to sleep for several hours. Therefore, in addition to weight gain, I also lay partial blame of my recent workplace inefficiency on this joint.

Luckily, the beer is cheap enough that I can just drink another and forget about work completely. Pretty damn efficient, actually.

Traveling Make Me Crazy, Part 2

Both crazy.

Which on one hand is odd, considering how much I travel, yet because of how much I travel, also quite understandable. This current trip to Kuwait, though, was big even for me.

To start, I was in alternating moods of absolute panic and apathetic reserve over the fact that my Ugandan visa was almost three weeks expired. Considering how many travelers I meet by living in a hostel I was sure I would find someone who had overstayed their visit, yet passed through immigration with no problems, but it seems the travelers available at the time were much more cautious than I had hoped. Laurie, who works with Edirisa Multimedia, had once overextended by two days and after rough questioning by immigration she burst into tears and that let her off. Hmm, not the best advice, but it was something to work with. However, my panic increased a thousandfold when I discovered the penalty fee was $30/ day, totaling about $600 for me.

Oh, Jesus, I may faint.

The U.S. Embassy, which I realize probably can't give advice on illegally exiting the country, told me to head to the Immigration Office as soon as possible. Useless advice, as the office would only make me pay. I'll just risk it at the airport.

While heading to the airport I steeled myself with the knowledge that no expiration date was written on my visa, a thought heavily supported by half a bottle of wine and a Xanax. No one can stop me! Yet who knew the most trouble I would have would be at the check-in counter? Seth made my reservation using my bankcard, which means I didn't have it with me. Not ever having been asked to show the card used before, I thought it unnecessary. Apparently Emirates Airlines does not agree. The attendant explained that if he let me through, the airlines might not accept my ticket.

"But if you let me through, it means the airline has accepted my ticket."
"What?"
"You know, logic: if you let me through, it means I get through. No one else will ask questions."
"What?"

Ah. I tried to explain that the card has my name on it, which matches the name on my passport, but no. I called Seth to provide some sort of confirmation for the card and was even prepared to pull out my marriage certificate, but no: I would have to buy another ticket at the airport or my husband would have to go to a travel agency and another one. That option was easily ruled out.

"My husband is working, he can't just run off to a travel agency."
"Your husband is working today?"
"Yes, like you, my husband works on Saturday."

Not that I wanted to cancel my flight and be stuck with price of the ticket plus a cancellation fee. When I explained the fact that airlines don't refund tickets because of customer error, the attendant kindly informed me that I was speaking of "airlines", but this was Emirates. Ah.

"Well, until Emirates begins teleporting people, it's still an airline."*
"What?" Considering the attendant, while working for an airline, had likely never flown in his life, I let the matter drop.

And they better provide the glitter effect free of charge.

The other irritating fact is that Entebbe doesn't have the technology to handle plastic transactions, which meant I would have to withdraw over $700 in cash to pay for a new ticket. Yet, frantic as I was about my visa, and the time it might take to convince immigration to let me through, I was almost tempted to go ahead and go through the trouble of getting another ticket.

I don't have Picard's willpower.

Then the attendant got a hold of someone in Dubai and asked the pivotal question:

"Can you confirm your billing address?"

And with that done I was clear. Off to the bathroom to apply a bit of blush and mascara, then skillfully chose the immigration line with a male attendant. With barely a glance at my passport or my face, he asked:

"How long have you been in Uganda?"
"About three months."
"Have a safe flight." Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.

What a total waste of a Xanax.


*It turns out Emirates only charges a $75 cancellation fee and will fully refund your ticket if you reschedule your flight. Federation of Planets, here we come.

Digression

I'm not even an egg person.

Yes, yes, I will getting back to that whole war crimes topic I raised last post, but seriously (or, I suppose, somewhat less so) how sad is it that, a week before traveling to Kuwait, I spend almost two hours downloading recipes to cook while there?

Caramelized shallots: who wouldn't want to cook this?

I fully agree and empathize with Foxy by Nature's thoughts about being married while feminist, but at the same time I can't help but feel, I don't even know, ashamed? No, embarrassed, by my overwhelming desire to fatten up my husband with delicious meals.

I bet you want to get fat with this, too.

