Status update

Listening to: Feist “1234” and Regina Spektor “Flyin”

Mood: Frustrated but optimistic

Reading:The College Issue

And by the way: Polish women are my new sheroes.

Nothing like graduating and moving halfway across the world to start questioning, you know, everything. I never liked introspection very much and I’m a little miffed by how much time I have to indulge in just that.

To sum up: I’m not quite sure what I’m doing. I am sure that what I’m doing is not the same as what I expected to be doing, nor is it the same as what I want to be doing. Frustration and confusion are duking it out right now for reign over my mind, and on good days confusion comes out ahead.

Today is a good day. It’s beautiful out this morning, I’m going swimming in an hour, I ate a great tomato sandwich for lunch and I’m taking the afternoon off. This weekend I’m playing croquet, visiting my soon-to-be Burundian host family, and going to a bar-b-que for the US-South Africa rugby match. And not to be underestimated, the newly downloaded aforementioned songs are a very important part of the mix.

And some things are about to change. I don’t know yet exactly what that means, but I’ll over-frazzle if everything stays the same so I have no choice but to try to make a few changes. I have a few starting blocks. I desperately need to learn and I really want to be around women but mostly I’m aching for a passion… I’ll see where I get with that.

I’ve finally uploaded some pictures and hesitated to send a link because they don’t begin to depict the whole scene here. But since nothing could: picasaweb.com/taylorsteelman/Burundi.

Did you do something to your hair?

So I realize that compliments are not always genuine. People will toss out a “Have you been working out?” just to say something nice. And even though it might have absolutely nothing to do with your working out (or lack thereof), people might actually think you just look nice and grab a ready standby phrase to express that. A phrase sure to make someone feel good.

I haven’t seen Reverien, our cleaner at the office, in a week or so now because he’s been on vacation. He stopped by this morning to say hello and we indulged in a bit of chit-chat as I was making coffee. When suddenly, as I turn to fill the coffee pot with water, he says from behind me:

“You’ve gotten bigger!”

Oh gosh. I’ve seen this happen to Liz. I sat at my desk while she greeted an old friend (Burundian man) and witnessed him call her fat. Right there, to her face. I think my eyebrows were an inch above their normal resting place but she took it in stride. A gracious nod, a polite dismissal. And slowly I caught on to the dreadfully ironic exchange: he was offering an American woman a compliment – by calling her fat.

I swing back around to Reverien: “Huh?!”

To make sure I understood what he said, he smiled jovially and held his arms out around his belly in that limp-ballerina-arm pose to show that yes, it looks like your midsection is expanding. He even looks to Freddy beside him for confirmation, and they both shake their heads, still smiling.

Okay. Thanks guys.

It's Monday

There is a massacre happening around me. Savage actions befall the victims: drowning, beating, squishing. I’m completely complicit in and overwhelmed by it. Almost everywhere I go, I find the desire to kill. It started at home, mainly in the kitchen, but now it’s followed me to the office. I got back from lunch today and saw them there, my enemy and my prey, on my computer. So what else could I do but I huffed and I puffed and I blew the little ant off my laptop! There. Eek – another one! You too, get off. Shoo shoo, off. Countering their defiance, the wind whirls out of my puffed cheeks and I try to tornado them out of the crevices in the keyboard… ah, but what if they just crawl inside?! Ants in my motherboard, arrrghhhh.

I don’t understand where they come from. These ant trails don’t necessarily have any origin, they’re just long lines of ants that start and end from and at nothing. The ants go back and forth from the top of the line to the bottom of the line, in motion the whole time and existing completely independently of everything, it seems. And there is no predictable reason for them coming where they choose to come, they just decide to come and they collect in hordes as if one sprouts out of another every minute. And that must be where they come from, each other. Which would explain the lack of a trail. Illogical, origin-less, pesky tiny ants that never ever sit still.

Like you! How in the world did you get on my arm? When I didn’t feel you crawl up from my elbow where it’s connected to the table, I didn’t even see you on the table, but all of a sudden here you are halfway up my forearm leaving me no other thought but that you magically appeared there, right there. For that bit of trickery I feel no shame in flicking you as swiftly as I can across the room. If flicks had a sound effect it would be a high-pitched, tight-lipped quick and determined *Pinnng* with a tiny little ripple of an echo. Pinnnnng!

