Planning Ahead Life

For me, planning a day in advance is planning ahead—and technically, you see, I’m right about that. But when I wake up one morning and say, I am going to do x and y tomorrow, and then on Tomorrow I only do x or even 0.5x, I can say to myself, “Well, Self, you should have been a better planner and it is your fault that you didn’t accomplish everything, so think about that and do better next time.” And then after my inner Responsible Self nicely chastises my inner Regular Self, I feel better about it, and I can move on with my life. But there are some days when Responsible Self takes over my whole body for a brief moment and plans everything so fast. My Responsible Self is not so chill and laid back as Regular Self. Responsible Self gets really annoyed when her plans don’t work out. This is because she tried so hard and planned so well and still hit zero for three tasks on Monday and only one for three tasks on Wednesday. She feels like the world is falling into pieces around her. If she didn’t have Regular Self’s resilient sense of humor, she would never survive here in South Sudan. Life can be really stressful for her.

This week’s plan was brought to you by Responsible Self, but Regular Self is the one who is making it to the end. Responsible Self started to feel doubts on Monday morning when her scheduled morning run was interrupted by a phone call informing her that they needed to leave at 8 instead of 9 to complete the day’s tasks. Since it was already 7:30 and she was still a mile away from home, she agreed, but knew that the other colleagues would undoubtedly still arrive at 9:00am, as she had asked them specifically to arrive at 8:00am (isn’t she such a good planner? Ready for any and all contingencies!). Still, diligently, she kicked it that last mile and was home in record time and showered and ready by a little after 8.  But no one was there—not even those requesting an ETD of 8am. It was a bad omen.

I don’t have to continue down the path of that story. Basically, Responsible Self was let down hard. Regular Self mostly survived, though Responsible Self tried to take her down too.  So the moral of the story is, as usual, never ever plan ahead.

And here are a few other South Sudan moments, so that you can see that it’s basically worth it to live here even if planning doesn’t work in this climate:

Clockwise from top left: origami,shredded sugarcane,
happy mother with clean water from a new well,
fishing the soccer ball out of the trash pit, my once-blue sandals.

Since I’ve been back, my local urchin posse has been most excited to see me. I see their little heads pop up over my windowsill, expectant eyes wide and ready for adventure. Almost inevitably this happens just when I have finally sat down to eat something.  Sometimes I kick them out but usually I go out and play for a bit because they are the urchiest urchins and it is really hard to resist them—this pack of kids that lives with a handful of their mothers, a tough matriarch of a grandma and an adorable tiny old great grandma. Their grandfather sits under the tree all day long listening to BBC news on the radio and perfecting his refined English. The various and sundry mostly nonexistent fathers are almost never around to take any notice of anyone or provide any sort of noteworthy contribution towards their lives. There are plenty of fathers like that around here, but I’m choosing to put in a photo of Repent cuddling his boys, whom he has missed while they have been staying at their grandma’s house since Christmas because—she makes the best food. Of course.

Because they are the best, even if this photo is not.
And Repent loves his babies.

The urchins and I do lots of origami and make paper airplanes and also play a lot of soccer. Once we kicked the ball into the trash pit/bathroom hole and we dug it out with a long bamboo pole to which I duct-taped an old plastic bag. It took us 30 minutes of fishing, but we got it back. And we don't think about the festering germs it was soaking up down there because that's not fun. Our other activities include me fixing sandals with safety pins and me trading candy canes for sweet potatoes. I was also recently commissioned to make “Thank You” signs for our donors. I decided to delegate this task to my posse because they love coloring and also, if I made the signs by myself it would look like kids made them and so if I let them help me make them then kids actually DID make them, and it is more honest that way. But I did learn never EVER to leave them alone with the signs and the markers. I was baking a sweet potato cake and I popped out for 2 minutes. When I came back the sign looked like this:

Imagine it turned horizontally and held up by some cute kids.
Charming, right? Does spelling really matter? Letters are so pretty.

