Thursday, August 27, 2009

Homeward Bound: Lesbian Edition

Walkie Talkie has officially been brainwashed. At first I thought it was an innocent babysitting – catsitting. Then it was an obvious catnapping. I tried enticing Dub-T to return. Romantic songs on the guitar. Humorous anecdotes in radio code. Fish in milk.
But nothing worked.
And then I was in town catching a ride with a friend when he pulled up to a house and said he was making a purchase. “ah man, is this illegal? I don’t really like cops.”
Not that there are actually honest cops here.
I walked into the house compound with the friend and we were greeted by a young girl. No greetings were exchanged. She simply led us through a muddy path overgrown with shrubs and random groups of men eating nshima until we reached a large wooden box.
As she pulled the cover off, I gathered my strength and peered in the see...
Puppies!
Now I have made my disdain for animals clear in the past. But everything is cuter when smaller. Trust me, I’ve seen my brother’s baby pictures.
In this black sea of puppy bodies, intertwined and yawning, lay one white puppy.
A mezungu puppy!
He looked up to meet my astonishment (and to show off his one black eye). And we had a moment. Because I too know how it is to be a white in a sea of black.
A few moments later, back in my friend’s car, I stroked Mezungu’s floppy ears and went through the self-bargaining thoughts we all must face directly after impulse shopping.
‘You like dogs better than cats.’
‘But both are animals and the other one practically ran away.’
‘But Mezungu is a boy and Walkie Talkie is a girl. And you do have bad luck with girls.’
This is thought that won. Because two nights earlier, I had accidentally found myself to be the 3rd wheel on a lesbian date.
Lets get homosexuality out of the way. I have lesbian friends. I have gay friends. Its all good. People have types. I get it. But both these chicks were bisexual.
And I do happen to be bi-phobic.
Because there are no rules. Halfway through the meal Girl #1 announced she had to go to the bathroom. I motioned to stand up and realized Girl #2 wasn’t moving.
‘Oh, do we not do that?’ I mean I know its cliché but I totally go to the bathroom with chicks. It’s a moral support thing. And a gossip thing. Thumbs-up to both from me.
It was about that time that I started throwing back Long Island Iced Teas. We were talking politics and international development theories – real Save The World shit that in my book is confined to 3rd date level. Everytime a waiter came by Girl #1 repeated her mantra ‘oh, I don’t drink alcohol.’ So I repeated mine. ‘well I do boss. I’ll take her share.’
Yes, rules. Hetero-Rules. There are things you talk about on the 3rd date that you only laugh about on the 1st.
And I don’t care if guys are only after one thing. It doesn’t mean they are going to get it but at least I know the end goal.
To bring it back to 1st date humor I mentioned how the large amount of meat I ate in Costa Rica made me sick so Im currently embracing my inner vegetarian. Girl #2 asked of what I thought vegetarianism. Being a student of all “isms” I tried seriously to consider the views. I explained how I love talking to Rastas about the veggie lifestyle. Their zeal for all things living can be inspirational. Ultimately though, life is birth through death. It is a beautifully grotesque cycle.
And just like that we were back in 3rd date seriousness. Contemplation of death. Respect for life.
Apparently I was being insensitive.
So due to the fact that I make a bad lesbian, I bought a male dog.
When I arrived back at my house, I tried to take Mezungu around to greet people. But nobody knew the ‘mezungu’ term. Since Im not a fan of the Tonga equivalent, I began a search for a more appropriate name. The black eye led me to boxing terms. And the People’s Champ won out. So my neighbors and friends welcomed Champ.
And only one made a connection between Mezungu and Champ, ‘ah yes. The white one always wins.’
So now Im a bi-phobic insensitive skinhead sympathizer.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Parable for Trainees

When you first arrive in country you are sent in smaller groups to stay with a volunteer for a few days to experience village life. I remembered this visit as my favorite part of training, even though you are belittled by the title “Peace Corps Trainee.” Everything is surreal and everybody is just as excited as you are.
Everybody except the host.
Which was me this time. It was interesting being on the other side. The trainees asked so many questions fast fast. I didn’t even have time to pretend I knew the answers. One topic addressed the amount of down time aka free time aka party time in the village. With cancelled meetings and seasonal fieldwork volunteers are forced to improve or invent skills. Mine aren’t really creative: guitar, reading, slingshot. Perhaps in an effort to compliment my time-consuming, mind-numbing, activities, these trainees assumed that my intelligence increased during this time of reading. Ive read 76 books so far! Alas, they didn’t know me before. I recall at one point feeling fairly intelligent. Somewhere between copying A-work algebra in high school and writing a college senior thesis on the misrepresentation of altruism in development organizations.
Sure, I read a lot. But with nobody around to discuss the issue, I typically agree with myself. Consequently my verbal communication has declined. Almost to the point of stuttering.
The trainees were still waiting for my reply on the quest to fill down time with enlightenment. So I told them a parable.
One day in Livingstone I had just finished a successful planning meeting with an NGO for mobile VCT. To celebrate I neglected the bars and ice cream, headed instead straight to the Livingstone Museum to further my intelligence high.
The first exhibit was a bit of a drag. Bones and Rocks. Tiny placards informed me how the variously pointed rocks were used for cutting skins. Im just not one to get excited about an old rock. Especially when I live in a village that isn’t very far removed from stone tools. And this theme, of exhibits mirroring current village life, continued. Because while my Tonga family may have adapted Western clothes, Western technology is (for the most part) an ocean away.
It was then that I reached a room with an entrance sign declaring “Welcome to Our Village.” A short description designated the room as an honest representation of a local village. I entered tentatively, ready to compare it to my beloved Dimbwe.
When I entered the room I was shocked. Its not everyday you see your house, your kitchen, your yard in a museum. The manikins performed average tasks such as fetching water, pounding ground nuts and sifting mealie meal. The entire room even had a dirt floor.
That’s when I noticed the woman in the corner aiding her small child in urination. This was no manikin. This was real life human relief on a dirt floor, inside a museum building, on the corner of a city street. Im not sure what the appropriate response shouldve been but I simply smiled and moved on. It was an authentic representation afterall.
The trainees stared, looking a bit perplexed.
And so I revealed the moral of the parable:
No matter how intelligent you are, you still have to drop trousers to take a piss.