Admittedly, still the new girl

I don't mean to be so personal. But I had a doozy of a day.

*****

What does it say about me that after a crummy day made crummy in large part because of unsettling confrontations with personal privilege that I’m sitting in the garden of a nice hotel on a nice afternoon eating chocolate crepes so I can access the internet?

She’s a white girl listenin’ to hip-hop driving on a Tuesday in her daddy’s SUV.

My feet are dirty by the time I get to work. I wore my little red ballet shoes one day and realized that for their sake I oughtn’t attempt it again. It would mean risking the soft red material to the clanging paws of dustbowls a foot off the ground.

Did I mention there’s a splendid view of the mountains from this garden?

*****

“Good afternoon,” he says to me right after I leave the house. As he says it I’m typing in my phone to tell Matt we’ll go for drinks later.

“Good afternoon,” and a curt smile. That’ll do.

A few steps and I think maybe we’ll make it, silence, silence, duck, duck, and then… ah, broken. Goose. Here it is.

“My name is Joseph.” A nice smile though. We shake hands. I smile too. But he… “works with orphans in this area. And we look for help from people around here. We have some letters of support from the administration,” opening the folder in his hand, “if you’ll just take a look.” He pulls out something official-ish and crowds me on the dirt sidewalk.

I used to think I didn’t want to give to people who asked for it because I felt more sympathy for someone with the humility not to ask. But what good does that do if your only strategy left is asking. When you actually need to ask. When you actually need. The thing about the soup kitchen that always bothered me was that most of the people who ate there were overweight. And that’s part of why I’m in sub-Saharan Africa.

It’s hard to tell which I hate more: having a lot or not having enough. Cause if I had mountains of cash then I wouldn’t care about giving away. Yeah, we all pull that line. What does this look like to other people? Through what lens do you see this and does it look like what an H2 looks like to me? That is, completely unnecessary and wasteful and an insult to most any other person and every single tree in the world.

“What do you want me to do?” To the point.

“If you could make a contribution…” he tries.

Yeah? What are you going to say this time, Taylor? You’re not going to just let him get away with that are you. We’re in the middle of the road man, why do you have to come up like we’re in an office or something and show me your papers and pretend it’s normal instead of harassment. You should know that there are boundaries here and you’ve not respected them and you’re just going to get anything done that way. No problems allowed in the no-complaining zone. A zone cordoned off by iPods, cell phones, and nasty American looks.

But how are you going to justify it? Especially since you and he both know you are lying, you’ve got to make it sound good. Make yourself the victim.

“Just right now, I can’t.” Make sure to use poor French, so when you fumble to explain it’s not because you’re unsure of yourself. Just your language.

Possessions. Somewhere a family who considered giving away all their worldly possessions did just that. Somewhere someone just became a nun. Fundamentalism is the only real religion, Alex said the other night. Reformists and compromisers are hypocrites. Unless you’re telling Anna that she can go out to nice dinners with Creighton because she’s so selfless otherwise and to feel guilty about something so standard in our culture would be debilitating. Indulgence allows good deeds.

I’m going to do my good deeds by my own design though. You’re not going to ask me for them while I’m walking back to work on a hot day. If there are times when you do good and there are times when you indulge then what are those times called when you tell a guy running an orphanage that you don’t have the $20 you have in your purse. And who should feel worse for creating that situation, him or you?

I would never donate to an organization that I don’t trust because I want to know that they’re really going to create something valuable with what I give them. We Americans like returns, they make us who we are. Show me that of all the parentless, shirtless kid-centers you’re the one that I should donate to. You need to earn this. For more reason than that you happened to walk beside me. I don’t know you man.

And I’m going to buy drinks later.

“Oh, you can’t…now. Maybe we could set up a meeting?” He’s on to me.

