what a long, strange trip it's been

I just got back from two weeks in the US, a whirlwind sprint through Colorado, San Francisco, Boston, and New York City. And it never ceases to amaze me how much harder it is to go back there than it is to come here. I think it has something to do with expectations, and desires. I want living here to be different. I want to learn from it. I expect to feel clueless a substantial portion of my time. And I enjoy that, because it helps me to look around me in a way that I might not otherwise have done.

But going back stateside...well, I'm supposed to know the rules. I'm supposed to be able to navigate. But I can't get out of a grocery store in less than an hour. I can't make decisions. As I told a friend of mine over the weekend, when I go to the store here, my list says 'chickpeas.' If there are some, I buy some. In the US there will be at least ten kinds, canned or dried, seasoned or not, which brand, how big a container. Here, I just buy some chickpeas. And I'm not inundated with things I didn't know I needed until I saw them. I am always surprised by how reasonable my grocery bills are here. That's because there isn't a whole lot more to buy beyond what I actually need. And because I don't get so distracted by the partially hydrogenated bells and whistles just begging to pop off the shelves and into my pantry.

Another friend asked how I thought it would feel to be in Boston full time starting next fall. Standing by the Charles River at sunset, I stared at my feet in the fading light. "I'm gonna have a hard time," I said softly, deliberately. I've accepted it already, which part of me hopes will make it a little less to carry when it arrives. I marvel at how little I 'get over' things - especially the cognitive dissonance in which I flail and drown while thinking about buying a loft in Lowell next fall (hardwoods or carpet? exposed brick or vaulted ceilings? close to school or overlooking the river?) when some of the women who work here occasionally have to ask me for money to get their intermittent electricity turned back on. Facts and snapshots swirl in my head...nearly 48% of people over 25 in the Caprivi have HIV... women take care of their adult children who are dying of AIDS and adopt their siblings' kids when brothers and sisters die... elephants protected in the name of nature conservation destroy a year's crop in a five-minute stomp through a long-nurtured field...Hollywood makes a movie about blood diamonds that fuel conflict in various African countries but its stars don't actually come over here to see what it's like until after the filming is over...

Past a point, there just aren't words. My life is a fairy tale.

But then, I think about the box of wine glasses I have in storage in Chicago that I have never used. They've never even been unwrapped. Actually I have wine glasses, champagne glasses, AND double cocktail glasses, all in a lovely shade of unused crystal turquoise. I pay rent in Chicago for my stuff. Plenty of people here can't afford proper homes for themselves and their children, but I can rent a climate-controlled room for my sweaters and sofa. And for shit I've never even used. It' s mind-boggling. Guess you all better come to one hell of a housewarming party next Labor Day weekend.

something is clearly wrong with me

Here at the centre, we recently finished building a tented camp on the property so that visiting students and researchers have a convenient place to stay. This is a good thing in part because we are far enough from ‘town’ that even local minibuses do not run out this far. Public transport is, well, another post, but suffice to say it’s always a dicey endeavor. To avoid it, I just spent Wednesday riding 600 kilometers in the back of an open Land Rover. At least it with two black women in the cab and me in the back, we drew some pretty hilarious stares. And I did see a nice kudu along the side of the road, but we were going way too fast for me to really appreciate it.

Anyway, I pitched up at work on Thursday morning thoroughly sun-and-windburnt and finally had my first chance to see the permanent tents that have been put up.

I’m in love.

Ten olive green canvas squares on top of gnarled wood platforms curl around the center open area of the camp. Across the open part of this crescent is a kitchen with fridges and lockable cupboards. Behind it, showers with chunky stone floors and sinks for scrubbing laundry. The tents are on wood frames with solid doors and house two twin beds with metal wardrobes and a table. And a fan. Which means there is electricity. In the tents. They are shiny and new, the crisp canvas unsullied by sand or sunbleached creases or monkey shit. Ok, I’m sure they already have monkey shit on them but in my daze I didn’t see any.

I’ve previously mentioned the fact that I’m not exactly enamored of the house I live in right now. Among other things, it’s hot and buggy because there are no screens on the windows – so I can either coat the place with insects or myself with sweat. Given that mosquitoes here carry malaria, sweat wins. Besides, the cat brings mice in rather than keeping them out. She also brought a bird in once that was still alive and wasn’t really interested in killing it (picture me chasing a one-eyed bird around an orange-walled concrete room and you’ll, well, laugh). The house is also far from anything except the bar at the only backpackers’ in Maun, and heaven knows I don’t need that kind of encouragement. Besides, I am not sure how much longer my boss will allow me to freeload, nor what it would do to our so-called working relationship (I haven’t seen him since June) if he did. So I’ve been thinking I ought to move out, but getting my own place feels like a commitment in which I am profoundly disinterested. The house, mind you, is the envy of many people here. It’s quiet, it’s got the river on three sides, the birdwatching is great. I’m just not its biggest fan.

Et voila, a tent. But the tent of all tents, perched in the bush where I can walk to work, with screen windows I can leave open, with a porch I can sit on. There are, I’ve been told by someone who is staying in the camp, a lot of “night sounds” to add to the ambiance. Seeing as she’s from the capital, I bet the kind of night sounds she’s used to are not quite what I’m looking for. But the tents, the tents are the peace for which I have been searching here. Unfortunately I was told recently that no one will be allowed to live in them permanently. Not that I expected to grow old in olive square number eight. But soon, with any luck, I may have a change of residence…