Any Other Way: How Grief Awakened Me Literally and Figuratively

-This was my first post on Medium, a new website that claims to make reading and writing easier, except that you need a Twitter account to do either.  Fair enough.  Fear not, my tweetless friends!   I'll post my writing on here as well. -

This is not what I imagined I would write about in my first post. I thought I would be writing about all the epiphanies of being a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer looking for a job and finding happiness in my hometown. Instead I am writing about my Dad. And grief.

Tomorrow would have been my Dad’s 82nd birthday. He passed away almost 10 years ago. I have never written anything about him (aside from a small quote in my blog last year) or posted anything about him on Facebook. He would roll over in his grave if I did that. That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong when other people do it. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. My favorite line in the movie We Are Marshall is “Grief is messy.” I also find it inconvenient, surprising, and just weird.

Last night I dreamed about my Dad. It started out with me reading an email that I had to fire several people. It upset me, and I wanted to tell Mom. So, I walked through our front door where she was standing outside on the sidewalk. She just looked at me, smiled, and looked over to our side yard. There was my Dad, smiling, standing there in one of his green plaid flannel shirts and Khakis. It was dark everywhere around him, but he was standing in a beam of light. I stood on the porch in disbelief. I knew he was dead; that this was fleeting and we all knew it. But I felt so happy anyway that I walked over to him, wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him.

I woke myself up crying. For a moment, I was disoriented and didn’t know where I was. It was 11:28. I sat up in the middle of my bed and cried in the dark for five minutes. My senses were heightened. I was acutely aware of how soft my skin felt as I wiped away my tears, how my hair was falling around my face, and how the light from my cell phone charger was glowing. Everything still felt so surreal. I just wanted to be suspended in this moment as long as possible.

I felt so strongly drawn to go outside and stand on the porch to look out in the side yard. I was hoping the yard would be drenched in moonlight and I would find some sort of resolution, closure, or comfort in it. But as I opened the door, reality hit me along with the cold air as I saw how dark it was while the cat ran inside and I heard something make a noise in the woods. I quickly stepped back inside and locked the door behind me.

The lyrics “any other way” from a Band of Horses song kept repeating in my dream. After I woke up,I knew I had heard that song before and really liked it. So,this morning, I looked it up and discovered it was “Detlef Schrempf”. The chorus says “My eyes can’t look at you any other way. Any other way, any other way.” Maybe I didn’t want to lose that moment in bed or hoped to find something in the yard because I didn’t want to see Dad any other way or feel any other way. After all, it was so beautiful, vivid, and powerful that it moved me to tears unconsciously.

Like so many times in the past, I felt trapped alone with my grief. I had few outlets for it as it was almost midnight. I didn’t want to wake up Mom and upset her. I thought about texting my brother and sister, but I didn’t want them to wake up to something that might ruin their day. I didn’t feel like being on the computer again, so I jotted down all the details of my dream and everything I was feeling in my notebook. I ate a bowl of cereal and finally fell asleep watching 30 Rock.

This morning I woke up and knew that writing about it would be the perfect outlet. But, I still wasn’t sure if I should share my dream with Mom as she was about to leave for work. As I laid on the couch still tired from last night, I found myself telling her and thinking I could do it without crying. I couldn’t, but she handled it like a pro. She calmly said “maybe it’s an omen that something good is about to happen.”

I don’t know why I had that dream or reacted as strongly as I did. I haven’t cried this hard about Dad in years. And that’s OK. We can’t control when, why, or how grief will hit us, but we can control how we pick ourselves up and move on. I could sit here all day listen to Band of Horses over and over (as I already have while writing this) and go through another roll of toilet paper blowing my nose and wiping away my tears. But I have stuff to do, like a finding a job that will make me happy. Dad wouldn’t want it any other way.

Zanziblog

So, I’m almost three months late in writing about this trip. But hey, I’m on Africa time.  Hakuna Matata, right?!