I’ve asked people for things too. But I never did so actually expecting to receive. Okay time out, not okay to put my UNC fundraisers on par with feeding orphans. I fed international NGOs and college students. Nuns probably walk around with small bills so they can give to someone whenever anyone asks. My mom probably does too. But it’s not worth doing if you’re going to feel bad about it, I told Anna. A bitter humanitarian is no good to anyone. Of course I’m not giving anything and I’m still bitter.

The real cinch is that I want to give and you want to take but why can’t you just want to take what I want to give?

Jeffrey Sachs, will you make me a formula please? Would you just design some algorithm or logarithm or some-kinda-rithm that can decide for me when and how much I can give away so that I don’t have to grapple with the decision each time and I won’t be unfair or inefficient but mostly so I won’t feel guilty. I don’t know what it is exactly I feel guilty about: either not giving or not caring enough to give or maybe just having enough so that I’m the one who gets to make the decision. And following guilt is shame at the fact that I stress about not giving money and they have to stress about not getting it. In all scenarios, I have the better end of the stick. It’s unavoidable and I remember my grandma telling me stories about how I was a brat when I was little and never did have patience for other people messing with me, telling me I’m cute.

And I don’t know who actually bothers me more, the men who ask for my money or the men who ask for my number. Both of you are presuming entitlement to something that is not yours and to which in fact, no, you are not entitled.

“Why aren’t you married?” he asks when after 2 minutes of conversation he can hardly pronounce my name.

Because pops, as hard as it might be for you who views me almost singularly as a chromosome-based identity to believe, I’m good for more than that. And for all the students of Mona Lisa Smile of course I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with marriage. All I’m saying is that if I was married or dating, their first question to me would not be “Why don’t you have a job?” or “Why aren’t you in school?” with the standard accusatory tone not very well hidden behind otherwise harmless words.

At home I feel no qualms about blowing people off but I’m treading carefully here, not always sure if the extra respect is merited. Of course I don’t want to disrespect your culture but I don’t want you to disrespect mine either, so don’t assume that I want to go for a drink with you in spite of our 20 years of age difference and having absolutely nothing in common.

“I just think you’re nice and I enjoy your company.”

No. There are prerequisites to having my number. One is a reason to believe that I would either want your number or would want to hear from you. Two is you actually having anything interesting to say to me upon a second meeting. Three is not being sketchy, and though subjective, it’s for me to decide and I won’t pretend that my perception is always perfect but it does affect my level of comfort so you deal with it.

“Why don’t you want to give me your number?”

And here’s where I try not to hurt your feelings.

“Do you have any money you can spare?”

And here’s where I lie in your face. But all I mean is:

Because it’s mine and some parts of me I don’t want to share. Because I would rather offer something than be asked for it. Because I’m short and smile frequently and it’s easy for just anyone to take advantage of that. Because I don’t like to be judged based on my skin color or gender or clothes. Because I think indulgences are important sometimes and because sometimes I delight in overdoing it. Because you need to give me time to think and because I don’t want to feel like I’m being sold something. Because I know how to sell things. Because I’m unsettled by the inequality between us. Because we have different perceptions of what’s important and of what’s appropriate. Because my sense of propriety might be somewhat old-fashioned. Because I don’t know you, I don’t know you, I don’t know you.

But the thing is each time I turn the corner those kids are there and each time I turn another corner Joseph is there with his pile of orphans and what am I supposed to do when the dogs at my house eat more than they do. I just wish they weren’t there every single time and I wish they were wearing shoes that fit them. I’m a fan of charity for people that deserve it and I don’t know what to say when I realize I’m not a fundamentalist charity-giver. It depends on my mood. It depends on how much you upset me. And ironically the less upset I am, the less I’m thinking anything through, and the less I’m prone to give. It’s not religious. It’s unfair, my choices, you being there, you asking me, me refusing, my caprice, our closeness, our being so far apart, all of it.