No, no, that's inaccurate: it is my desire to express my love and devotion through tantalizing and amazing meals. Because I don't make any money. And that's where the embarrassment comes, or uneasiness, even: that I feel the only way to properly or fully express my love is through cooking. Am I simply unimaginative? How many other non-financially contributing partners try to ease their guilt with similar excesses? I don't mean stay-at-home moms - their contributions are evident - but rather, housewives or, I suppose, people like me: working (volunteering) elsewhere for little more than living costs.

Yes, yes, I also love cooking and the availability of both ingredients and cooking options in Kuwait (as opposed to the lack thereof in Kabale) throw me into all sorts of ecstatic revelries. However, this doesn't erase the awkwardness that comes with each love-filled meal. I just feel so antiquated, stereotypical, the archetype woman who knows the way to a man's heart is through his stomach; certainly not his mind. I know without a doubt that I think about things, some things more than others, too much, but what about you? Am I over-analyzing a simple situation or have I unwittingly forced myself into this awkwardness? Moreover, is it so bad to express emotion through a personally well-versed medium, i.e., cooking?

All photos courtesy http://smittenkitchen.com/.

Some Help from My Friends

Wow! I am amazed - and then again, not - at how little I've posted this year. I'll blame poor internet connection/ service and my own laziness. To be fair, from January to March all I could think about was my impending wedding (ceremony), which was pretty awesome. (Most of you probably know that it was the one-year anniversary for Seth and me, but we were married in a courthouse - to the knowledge of no one - and wanted an actual ceremony to commemorate our union.)

Notice something (or someone) else in the picture? Yes, it's my best friend, Kerry, who came out to officiate the service and otherwise join in drunken debauchery like only the Sergeant and I can achieve. Per our request she brought not only one, but two bottles of Crown (unfortunately impossible to find anywhere this side of the Atlantic.) Can't you just feel my happiness?

Pssst - I've already been drinking!

Whiskey-induced euphoria aside, however, having the Nomi to my Malone (and Seth's Penny) along for the ride reminded me just how amazing it is to have close friends in new places. It doesn't matter where you are or what you are doing, because your own personal world is the same.

Literally.

True, it's not the best way to explore due to the fact that you are permanently insulated from overexposure, but to someone who lives in a distant place by herself (me!) it offers a wonderful breathe of comfort and familiarity. Not to say that when Seth visits (or I visit Seth) there is not also a sense of comfortable familiarity, but it's different: Seth brings love and passion and protection; Seth brings himself. And when he leaves, or I leave, I miss him, period.

Kerry's visit, on the other hand, was a piece of home brought to Uganda. And when she flew back to the States, she left me with an intense longing for home that I didn't realize existed. I enjoyed Kerry's company not only because she's my best friend, but also because of what she represented. Her departure left a deep hole in me, worsened by Seth's departure a few days later. I had both love and home with me for two weeks and when those went away I never felt more alone in this country.

After I returned to Uganda following the Christmas holidays, I spoke with Solveigh (a German volunteer working with Edirisa crafts; also my awesome wedding photographer) about how difficult it was to leave my life in Uganda for a short time, then return. Everything is so different, even in Kuwait, not to mention how easily I become accustomed to living with Seth; then with constant readjustment being frustrating and incredibly exhausting: wouldn't it have been better not to have left at all? Is deprivation the key to overcoming loneliness?

My pictures tell me, "No."

It's Beginning to Feel A Lot like Christmas

Last year the holiday was an extrememly odd time for me: first Christmas without both parents; first away from family; first in a Muslim country. The lack of ubiquitous seasonal decorations and music coupled with my continuing grief left me, for the first time, not caring at all about the holiday despite it also being the first Christmas with Seth. We did have our little tree, which I took great care and tenderness to decorate, but neither it nor gifts could diminsh my apathetic attitude. I wondered if it would continue from then on, making me yet another person who dislikes Christmas because of the conflicting and troubling emotions it brings.

Fortunately, that hasn't happened. "It never gets easier, just different"; so true. Besides, what sort of lasting tribute would it be the my mother, the human embodiment of Christmas spirit, if I were to hate the holiday season because of her absence? Or my father, who, despite always grumbling about the excessive decorations in the house, smiled whenever he looked at the lit tree and played Christmas music all day long.

