Cheap Entertainment

Part of traveling in more exotic regions is being able to take whatever comes at you. For me, I just try to find the humor in whatever crazy situation I find myself in. And I am pretty much amused by everything.  I think having to take an umbrella and flashlight to go to the bathroom is fun. Taking a cold bucket bath while looking out over the beautiful green mountains is highly entertaining. Eating a chicken that I watched quietly die at the point of a kukuri does not bother me. Careening around cliffs in an over packed car with 1000ft drops inches away from our tires is hilariously terrifying. I also find it funny that I lean over to the other side slightly to try to balance out the car—it’s the way I play video games, urging little Mario to run faster and faster (Mario is the only video game I care about). Changing into swimming attire behind a tiny bush—fantastic good fun. Going for a run straight up a mountain and deciding that Captain Roy was right—you should never run a good horse uphill.  Then, running intervals up the mountain through thick fog—joyous! Sliding into the top bunk on a train—good times!  Driving through a river, sticking my hand across the border into Bhutan, not managing to kill the ginormous spider in our bedroom, swimming in a river, visiting a temple, eating crazy delicious food—uproarious.

And all of that was just from one trip to Sikkim! Here are some more things in my life that bring me great amusement:

*Being the tallest person in the office (besides Andrew) but still not being able to reach the shelves in our kitchen cabinets.

*I’ve taken to stuffing my bra with tissues and not for the immediately obvious reason. The problem: Indian clothes for women do not have pockets. Not the leggings that I wear under the kurtas (long shirts) and not the saris either. And you never know when you are going to need a tissue. And I get tired of carrying bags with me everywhere I go.  It’s nice to have a good place to carry extra things…

See a place for pockets in this outfit?

*Things my boss says. For example, we were discussing the subject of broadening our national partner base and he was vetoing one suggestion: “Oh, those people won’t work with us. They have AC.”

*Things national partners have said to me: “Amanda, I like you. Your thinking is very authentic.”

*Getting a twisted back from riding hours sidesaddle on a motorcycle to get to a project site. It’s always more fun on a motorcycle, especially if you don’t have to wear a helmet.

*Riding a little wooden boat across the Ganges to get to a project site. Everyone on our boat was standing up and balancing precariously. On the way back it was dark and a thunder storm was coming. Super-fun!

           

*I recently noticed that when I’m driving around in new places, trying to take everything in, I open my eyes extra wide—like I can suck the beauty into my soul through my eyeballs.

*I also really love farm animals. Especially the piggies. Probably because I've spent so much time in countries where they are mythical creatures that don't exist in modern civilized places...

This photo is does not need to be rotated, Marian--Younna took it like this.

Of course, those with me are not always amused by my amusement, and there are things that drive me crazy too—being honked at loudly by passing cars when I am innocently walking down the street and there is plenty of room for them to go around me. Since one particularly loud dance party at a camp for Palestinian orphan children, I have had extra-sensitive eardrums. Being honked at for me is like being smacked in the back of the head—it is actually physically painful. And nearly incessant. I have a special hatred for the extra-high-pitched ones.  But I’m ok with that too—if I go deaf in India, I’m already in with some of the deaf community here and my Bengali sign language is getting better. Imagine how great my sign language communication would be if I actually were deaf? Bus drivers everywhere are wanting to help me find out, it seems…

I could still do this if I were deaf, right?

When Constants Aren't Anymore

There have been few constants in my life, and a lot of that is by my own choice. Wandering the world, moving every year or so, doesn’t create much stability. As my address and phone number changed, sometimes multiple times in a year, I stopped trying to memorize them myself. My family spread around the world, added a couple of boys and then several babies. They all kept giving me more addresses and phone numbers to try to keep up with. I’ve never worried about this too much, though. I know that in life there is really only one true Constant. Still, the few things in my life that I have been able to count on are important to me—small landmarks I can come back to for familiar scenery and comfortable routine. I have been so blessed to have my maternal grandparents provide this for me.  Their big white house on Castle Heights (it is bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived) was my permanent address for more than a decade.  There I had a room to keep stuff in while I travelled or tried not to clutter up my college dorm room. (I think I still have a few old books there—don’t worry, they’re mostly elementary level language books for languages I already speak.) Sometimes I drove their old Cadillac, whatever model it happened to be at the time, over to the grocery store with a list of items scrawled in old-fashioned cursive to pick up for dinner. I have a running route from that house to the park that is still one of my favorites in the whole world.  I liked getting back from my morning run, sitting on the floor in the living room and eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch (Mama Jewell always knew to buy that for me) while watching the end of the Today Show with the grandparents as they finished their coffee. The volume was always too loud for people without hearing aids, but I toughed it out.  I knew my way around the over-packed freezer to find the ice cream that was not squished in the bottom and covered with sticky crystals.  I can still program in the security code for the alarm system, even in the dark.