*****

There are good furrows and there are angry ones and angrily furrowed I also squint out the midday sun and walk back through a road that is too hot to a work that is too slow past people that make me feel bad about having slow work and I don’t want to give you this so please just don’t be nice and that way I’m not making a comparison between you and panhandlers on Franklin St. I know all too well there is a difference and it means something to me that you need what you’re asking for and it means something else that all I can do is spout the easiest fake excuse that comes to mind and when I go back to the States I won’t feel bad about turning down someone on the sidewalk outside a restaurant with access to hundreds of passersby with spare change because I turned down someone who hasn’t fed 20 orphans in 2 days. It’s all bullshit anyway I’m sure and I still wish I had a car to drive so I wouldn’t get my feet so dirty on these roads on dusty days. I don’t want to have to wash my sandals when I get home and I don’t want to sweat. I came to Burundi to see what its like somewhere with real poverty but just don’t show me that much please. We’re all hypocrites for our Club du Lac lifestyle and for swimming with crocodiles but maybe I’d rather just keep doing that and not furrowing my brow like this. And when I get to work give me someone I can talk to, hand me a politician please, a man not even a little bit of the people. We can get along because he is important and I am white but not to the extent that he gets to call me because I am not that important, I am just that white and that, my friend, does not count. And by the way, how am I supposed to act around stick-thin men who do my laundry, clean my dishes, and open the door for me? When I get home and don’t want to talk to anyone can I still blow them off or is that just being a colonialist?

Sometimes it seems the shock of having the comforts of home has somehow entrenched me even more in them and I don’t much feel like not being a hypocrite anymore and I wouldn’t mind going to Paris or New York. Businessman are honest souls because they admit that they’re completely selfish but NGOs are crazy political and selfish even though they claim to be doing everything for the good of humanity. It must be easy to make decisions when your own self-interest is the main concern. I have always been madly indecisive and always equally envious of people who can make quick decisions.

And oh how perfect if those quick decisions were also the right decisions, and if all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops.

Manners lesson

Today I walked home from the bank with 400 USD, dressed in floppy sweatpants and my North Carolina t-shirt, with my iPod stopping up my ears. Such a muzungu.

While I was walking, Bus and Richard were following me. Thanks to the NPR podcast in my headphones I couldn’t hear them but I assumed they might be trying to talk to me. After about 5 minutes when I finally heard “Good afternoon” and responded, they introduced themselves and we kept walking together until my turn, when my little friends finally revealed that they weren’t just having fun with the muzungu but that they were indeed little enterprisers. I heard the standard: “J’ai faim, donne moi l’argent.” “I’m hungry, give me money.” My ears prick each time I hear it: street kids have got the general gist down but completely without manners (they don’t even using the respectful vous form). These seem like nice kids and I want to try something so we have an impromptu lesson there on the corner.

“You know you’ll be much more effective if you’re more polite. Try this: ‘Could you give me some money, please?’”

Their faces are searching to see if I just told them how much I was going to give them. I look closer and motion, hands from me to them to me to them: “Repeat after me,” and I repeat after me. They respond: “Give me money.” Okay, these kids really don’t know French. “No, that’s what you don’t say.” From the look he’s giving me, I think the little one gets it.

I focus on him: “Could you…”
He starts: “Could you…”
“Give me…”
“Give me…”
“Money. Please.”
“Money.”
“Please…”
“Please.”
Well done! And you can throw in the ‘I’m hungry’ part too if you like.

After a few tries they can spiel the whole phrase and I reward them with ten cents. Hopefully they’ll remember it and acquire more with their new manners.

Grenade launchers and running shorts

I spent last week in Gitega (refer to map on my first post for reference!) at a BLTP retreat. In case you were wondering about my work, these retreats are what we do. We didn't have internet access and it's taken a while to gather my thoughts so this is the late but long and a little disjointed description.

The retreat

Howard captured it best when he said to me, “What humility, these presidents.” (Not that the seven term congressman and former American ambassador to the Great Lakes peace process who insists on being called Howard doesn’t have his own fair share of the stuff.) But he couldn’t be more right. Tucked away for four days way out in the country and put in the hands of a young team of foreigners, every living former president of Burundi laughed and ate and talked with all of us during the BLTP training last week. All of us being himself, two professional trainers, the BLTP staff, 3 young program assistants and 30-something of the most powerful men and women in Burundi. Men who led a country let themselves be trained in leadership skills, ate meals alongside people who vehemently oppose their policies and even sometimes, without pretense, talked to me.