And so this year my spirit has returned, remembering and mourning those who are gone but grateful and happy for my life as it is now. Seth, being the wonderful man he is, bought a larger tree for the apartment and helped decorate it, even gathering an old sheet to act as the skirt. Plus, we are hosting a Christmas Eve dinner; how festive is that?


To those in the States, and elsewhere, I wish you a very Merry Christmas.


And offer some holiday lights, courtesy of the Kuwait oil fields.

Another post, another failure at a catchy title

What's that in the picture? A cake? A strawberry cake? Who the hell cares about a stupid strawberry cake, you may be wondering? I do. That's right, because that cake was baked in a charcoal oven, like this one.


How many cakes have you baked in a charcoal oven? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Seth arrives in Kigali next week, which means the week after that I leave for a month-long vacation. I suppose some would say that 4 (actually 5) weeks off from work is a bit much considering I have been at the job for three months - well, no, I don't know many people who would complain like that but I know they exist. This school term has been exhausting and educative, leaving me with many ideas to use when crafting workshop plans for next year. I have also made some personal revelations:

1) I will never get used to African time. In fact, it takes a lot of deep breathing for me to even be patient with African time. However, I do enjoy it when I use it as my excuse, though locals never do. How come I am supposed to accept their being late but they don't accept mine?

2) I can't stomach black instant coffee. When I first came I was drinking my coffee - the fine, dust-like powder it is - almost straight, with an occasional spoon of purloined sugar from the kitchen, simply because I didn't want to spend money on my own sugar. I know - how cheap can you be? At this point I drink my coffee with sugar, Nido and cocoa powder and if one is missing I suffer pitiably. Yes, life in central African is that hard.

3) I know more about teaching than I realized. I had guessed for some time that, having been in school for so long something had to have rubbed off on me, and it seems it did. More than pedagogical knowledge, however, I also enjoy teaching. This doesn't mean that I never wish I could smack a couple of those punk-ass P5 students across the face, just that I should consider the education field more seriously in the future.

4) Aubergines (to distinguish them form the nasty, bitter green eggplants also found here) have become a favorite of mine; I used to fling these bulbs os nastiness to the floor in disgust. Seriously, who thought that such a spongy, ugly little thing could be tasty? Not me - until now; I've eaten the things 5 times in the past two weeks.

5) This has occurred to me before but has recently become a stark realization: the desperate need for evaluative research into education programs here in Africa. How much of an impact has Smiles had on the live of children here - other than swimming skills, which are easily observed? How many years will a viable program need to be in place before it has any effect, if it has any effect? Is this the right way to go about spreading education? Those typical questions of, "What's the point?" smacking me straight in the face. It's relevant, though: Smiles has been working with Bufuka Primary School since 2004, which means the majority of P7 students had experienced Smiles workshops for 5 years - yet half of them can't understand English. What was achieved?

6) It is hard being away from Seth. Yes, we both knew it would be difficult but had no idea - no fucking idea - just how hard it would be. I hadn't realized the essentiality of that man in my life but it's there, deep and strong. Serendipity struck strong that day in the airport.

7) Finally - I hate foam mattresses. But charcoal ovens? Bring it.

A Brief yet Wonderful Visit

From the love of my life, though he didn't wear his Chacos all the time so he did not experience the red feet of Uganda. It was good, had fun, took off too much time from work (which has crashed back into my reality as of this morning) plus Seth bought me a number of things including a large jar of mayo. Yes!
It does excite me. I try to stick to my budget of no-more-than 7,000 shillings/day on food and since that jar o' mayo cost 7750 it is obviously outside my budget. Plus, I also have peanut butter AND jam AND instant soup packets AND a small bottle of gin. Who's livin' the high life now?
Happily his private hire got him to Kabale fast. He landed in Kigali 12pm and I was thinking maybe 4 or 5 hours later he'd show up, but no: he arrived in less than 3. Which meant brief waiting-period for me.



Of course, coming from the barren desert of Kuwait we hit a bar his first night in country.


The following days were spent immersing him in the culture as much as possible. Unfortunately for Seth this included a visit to a local bar to enjoy (?) some local waragi. I think his stomach (and mine) might still be burning.

On a slightly random note: apparently I have a very "American smile," at least according to Sharon, my Israeli volunteer. Meh?