Tax Soul Suck

I'm generally pretty proud of myself.  I work hard, fill my life with interesting people who like spending time with me, go on many adventures.  I'm exactly who I want to be at 26.  But when it comes time to do my taxes every year, I dread it.  Taxes make you take stock of the very tangible things that I do not have to show for myself.

Yeah thanks, I'm well aware.

No investments

NO property

But I went to 6 countries in 2014?

Started my dream job?

Am happier than I've been in years?

But yeah, no, I don't have any dependents.

A Comedy of Errors

Val and I work very hard: long days, weekends, nights.  So when we have a second to catch our breath, we like to breathe deep.  Val was in Uganda for a conference and we decided to escape to the Nile on the weekend.  We booked a peaceful and luxurious cabin right on the river and begged the owner to let us check in at 1pm on Saturday and check out at 3pm on Sunday to maximize our time. 

Saturday morning I picked Val up at her hotel, we stopped by the grocery store to get food to cook at the cabin and hit the road.  It would only take 1.5 hours to get to Jinja and we left ourselves a bit of time in case of bad traffic.

An old woman, bent over her cane, shuffling her feet without lifting them off the ground, passed us in our car as we sat for an hour in standstill traffic.  We moved a smidge an hour.  Smidge/Hour.  And then my car stopped.  The dashboard lit up all the indicators and then turned off.  I put the car in neutral, like mommy taught me, and drove to the side.  Smoke was pouring out from my hood.  But when the smoke cleared, the miraculous sign “Highway Motor Garage” appeared.  A mechanic came out and poured some water into the thingy to cool the car down.

“There is a leak in your radiator and you need a new water pump and belt and radiator cap.”

“How long?”

“3 ½ hours.”

“Is there a bar nearby?”

“No.”

So we pulled the car into the lot, let the 20 mechanics do what they do in the hood, and we cracked open some beers (“maybe if I just try to keep opening this bottle with my hands someone will appear with a bottle opener”--someone did) for ourselves and the 30 mechanics and settled into the spare tires that were laying around.

Val chilled on a tire

I preferred the car

It rained, we got wet.  I started teaching some children how to do the Saturday Night Fever Dance.

The car was fixed 4 hours later.  I thank the 40 mechanics, and start to drive away but even when I press the pedal to the metal, there was barely any acceleration.  The mechanics saw our problem. 

“Ok we made a mistake, come back.”

30 minutes and 50 mechanics later, the car is fixed.  It’s not fixed.  But we are too anxious to get going so we get back on the road with our faulty belt and, very slowly, reach our cabin in the dark.  We get unpacked, eat salami and cheese sandwiches (we ditched our dinner reservations because were too tired), finished a bottle of wine and crawled into our beds at 10pm. 

At 4am I heard a loud flutter just above my head.  I turn on the lights and see a fucking bat.  I scream, and run across the room into Val’s bed. 

“Bat!  Rabies!  Marburg!  Nipah virus!  Potentially ebola!” I scream getting my geek on.

“OH shit.  Quick, lay flat on the floor! Bats like height!”

“Is this science or is this your theory?!”

“My theory!”

We slither across the room into my bed, keeping our iPhone flashlights above our head ‘cause bats don’t like light, right?  We jump into my bed and tuck my net into the mattress to create a bat free zone.

Until 6am, when the sun started to rise, I stared at the bat just chillin’ on the top of my net.  Periodically it would use it’s talons to drag itself along the net. 

I made myself wake up at 10am so that I could enjoy the last few hours of the Nile before having to make the trip back to Kampala.  Trying not to wake Val, I snuck downstairs and opened the door to the porch.  A large bat plopped onto my hand.  I screamed.  But it wasn’t a bat, actually just a frog.

Val, now awake, came down, we made coffee and enjoyed the last bit of the Nile before having to check out.  We try so hard to relax but it always ends up just being comical.  Luckily we have a good sense of humor and can enjoy a beer anywhere.

I drove us back to the city, hugged Val goodbye as she boarded her flight to Tanzania, and went home.