It was probably the most surreal thing I’ve ever experienced. Just to get a feel for who was in the room, aside from the four presidents: the chairs and the most senior members of the party in power, senior members of all the other parties in power, three generals, the chief of staff of the army, the director of the national police, and a handful of other deputies or senators, ambassadors, and ministers. The American equivalent would be something like Howard Dean, Chuck Schumer, Mel Martinez, Mike Duncan, George Casey, George W. Bush, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, probably Hilary too, and a couple of Cabinet members and Congressmen all shmushed in a room. Throw in some hopeful extremists - the Michigan militia? - and you've got yourself a retreat lineup.

The most remarkable thing about the workshop was just how well everyone got along. Three years ago, some of these people couldn’t be in the same room as each other, at least certainly not without heavily armed guards at their flank. At least one participant founded a break-off faction of a political party represented by other participants. Some of the participants are still part of an armed struggle against the government. And nothing beats the Bagaza-Buyoya ish: one of the participants (Buyoya) performed a coup d’etat… against another participant (Bagaza)! And yet here they were, sitting together in a stuffy room for a few days of dialogue, and every last thing went off without a hitch. (Unless, of course, you count the moment when former President Ndayizeye fell out of his chair in the middle of a session.)

My only real job during the week was taking pictures, which was pretty much the best job imaginable: I got to get in the faces of important people with a camera and an excuse that made me not sketchy. And if it was impressive that they all got along with each other, it was incredible that they made any effort to get along with me. But really after a day or so, I was pretty much one of the gang. The FNL members said hello to me each day, President Buyoya laughed at something I said, President Bagaza told me at dinner that I looked a little bit Japanese, a party chairman asked for copies of my pictures, and at least two senators asked me if I was related to Charles Taylor. We were chatting up family stories in no time. “Oh Mr. President, you're such a cut-up.”

All in all, I was most struck by how able the workshop was to suspend reality. In real life, these people are not chummy. Real life is not necessarily the news that paints all of Burundian political leadership as rife with animosity and men constantly at each others throats, but it is somewhere between that and the pleasant morning scenes of rebel leaders taking coffee with the head of the ruling party and a slight breeze floating in from the entrance. In real life, these people do not spend all day in one spot following the directions of people who weren’t elected – the constant darting in and out of the room for cell phone calls was just one indicator of that separation. And in real life I would be thought a bit odd (if not a security risk) for incessantly taking pictures of generals chatting over a coffee break. But I think the reality suspension speaks both to the power and weakness of the BLTP trainings. On one hand, it is extremely effective in bringing people together for a week outside of Bujumbura. On the other, that’s just a week outside of Bujumbura.

Running on a dirt road

I was afraid to run most mornings during the retreat. I actually laid in bed turning off one alarm after the other, then one snooze after the other, not because I was tired or really really really didn’t want to run (which is usually the case) but because I dreaded the idea of stepping out of the seminary building and passing the clusters of uniformed men who hold really big guns instead of smiling and stare, and be wearing shorts. The highest profile people brought entourages that would make Hollywood types look petty and Secret Service agents look Hollywood. Because by entourage I mean two trucks loaded with armed men, and by big guns I mean grenade launchers. Intimidation exists on a whole different plane here.

But I actually regretted my hesitation on the last day when I went on my first run, and not only because my diet had consisted mainly of french fries and rice all week. The conference ended early on the fourth day so with my afternoon free I put on my white running shoes and white socks and headed up the dirt road, which then turned them to dusty red shoes and socks. And I’m not kidding when I say up, it was nothing but up for 10 minutes which quite sufficed to tempt my return. And even so… it was beautiful. Hills, colorfully clad people, banana groves and smiles: a perfect combination for an onslaught of cultural discovery.

The hills first of all, that I could look onto from either side of my road. In spite of my ongoing personal battle with hills, the relationship has to be termed love-hate because I can't deny their prettiness and I do like pretty things. The banks of the road I was on careened into valleys that rose like an about-face into a wall of green, spotted with dusk-time shadows – the shadows that are less shade on light than light on shade. Note: remember to look to the side when running.