Of course, I didn’t notice anything until I handed the sign to the village to hold up for the donors and tried to read what I wrote. “That’s weird, “ I thought. “I don’t remember writing all the way to the edge of the paper. Also, why is there an ‘s’ at the end of ‘foundation’?” Then I figured it out and used the other sign which I didn’t like as much because Wani was a little too obsessed with the brown crayon but Oguna had used multiple colors on the other sign. Also—I had helped him color that sign, and I’m pretty sure I colored in the extra “H” that he added in there and had no idea because I am not the most observant of people.

But this week wasn’t a total bust. I got in some good hours on the back of the motorcycle which has given me the glow of someone who consistently goes to fry herself at the tanning salon without actually having to fry myself at the tanning salon. I even double suncreened and reapplied and everything (I put some on Ruben, Repent's youngest son, and he thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world). You know how all those magazines say that if you spend so much time in the sun, you will wrinkle up and look like you’re 50 by the time you’re 30? Well, I’m almost 31 and I currently have the complexion of a pubescent boy who hasn’t yet started shaving but will soon—that’s thanks to my pores constantly being clogged by sand, but anyway, maybe by the time I’m 50, I’ll actually look like I’m 50. I think that would be pretty cool. Looking one’s age is a very underrated quality, I think. Just look your age already, People—why not? It saves others lots of confusion. I would be glad to write a magazine article about that concept for anyone who is interested.

Many babies here scream in terror at my face (I get it, but it can be hurtful).
Baby Jenfer is one of the memorable ones who held our her arms and gave
the scary khawaja a big hug.  I will love her forever.

And that goes for the man who proposed marriage to me in the following conversation:

Potential Hubs: “Hey—where is your husband? Why don’t you marry me?”

Me: “I think you are too young for me. I’m old.”

P.H.: “No way—how old are you?”

Me: “31”

P.H.: “Well I’m 37!”

Me: “Or you’re a liar…”

P.H.’s friend: “Of course he is old enough—look at his beard!”

(Note: the little bit on fuzz on his chin might qualify him for Mundri’s premiere hipster club, but I don’t think it proves his manhood or advanced age.)

Me: “So how many wives do you already have?”

P.H.: “Just one. Come see how she lives. You will beg to marry me then.”

Me: “Um…no. I will be the only wife. I’m an American girl. It’s a thing with most of us [it was just not the time to talk about Mormons]. And also, it was the way God planned with Adam and Eve. There was none of this Adam and Eve and Ruta and Lusi and Mary. And also, you would not like the food that I cook.”

Note: that morning I had eaten nasi goreng for breakfast, which I made all by myself and ate straight out of the pan because if it’s OK for bachelors, it is also OK for bachelorettes, and I have no running water in my house right now so I’m cutting down on unnecessary luxury tasks like washing dishes and cleaning the bathroom floor. My nasi goreng involves lots of sheta/cabe/hot pepper and people here just can't take it usually.

Then I proceeded to successfully extricate myself from the conversation, telling them that if they wanted my phone number, they would have to ask Repent for it. And while he is a really nice guy who would probably just give it to them because why not? But he is also kind of a big dude, and he was farther away so they couldn’t see that he is always smiling. They didn’t follow me.

And so it goes. Another partially successful week concluded. And when one of the drillers tried to comfort me with a “This is Africa—nothing happens like you plan!” I got huffy and defensive for Asia and said, “It’s not ONLY Africa that messes up your plans, you know. Asia can do that too. It’s not always all about Africa. Africa ALWAYS tries to steal Asia’s thunder. And anyway Indonesians even have a saying for events not starting on time. It’s called jam karet, or rubber time. There aren’t any sayings like that here.” And he thought that was the greatest thing he ever heard and carefully wrote down “jam karet” into his little notebook so that he can remember it forever and have something important to talk about with all the Indonesian people he meets out here.  

And Responsible Self found herself cheered up by being able to teach some bahasa to a true lover of Asian culture and language.  And she has not developed an actual plan for next week beyond her usual stand-by—“Let’s wing it.”