While unpacking my car, my wrist bent back, and a ganglion cyst on my tendon that I didn’t know existed, hemorrhaged, and I had to go to the hospital. 

The Clothing Market

I love the market.  It appeals to all sides of me, it’s adventurous, it’s a bit dirty, you get to practice your bargaining skills in all sorts of languages and when you wear the dress around town that you bought you can say “I got this from the market” and look casually away as your inquirer is left marveling at your street smarts and prowess. 

Kampala has a great market called Owino.  The entrance is a narrow corridor hidden by an impressive amount of clutter.  One must count 9 and ½ backpacks to the right, wave your Boda helmet next to an old UNICEF jersey, and then duck in.  The ground is muddy—even if it hasn’t rained in a week.  Men and women sit at their booths, 2 feet deep and 3 feet wide, and grab at you to stop at their stall, to pick their pair of used converse.  When you stop at their stall, the woman who was sprawled out sleeping on some shirts a second ago is now up and animated.  She’s showing you her florescent pink, sequined shirt with Tweety Bird on it.  Or how about a nice Wells Fargo baseball cap?  A DARE shirt?  Owino is wear all your donated promotional clothing has its second, third, and fourth life.

I have my camera out which is risky, but its Sunday and quieter than normal.  And if I can’t take pictures, what’s the point of having a camera?  It makes a scene as everyone wants me to take their picture rocked back, arms crossed, kissing their fingertips and looking at the sky.  Jesus is just beyond the tarped ceiling.

After every fifth row there are two women bending over, cooking something in a pot over some coals.  They’ll supply the entire market with ground peanut sauce, mashed bananas and rice. 

I love the market.  It’s claustrophobic in a way that is comforting.  Foggy with sweat, loud with  the vendor who swears he has the best price and the cutest babies sleeping on beds of skinny jeans. 

I bought a bright green dress bargained down from 45,000 to 20,000 shillings ($15 to $6).  I got on the back of a Boda and drove home.  When I showered, mud circled round and round my drain.

 

Entrance into Owino

New Job

I have left CHIA and have joined another international NGO.  This one is particularly sexy.  I am the Immunization Research Specialist.  A specialist!  Ha!  Crazy!  I spent my first two weeks up up in Northern Uganda, 9 hours drive on a bumpy dusty road from Kampala, to the district of Kitgum, bordering South Sudan.  I met my boss who is a tall blonde with Dutch descent who started working in conflict zones when she was 20.  I met her, she hugged me, we got in the car, and did not stop talking until she left 4 days later. 

The project is researching how to increase immunization coverage for children under 1 in Northern Uganda.  I remained in the field a week longer than expected to get my sea legs.  Went into clinics, into government offices, into villages and asked what they saw as the main barrier to vaccination.  Based on the results, I’m designing an experiment to address these barriers.

 I move to New York in May!  I’ll be based there but will be traveling more than 45% of the time to support immunization research in other countries. 

I am giddy and trilling at this new job.  My life is unreal.  I hope I don’t wake up.

Life on the Indian Ocean

Best Laid Plans

The three of us grew up in Baltimore together.  Twenty something, just out of grad school, living alone but down the block from each other.  We were covered in school debt and looking for jobs with the ever profitable NGOs.  Poor but well educated dreamers.

 

On Valentine’s day, we met up in Tanzania to re-kindle our love.

It was going to be a romantic night.  We dressed up in long clingy beach dresses and did our make-up channeling “sultry.”  The taxi arrived to pick us up and we lifted our long dresses into the car. 

30 minutes later, we were deeply stuck in Dar Es Salaam’s special brand of engagement breaking traffic.  The fumes swam up through our nostrils into our stomach. 

“Ugh, I’m so sick,” said Jen who was new to Tanzania.

“It’s ok,” said Val our host, “we’ll be there soon.”

30 minutes later, again, we turned onto a bumpy dirt road, weaving through tall swampy reeds, straight into a dead end.  We turned around and did the same thing in another direction.

“Does this look familiar, Val?”

“Kind of, I don’t know. [turning to the driver] Can you ask someone where the restaurant is?”