But the overlook was only scenery in the end, begging photography for itself as much as to frame the people on the road. In Bujumbura people are interesting enough, dressed in recycled t-shirts and jeans, dress clothes and windsuits, and women in a traditional skirt with a t-shirt on top. But on this road, everyone was outfitted entirely in traditional clothes, which meant colors and patterns and more colors and a sense of complete displacement for me. My pink Nike running shirt looked like it came from another universe. Kids ran out from their homes and stopped at the road to stare or laugh, calling to their brothers and sisters to come see. Their homes are mudhuts and their feet were bare

Alongside the large and impressive views were tiny, discreet but equally impressive views into footpaths. When we used to drive to track meets in high school Coach Espo would look out the bus window, usually while driving, to the side of the road and scan for hidden trails. He would point them out when he thought he found one and he probably never did but in part because of that I have always loved the look and the very idea of trails. Since roads and sidewalks only exist here as paths taken by a larger public, everything else that goes anywhere is a trail. I’ve never seen a trail quite as mystically beautiful as one leading into a grove of banana trees on the dirt road in Gitega. Banana trees have these huge wavy leaves that fan out from the trunk to form a canopy letting yellow-ish light cascade through slits in the electric green leaves. They’re not too tall so you can actually see the ceiling from the ground. And the path that led into one, in this particular spot, cut a little dirt stream through the forest so thin that you’d have to enter single file and which disappeared from view about 10 steps up the way. If Pan’s Labrynth had been filmed in Africa (and maybe had been a little less dark) the Guillermo del Toro would want to use that path. In my head I heard “Send Me On My Way” and ached for a camera.

All that aside, the single best moment of the run was passing a group of women for the second time, on my return. They had giggled coyly when I first passed them and I didn’t hear much because I was listening to Nancy Griffith. On the way back, we saw each other coming from afar – ten or so colorfully bustled women are almost as hard to miss as a ponytailed white girl in running shorts in Gitega – and I turned down the music. Just before reaching them I eeked out “Mwiriwe” – “Good evening.” Complete and utter delight. The women keel and laugh and hold each others’ shoulders and show beautiful smiles. I’ve used the word plenty before but never has it created such a reaction and never have I felt so bonded by a greeting and I was so happy to run across women who reminded me how great women can be and how easy it is to discover that.

As if that wasn’t enough, when I got back a group of kids was walking into the seminary and they didn’t speak a word of French other than oui. I asked their names and told them mine and then let them listen to my iPod and they stood captivated until I put on 2Face Idiba and they started dancing and turned the volume up to unadvisable levels. Perfection.

Counter Culture: Indian food at a Lebanese restaurant in Bujumbura and this guy from Durham

My birthday dinner was at what I thought was a Lebanese restaurant which is actually now Indian; called Saffron, I guess it can choose which part of the Orient it wants to represent. Because of new ownership, the menu has recently transformed from tabouli and tagines to dum aloo and tikka masala. But slow to transform completely, the first pages still include Arab bread and hummus. As BKS and Garza will keenly understand, I picked the place because of the hummus. It was my birthday and that's as good a gift as any.

On arriving, Liz and I promptly seized on the most important part of the dinner and ordered hummus right along with our drinks. A quick, very Burundian bow and off our waiter went. The table filled up with friends, we got drinks, and 20 minutes later our waiter is back.

Waiter: “No hummus.”
Liz, semi-jokingly, still smiling: “But we came here for hummus!”
Waiter: Blank stare.
Liz, now in assertive mode: “You know you could have told us 20 minutes ago when we ordered it.”
Waiter: Anxious blank stare that says ummmm I don’t know what to do and I sure don’t how to respond in French – eyes dart, maybe there is a table I can hide under? – come on lady just tell me Ca va and let me go.
Matt: “We’ll take some naan instead.”
Me: Sigh…

Five minutes pass and the manager, having recognized the small crisis, comes to check on us. Liz explains the hummus situation.