As I think of all these constants that are about to be over forever, I can’t get their phone number out of my head.  It is one of the only phone numbers in the world that I have memorized. Six-one-five-four-four-four-five-four-nine-seven…it’s been the same since before I was born, so I have been told. While my grandparents have moved a few times, they have always managed to keep that same number.  One time, before I had a cell phone (I am so OLD!), I was visiting the other grandparents. I was in the airport trying to find my genius but sometimes absent-minded grandfather in the parking lot.  After wandering around a bit, I found a pay phone, dropped in some money and called Mama Jewell, as hers was the only number I knew. Yes, in hindsight, I should have had Grandmom and Grandpop’s phone number written down somewhere. I don’t always prepare for the future, since I know it’s not going to turn out like I expect, so why worry about it?  I didn’t worry in this situation because I knew Mama Jewell would answer the phone and find the number I needed in her little phone number box she keeps on the table by the couch. She did. 

That phone number is still the one connected with my name at the local pharmacy.  I think I’ve used some of the digits as passcodes for padlock combinations and suitcase locks.  It’s still listed as my “home” phone number on various informational forms scattered around the world.   I’m pretty sure the CIA has it listed in their records.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forget the number and free up that brain space. Some things go deep and lodge in.  There may be a few more months for me to use that specially stored information, but if all goes according to the Family Plan, I may never see the inside of that house again.  Even if I were to go back now, it wouldn’t be the same.  Buster Daddy’s Alzheimer’s has progressed to a stage where it is no longer safe or feasible for him to stay at home.  The grief that I feel knowing that is deeper than the grief I feel at losing one of my Constants. I knew this day would come eventually, but of course, I try not to plan too much for the future. 

Buster Daddy loves to pose crazy for pictures but Mama Jewell stays classy.

Even saying goodbye before coming to India, I didn’t think about it too much. I was more worried about a certain little boy running to Auntie’s room and wondering why she left him.  Now I’m worried about that same little boy who knows every possible route through town to get to “Mam Ju and Bud Daddy’s house” and will not pass Castle Heights Avenue without insisting on visiting them.  My mom reminded me t hat he has shown remarkable resilience in getting over my absence, an amazing feat of course (it’s very hard to get over me). While it will be hard for him to understand why he can’t go to their house anymore, it’s harder for me understanding what I’m missing and knowing that it’s over forever. 

Even if I could go back, I can never get back to the place I remember—that’s something every TCK learns from a young age. So I’m going to hold on to those special memories, those memories that you go back to because they make you painfully happy. Those are the memories you share with others, knowing that they’ll listen, sometimes with genuine interest, but never really comprehend.  Still, it’s fun to remember out loud sometimes.  I’ve already showed photographs to friends here in India.  Now I’m writing this and crying and smiling and jumping every time an extra-loud firework from a nearby wedding goes off under my window (I have been in too many warzones), and grieving, but with grieving with hope: I know the one big Constant is going to come through in the end because He never changes.

“Comfort, comfort, my people, says your God….The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever.” Is. 40: 1a, 8.

Thanks for these photos, Nora!

Special thanks to my wonderful family for their unity and unselfish love for Buster Daddy and Mama Jewell, especially Aunt Chrissa who is an amazing daughter, sister, mother, wife, grandmother, aunt, great-aunt. I have been constantly impressed by her untiring devotion to her parents, her ability to see the humor in tough situations, and the fact that she did not let the hurtful things said or done to her by “Big Al,” as she calls Alzheimer’s, to shake her love for her father.  And she has done all of this without putting the guilt trip on her siblings who live far away to come help. Aunt Chrissa, your sacrifices and hard work have not gone unnoticed by anyone in our family (But if you think there is someone who hasn’t noticed, just mention his or her name to me and I will set them straight…). Thank you so much for your wonderful example to all of us.