 

In late February, I joined two other PCVs, Laura and Aditi, for a week-long trip to Zanzibar, Tanzania. Laura had just been there November, but loved it so much that she was willing to go back with us.

 

It was surprisingly smooth from the beginning.  Our Precision Air flight actually left early from Entebbe. That’s not a typo.  Our plane. In Africa. Left early.  But before we could taxi down to the runway, the flight crew requested that some people shift to the front of the plane because it was only half full.  We flew over Lake Victoria, the largest in Africa.  After crossing the desert of Western Tanzania, we made a brief stop at Kilimanjaro Airport.  We changed planes and went through customs in Dar Es Salaam, the largest city in Tanzania.  Once we finally got over the coast and started our descent onto the island, we were greeted by a huge, white full moon.

We claimed our luggage at a desk because they didn’t even have a conveyor belt.  After finding a taxi driver and crossing the small, graveled parking lot we made our way into Stonetown.  I could already smell meat cooking on the street and feel the humidity in the air.  I was already in love.

    

After checking into St. Monica’s hostel, which is part of a former church (that used to have slave quarters), I headed out solo to explore the surrounding streets and get a bite to eat.  When in doubt, head to the food stand that is crowded.  Earlier, I noticed one where people were eating chips (fries).  Can’t go wrong with fried food!  It seemed like people were ordering and cooking from both sides.  So, I awkwardly stood around as the only white person (which I’m very good at) until I got the nerve to push my way to the front and discovered the cook was making a soup.  After I already ordered a bowl, I noticed their method of washing dishes.  They scraped off the food into one bucket, or maybe it was the street, and then quickly dunked the bowl into another bucket with dirty water and handed it back to the cook.  Too late to turn back now!  I heard a couple speaking Chinese, so I took my bowl and sat down on a bench next to the young woman, who was wearing a hijab (head covering for Muslim women). It’s funny the things we find comfort in, like the fact that I was drawn to two strangers speaking Mandarin even though there were some people speaking English around me.  As I chatted with them, I discovered they were from Guangzhou province, which borders Hong Kong.  The soup was actually pretty tasty with beef kebabs hot off the grill, chips, and shredded cabbage in a thick broth that was almost like gravy. 

The next morning we walked down to the pier to find someone to take us to Prison Island.  Pretty quickly we got a good deal and waded to our boat.  The “captain” had to put the motor on the back of the boat, which I found odd. Prison Island was never actually a prison, but used to quarantine people arriving to East Africa.  We had heard that there were tortoises on this island and got excited about the prospect of seeing them flopping around all cute in the waves on the beach.  Nope.  They were all corralled into a muddy, wooded area where European tourists were crouching next to them, petting their enormous shells and necks, and even straddling them while posing for pictures. But, the island had spectacular views of turquoise waters. 

 

That afternoon we hired a driver to take us to Matemwe, on the northeastern part of the island, facing the Indian Ocean.  We stayed at a backpacker’s place called Key’s Bungalow.  It was owned by a gentleman whose family was from India, but he made it clear to me that was Swahili.  Key’s was a bit spartan for the price; no seat on the toilet, only a curtain separating the bedroom from the bathroom and sand everywhere because there was virtually no sidewalk between the rooms and the restaurant.  But we were right on the beach with hammocks and lounge areas and a very open, breezy restaurant.  The best part about staying at Key’s was the staff, mainly Simba and Chips. 