Manager: “Oh, but we have hummus!”
Raised eyebrows all around: “Is this for real?”
Manager, half blaming the waiter and half covering for him: “It’s no problem. We can get it for you.”
Matt: “Alright, let’s get the hummus and the naan.”
Me: That’s right. Try messing with birthday powers.

The waiter bows once more and the manager shuffles off to dig up the cache of hummus. Before it comes we order the real food, having decided on three vegetarian dishes and 3 chicken dishes.

Waiter: “No chicken.”
Me: Hahaha. Of course.
Waiter: Waiting…
Fred, to waiter, in quick and feisty French: “How about instead of us reading a menu of things you don't have, you just tell us what you do have?”
Waiter: Resume anxious stare.

How bold of us to expect to be able to order something on the menu. I ordered palak paneer so I’m safe. The meat-eaters at the table check out the alternatives. Some unattempted options on the Indian section of the menu include Goan Fish or Mixed Vag. Your guess is as good as mine on those.

The manager returns, fixes up the order, we substitute some other meats for the chicken dishes, and one hundred minutes after arriving, dinner is served. Not quite sure where my palak paneer is but I do see something that looks like cheese chunks in a bowl of peas.

Adam: “Looks like the spinach of the night is little peas.”

Dinner gets underway and it is in fact delicious. We talk about service in Burundi and laugh off the night’s ordeal and discuss the phrase “Tastes like chicken.” A muzungu I don’t know comes up to the table and asks to join us. By now I’m used to introducing myself to people in the expat clique, so I extend my hand and smile: “I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Taylor.” The new muzungu introduces himself to me and then to the table, wondering if we’re all from the states. Ah, okay so no one knows him, and he just showed up at our table because we’re white too. He’s a little quirky, this one, but nice enough.

Turns out he’s here for a few days, works in coffee, and is trying to spark fair trade development in Burundian coffee. Apparently, Burundi used to be known for having better quality coffee than Rwanda and it’s really good stuff but fifty years of state control of coffee manufacturing has unraveled the attention to quality and made it uncompetitive on an international market. Rwanda capitalized on specialty markets and Burundi could do the same thing, he thinks. Coffee could be the new wine, but also socially-conscious: instead of drawing worldwide attention to lush French countryside people could associate their gourmet beverages with the developing world. It’s not good enough yet here though so he and his friend have come to talk through the possibilities with local farmer’s associations. His friend who owns Counter Culture Coffee in Durham.

“Do you know it?”

He must be kidding. Counter Culture was my fuel for four years, the power source of my longest days and nights. I start to reminisce about Daily Grind and 3Cups and memories flood into my head of Magical Mochas topped with a mountain of whipped cream and coffee dates with press pots and the cupping which resulted in me buying the most expensive coffee I’ve ever bought. It was the only coffee I correctly described in the cupping, after such mishaps as detecting grass when most people would say chocolate, responding bitter and flat instead of sweet and complex. But the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe was unmistakably and wonderfully blueberry.

Note: Counter Culture’s site says “this incredibly floral coffee offers sweet, fragrant notes of tangerine, lemon blossom, jasmine, and honeysuckle. Coffees from no other region can match the mouthwatering, beautifully sweet, and tea-like character of a great Yirgacheffe.” They make no mention of the blueberry, but everyone at the cupping agreed with me. And I know blueberry coffee sounds weird, but trust me, it’s so very yummy.

I told the Counter Culture guy about it and his face lit up because my knowledge of the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe proves that his efforts are working. I know about this tiny place in the Horn of Africa because its coffee made its way back to me in Chapel Hill. And what’s more, I liked it and bought it. This is exactly why he does what he does. So thanks to Brendan and Tom and Garza inviting Rachel and I to the cupping, in that moment I embodied fair trade development at work. And with a few more coffee snobs… the new wine… Burundian Breakfast Blend does have a nice ring to it.

And it really is a small world.

Thoughts from the past few days

Thursday – Writing Rachel

The light in the office right now, at about a quarter to 5, encroaches on unbelievable. It’s pretty hot during the day, almost at hot as NC summers, but at night is cools down remarkably. So much so that my runs are pretty pleasant and I don’t sweat TOO much. And right now is that time where the transition between African afternoons and light sweater evenings takes place.