10 minutes later.

“Please sir, can you asked someone where the restaurant is?” No reply.  We call another driver we know who knows where the restaurant is and how to speak English.  We pass the phone.

We arrive at our romantic restaurant 2 hours later, but it’s ok, it’s only 9pm, and we’re sitting on the beach. 

“Let’s order a bottle of wine, some appetizers, and some delicious food. It’ll be so good.”

The waitress brings over one glass, one menu and a candle that has blown out.

“I’m sorry to be a pain but could you please bring us some more menus and place settings?”

We pick out a bottle of white sparkling wine, crisp, cold, and perfect for the occasion.

Jen hands the waitress a card saying, in Swahili, that she has a gluten allergy.  The card lists things that she cannot have, flour, soy sauce, barley… 

“So does the fish have gluten in it?  Does it have these things on the list?”

“Yes.”

“It does have things on the list?”

“No.”

“Can I have this dish without getting sick?”

“Yes I will bring for you.”

“No, I’m asking.”

“No.”

“I’ll have the chicken.”

Val and I ordered Lobster Macaroni and Cheese and fish cakes for appetizers and pasta with seafood for dinner.

20 minutes later the waitress come back with the menu, “I’m sorry, this wine is not available.”  No problem, we order the red.  And would it be possible for her to bring matches for the candle?

Jen’s chicken comes out and starts to get cold. 

“Please Jen, eat it, I’m sure our appetizers will be here soon.”

The waitress comes back, “I’m sorry, this wine is not available.”  Can you just bring us what wine you have?  And matches please?  And our appetizers?

15 minutes later she brings a bottle of wine to our table, and we cheers.  To being young and in Tanzania and being on the beach.

Jen finishes her dinner and Val and I don’t have food.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, is our food coming?”

“Yes.”

Just then a speaker we thought was a rock erupts with loud dance music and a DJ rapping into the mic “Sound check, sound check, yeah yeah yeah, sound check, sound check.” He has a button on his mixer that makes a siren noise.  “Sound check, what what, EREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWOOOO, Sound check sound check.”

“I don’t think he gets the meaning of sound check.”

“Ma’am, can you turn down the music a bit, we are screaming to hear each other.”

“Yes.”

Our appetizers and entrees come out all at once 5 minutes later.  The appetizers are cold and hard but still pretty delicious and our pasta was overcooked but had good flavor.  Jen sat and watched us eat. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am can you turn down the music, it’s so loud and there is no one on the dance floor.”

“Sound check, what what, EREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWOOOO, Sound check sound check.”

“Yes.”

A flashing colored light turns on facing the beach, blaring into our faces.

“I’m sorry sir, can you turn that light away from us?” we ask the manager.

“Oh sure, so sorry.”

He tilts the light a fraction of an inch to the left.

“Thanks so much.”

We start cracking up, leaning into each other.  Because so it goes.

We grab our wine and walk along the beach toasting to our love and our future loves.

We return back through the restaurant to meet our car out front.

The waitress has returned with matches to light the candle on our table.

Sound check.

Audio recording and upload >>

Click for Sounds from the night

Life on the Beach

I’ve been in Tanzania for a week now.  Had to leave Uganda for a month to sort out a visa situation. So I ran away to Tanzania and am staying with Val.  Val left with her brother to go on a safari and I spend my days working on a balcony that presses against the sea.  The skyline’s to my right, the neverending Indian Ocean to my left and the stupidly blue sky above me.  It’s silly how lucky I am.  

My nights are spent getting to know the expats from Dar.  I think I might have the expat friend maker formula down:

Isn’t it hard to find men out here?  Don’t you miss cheese?  Do you want to go on an adventure this weekend?  Of course I’ll bring the wine.

And you’re in.

I spend my nights on a pillow on the balcony reading about ebola (best to be prepared), drinking wine, pretending to be an artist, wishing for a Bob Dylan of our time to step up already, rekindling neglected friendships with long emails and shaky Skype calls.

I’m still applying for jobs, and that’s still very scary.  But it is very nice to put a pin in my life and get out to the ocean.