 

Simba was in his mid-thirties, constantly smoking and had dreadlocks, which he claimed he had been growing for nine years. The only work I ever saw him do was in the mornings when he put cushions on the lounge chairs.  But he was very likeable, always smiling and shaking hands with us.  He spoke enough English to interact with his guests, but wasn’t fluent.  On our third night, he just sat down with the three of us during our dinner and tried to strike up a conversation.  It was clear that he had been drinking most of the day and most likely smoking something funny.  He was trying so hard to have a conversation with us, but after a few minutes we could no longer follow his train of thought or hold back our laughter.  I want to make it clear to we were not laughing at his English, because we all know how difficult it is to not only learn a second language, but to also have the confidence to use it with someone you’ve only known a few days.  He was pointing at me and saying things like “You go back America. You very niiiiice. You first model.” Then out of nowhere, shot his finger at me and in a high pitch voice said “PEW!”  Several nights later when we returned to Stonetown, we heard kids playing in the alley behind our hostel saying “PEW! PEW!”  So, it wasn’t just a weird Simba moment, but some type of Zanzibar or Kiswahili expression.  Aditi and I still greet each other with “PEW!”

Chips was in his early twenties and took care of the bar/reception area (which was in the restaurant). He had some type of cut on his cheek, so it was covered with a band-aid most of the time.  On our last day there, he told us it was his birthday.  So, we all went out to the beach and took photos with him and Simba.  Chips started singing the birthday song, but called himself “Chipsy”.  But we just followed his lead while Simba made his eyes bug out during one photo.

The beauty of Zanzibar is legendary, but it struck me in an unexpected way.  After dinner on our first night, we were relaxing at our table when I spotted a reddish light on the horizon. When I pointed it out to Aditi and Laura, we first thought it was a flame or a light on a ship.  But then, about a minute later, we could tell it was the moon.  It was the biggest, brightest, most beautiful orange moon I have ever seen.  Now, I’ve seen harvest moons in Kentucky, but well after they’ve already risen.  This was the first time I’ve ever witnessed a true moonrise.  And to be able to see it emerge from the Indian Ocean was something to behold.  We just sat there in awe for a while.  Then, Aditi and I walked down to the beach where boats were bobbing in the reflection of the moonlight.  If I could have just walked through the water to the horizon, I totally would have hugged the moon.  I was so drawn to it.  Now I understand why Pagans claim they get their energy from the moon. (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way, either. I actually served with a Pagan in Peace Corps China).  Every night after dinner, it became a game with us and Chips to predict how long it would be until the moon would rise.  We only saw it one more time and it was pretty disappointing when we couldn’t see it at all the last few nights.

On our second day, we went snorkeling. Once we got away from the shoreline and closer to the reef, we started to fully appreciate how pristine the water was; completely clear and the most stunning shades of turquoise you can imagine. I have seen similar waters in the Cayman Islands and Thailand.  But Zanzibar took the cake.  After anchoring near several other boats, we followed our guide, Hussein to the reef. Hussein was quite a character; doing flips off the back of the boat (usually at Aditi’s request) and throwing starfish at me.  At first we were in a somewhat shallow part of the reef where we floated above all kinds of fish; black and white striped, red and purple, blue starfish, and some eels.  Out of nowhere, my arms started stinging all over, but I never saw any jellyfish.  Then, Aditi shot up out of the water and said “Did you feel that?!” We figured out that we just had to swim away from that area and we were fine, for a few minutes anyway.  Suddenly the reef just dropped off and the water turned a deeper shade of blue.  At its edge, there was a school of yellow fish that were swimming in a column formation.  I wanted to be in that school, in that column of yellow fish.  Badly.  So, I tried a few times to swim down to them, but the pressure was too much for my ears.  Rays of sunlight were streaking around my shadow on the reef. I actually thought to myself, “If I died right now, I would die happy.” Yes, I realize how much of hippie I sound like, but I can't help it!

On our last full day at the beach, Laura and I decided to go parasailing.  She had been before, but this was my first time.  We took a dinghy out to a speed boat which was piloted by a Turkish man.  I later noticed that the parachute was sponsored by Turkish Airlines.  I was the first to go up.  Ascending was really fun, but I have to admit that I was still a little scared once I was up in the air.  Whenever I looked down at the boat and the water, my stomach got butterflies, so I told myself to just focus on the horizon and the features of the island.   I’m glad I had the experience, but I’m not sure if I’ll do it again. 