The main thing I can say about here is I’m still trying to figure it out. It’s been two weeks and I still haven’t conjured a good description of what it’s like and what I’m experiencing because I cant quite tell how I feel or what it’s like. I feel like there are all sorts of things that I know but I just don’t know that I know yet...

Friday - Night life

I have been a terrible pool player since 10^th grade when my exposure to pool consisted of sleepovers at Julia Morton’s. And we didn’t play so much as we thought it was cool that she had a pool table and unfortunate that we couldn’t sit on it. From the looks of them, I think it would certainly be safe to sit on the pool tables at Kibira Bar but I did in fact play tonight and lived up to my own expectations of playing terribly. The table had small balls which bothered Matt from the American embassy; and I think the only reason he consented to playing on such an embarrassing table was because it was against someone sure to boost his ego by publicly displaying that she has the pool skills of a 10^th grade girl who sits on the pool table.

But the bars are fun. Crazy drunk French man who works at the UN danced with everybody to our great discomfort; I talked with the now newest muzungu Derrin who is applying to all the same grad schools as me and brought all the West Wing seasons I’m missing (plus all the ones I have); and Karen from the US embassy rescued me from a paperless bathroom with a pocket pack of Kleenex.

Saturday – Lunch guest

Liz invited her friend Jean-Petit and his 9 year old brother over for lunch. “Little John” studied business and management in college and now runs a kiosk near the central market. He takes courses in homeopathy twice a week so he knows more about nutrition than most Americans which means he knows more than about all but 10 Burundians. He is a good conversationalist, used to run track and speaks a fair amount of English.

After he left and I was still marveling at how impressive he was for knowing as much as he does, Liz gave me the backstory. Jean-Petit came to Bujumbura for high school while his family was living in an IDP camp outside the city. He took classes during the day and worked as a guard at night for Liz’s friend Georgina, alternating watch with the other guard to sleep for four hours a night. He took charge of his brother Fiston who was then 4 years old because it was too dangerous for him to stay in the camp with the rest of their family. Money forced them to move to opposite sides of city from each other and in that time Jean-Petit visited Fiston every single day to check on him. In Bujumbura, it gets dark at 6pm and to cross the city he would have had to pay for a bus or walk for more than an hour each way, in the time between the end of school and the start of work. His break came when a woman offered the two brothers two years free rent if he built an addition on her house so he built an upstairs room where they both live now. He started the kiosk he now runs with some capital from Liz and Georgina and has since developed a thriving sales business with enough revenue to furnish his and Fiston’s loft with a table and some other basics.

I know about work ethic. But I have no conception of work ethic in the face of adversity. The amount of ways to get discouraged… by just how hard it is… and still.

Sunday - Sitting

There is a really weird noise coming from the road outside and I think it might be a goat. We saw goats when we went up-country from I haven’t yet in Bujumbura. But I’m hoping this one found its way down the hills because I think I would be freaked out if anything other creature was producing that bleating noise in such a close proximity.

In other news: I had one of those runs today that reminded me why I hate running. I have selective writer’s block that has selected to take itself out on my would-be personal statements. I haven’t had a shower with hot water in a week. I have begun Kirundi lessons with the guards at our house. One of the sentences Serge thought important to teach me on night two was Urubatse? Are you married? I lost my winnings from the first night of poker and am starting back over at zero. Okay fine, at negative 10,000fBu.

Monday – Twenty-two

Last year I missed most of my birthday party because I was working on the STAND Projects and Events guide which, incidentally, turned out to be my last STAND MC project. This year I’m going swimming with Matt at the ambassador’s pool (the staff has the day off for Labor Day) and to dinner with new friends at a Lebanese restaurant. Aunt Susan sent me the words to my grandma’s special birthday song, our director Fabien told me we must go for une verre, and I’ve gotten a card, a text message, a wall post and a gchat of well wishes doing more than their part to make my day.

At dinner a couple weeks ago with Liz and some staff from CARE, they did a round of where they were at twenty-two. I was sparse on the details: when I will have been twenty-two, I was in this tiny African country.