When we got back that afternoon, the three of us attempted to walk out to the sand bar during low tide.  As we made our way from the beach, we walked through rows of farmed seaweed. The water never got above my knees, but there were spiky sea urchins everywhere.  Luckily, I was wearing my trusty old Chacos, because it was like a minefield.  Aditi and I had to point out the safest trails to each other.  It was starting to stress me out, so I turned around to go have a beer at the restaurant. 

I’m truly my mother’s daughter, squeezing in as many swims as I can on a beach trip.  Later that afternoon, after the sun dipped behind the palm trees, Laura and I played around in the waves of the high tide. Out of nowhere, about 10 local boys (most of them naked) swam toward us. They kept showing off, demanding we watch them flip and dive.  Then, they started singing a Swahili song, and I was able to pick up about three words, so I tried to sing along.  On our last morning at Matemwe, I woke up right before first light and headed out to the beach. I waded out to my waist, dipped my head in the water, and watched the sunrise.  Sometimes I still can’t believe I got to see sunrises and moonrises on the same trip. 

Food is a huge part of travelling for me.  I’m not really a seafood person, but I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to eat fresh seafood right on the beach in Zanzibar.  In the afternoons, dozens of wooden boats with white, triangular sails anchored all up and down the coast.  Young boys would wade out to them and bring in fish, squid, and octopus to the small market right down the beach from us.  But we noticed something really weird.  Young boys and old ladies were beating the shit out of squids with sticks or by throwing them on the sand over and over. I was baffled and thought to myself, “Aren’t they already dead if they’re out of the water?” On our last day, Aditi and I wondered around the market taking photos and finally figured out that they were trying to get the ink out of the squid.  Ah-ha!

We spent our last day on the island by touring Stonetown. The coolest part  was going on a spice tour.  A taxi driver named Mr. Jumba Jumba entertained us by playing his cassettes of Zanzibar music on the drive out there.  The spice farm was a hilly, wooded area that was situated at the highest point on the island. We got to see how the spices grow and most importantly, smell cardamom, cinnamon, jasmine, ylang ylang, curry, turmeric, cloves, and vanilla.  It was heavenly. That evening, we hung around the waterfront area eating street food and watching boys dive into the water.  I had actually read an article about them in a Ugandan newspaper several months before our trip.  All up and down the pier, boys dripping wet were getting running starts and doing all kinds of crazy flips and dives as friends cleared paths for them and tourists snapped pictures (including yours truly). 

A few months after our trip, I almost applied for another volunteer position in Zanzibar.  It was for six months with the Clinton Health Access Initiative doing research on malaria.  I had daydreams of all the snorkeling and scuba diving I could do.  But they wanted someone to start before my Peace Corps service here ended, which I wasn’t willing to finish early.  As attractive it sounded to live in paradise and continue working in something I’m so passionate about, I’ve realized that I’m ready to move on to the next phase of my career, where I can get paid to do what I love and keep on discovering new kinds of paradise.           

               

           

      

       

Things I Will Miss

 A few nights ago, I finally bought my plane ticket home. I literally went out into my front yard and asked the 11 year-old boy on my compound, Joshua, to dance with me to MGMT’s “Electric Feel”.  It became more like a dance lesson as he started mimicking my every move.  While it was like a weight being lifted off my shoulders, it also brought a tinge of sadness. Now that there is an actual date for my departure, it became much more real.

This past year has been weird.  But weird isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  I’m not going to wax poetic about my experience here.  It has often been frustrating, annoying, and challenging to say the least.  But it’s easy to complain and talk about the things I won’t miss and things I am looking forward to enjoying when I get back to America. 

I will obviously miss the people…my coworkers; fellow PCVs who are now my good friends, Bob, the bicycle repairman, whom when I pass on my way home from work, stands with palms up after hearing my bike bell ring, and says “Bi ai bo?! How are you?” like he genuinely wants to know, and the old woman who sells tomatoes in the main market and always calls me her daughter. I’m going to miss the physical landscape of Uganda; flowers year-round, trees with red, pink, white, and purple blossoms, the electric blue bird that is always sitting alone on electrical wires, palm and pine trees on the same road, and the random volcanic rock outcroppings that pop up on my trips to Mbale.  

And the clouds.  Ugandans think it’s a little strange when I point out how beautiful a sunset is, mostly because of the clouds.  I don’t know if it’s because we’re so close to the equator, and the winds and weather patterns are different, but I have never seen more beautiful clouds anywhere else in the world.  Around sunset, I swear some clouds literally look paintings of heaven that you see in churches.  Some evenings it’s almost like the sun is backlighting the clouds from the east instead of the west, with pink and orange fire coming out from them.  A few weeks ago at Joanna’s, I stood in her yard, and it was incredible views from every direction.  Five minutes later, the clouds looked completely different. 

But, I want to share the random, everyday things I will miss: 

•     Seeing and hearing goats, sheep, turkeys, chickens, pigs, cows, and the occasional duck everywhere

•     Decorative tassels and colorful cushions on bike bodas (taxis)

•     Slogans on the front and back windshields of matatu taxis:

         -Vegas Baby (courtesy of Chelsea Milko, a PCV and Vegas native)

         -Eastern Boyz

         -When God Says Yes, Who Can Say No?

         - Hard Work Pays

         -Yes, We Can

         -Fly Emirates (the sponsors of Arsenal Soccer Team)

         -Bucket Baby

         -Japanes Motors (not a typo)

And on the rear mud flap of busses:

         -Obama

         -Get Back

•   Marveling at women and young girls carrying everything on their heads-20 liter jerry cans of water, bundles of firewood, boxes, buckets, bags, you name it. And babies tied on their back. 

•     Ugandan handshakes-

         1. Regular shake

         2. Grab the thumb

         3. Regular shake

              It’s totally acceptable to hold someone’s hand for a good minute after the initial greeting whether you just met them or are familiar with them, and it’s acceptable for men to hold hands walking down the street, or even for platonic male and female friends to hold hands. If you have just washed your hands, sneezed, or in the middle of an Ebola outbreak (President Museveni actually discouraged handshaking), you can simply offer your wrist or forearm for someone to bump or grab. With PCVs, we’ve also adopted the habit of the lingering handshake with each other.  

 

• Gomesi traditional dresses-Although not flattering or slimming for women in the Western sense, they are regal and command your attention with the pointed shoulders, huge belts and bold, shiny fabrics. 

  

•     Being able to buy a huge, fresh pineapple from a pile on the side of the road for about $1. 

•     Watching people employ different tactics for getting mangoes off trees-children and adults climbing up branches, using a giant pole or stick, or throwing rocks at them. 

•     The stuff that street hawkers sell that I have no interest in buying….wallets, handkerchiefs, sheets, locks, razors, shoes, mirrors, lights, sunglasses, tiny flags, maps, and pirated DVDs.

•     Guys walking around with baskets full of supplies for street pedicures. 

•     Having access to dozens of tailors on the street who can patch my Capri pants. 

•     Finding my favorite iced green tea from China in Soroti, when I never saw it in Europe or America.  

•     Seeing men wear second hand t-shirts from the west that read “Indiana University Grandma” or “Don’t ask me, I’m high as s***”. 

•     The sight of dozens of chickens tied to the roofs of cars, bike handlebars, and the sides of taxis. Although it’s somewhat inhumane (but probably not more than crowding chickens into giant farms in the US), it always tickles me. 

•     Uganglish….but this really deserves it’s own blog 

•     This will sound cheesy and cliché, but I love riding my bike home on clear nights, especially during a full moon because there aren’t any street lights and the stars are super bright.