And by the time I actually get internet good enough to post this on the blog, I will have been winging it for several weeks probably. Yeah…this is the life. Own it, Irresponsible Me.

One more because seriously--that face is too cute.(Ruben's face, not the dirt-covered white photo-bomber in the side). 

Friends Plant Peanuts Together

Siti and me after planting peanuts

When I came to South Sudan, I noticed that, while I got more enthusiastic comments about my foreign-ness than I did in Asia, I got less invitations to be people’s best friends and come to their homes and go to their weddings and spend every free moment hanging out with them. It’s a trade off, I guess. I mean, it can be funny that the same kids get the same amount of excited-out-of-their-minds every morning when I go running by their homes, even though they see me almost every day. Still, I was hoping for a few friends that I could hang out with and share life with and socialize with on days when I realize that I am dangerously close to becoming a hermit, which is my subconscious life goal that my conscious knows should not be achieved for my own good.  It’s taken some time, but I’ve fought my way into the lives of several ladies here. I accost them at their work and show up unannounced at their homes whenever I want to hold their babies or practice speaking Moru. In return, I buy candy for their kids and entertain them with my ignorance of their everyday chores and my inability to carry things on my head (I’m working on it, but I have a really lumpy skull).

Siti's son Simon, though he prefers
"SimonPeter The Rock,"
watching the burning grass we cleared off

One day when I’d just gotten back to Mundri from Khartoum (where I’d been invited to several weddings and several homes by generous Arab-Africans in true Middle East/North Africa style), I went for a run. It was Saturday so I was going later in the day since I sleep in until 7(!) on Saturdays in Mundri, and I had decided to eat a mango before I went (it’s not a great pre-workout food, if you were wondering). Naturally, the combination of hotter weather plus mango made running more difficult than usual.  Half-way through my route, I realized—this is not fun. So I decided just to walk back home and enjoy the sunny day without wanting (but not being able to) barf. While walking home I met a nice lady working in her garden. She said, “Why are you running for exercise? Just come help me in my garden and you’ll get lots of exercise that way.” I said, “Sure. I’ll come next week.” And I genuinely planned to do that, but she never gave me a time, and so I worked in my garden that morning and thought I would go help her in the afternoon. But when I was about to go, Lexon said, “You should probably call her first.” He lives near her and she is one of his wife’s relatives. I did, but I found out that the Bishop of the Catholic Church (she’s a Catholic) was going to be there the next day, and she was helping clean the church. So I didn’t go. She said she would call me later. She never did. I forgot about it and went on hanging out with my other new friends that I have been forcing to love me.

Then, on Pentecost Sunday, my church had a big deal Fun Day. It makes sense—we are the Pentecostals, so naturally we should do something awesome for Pentecost. We also invited everybody, and Siti came as a representative of the Catholic church or maybe she just came for the food, I don’t know, but she was there. I said, “You never called me!” She said, “I did, but I had the wrong number. Come next Saturday and help me plant peanuts.” I said, “What time?” She said, “9am.”

The sign says "don't pass on the shoulder" but that
does not stop my dad.

So at 9:02am, I left my house to walk the 1.5 miles to her house. The 1.5 mile distance is an estimate made by me based on my running time, but it’s probably an over-estimation because I like to think that I’m going faster than I actually am, and I’m not as accurate as my dad at gauging running distances. Seriously, he’s impressive. I’ve measured runs we’ve gone on together on the Internet (source of all accurate information), and he’s been right to the decimal point. “Well, this run took us XX:XX and so that must mean that we went about X.Y miles.” I checked the Internet and lo and behold—X.Y00 miles. It’s his super-power…one of them--the other one might be the ability to memorize completely useless names of various players of various sports or the ability to cook multi-colored food (“Hmm…this stir fry  needs more color—add the yellow peppers and green beans! Do we have any red peppers? Let’s add some beige—bean sprouts!”) or his deep devotion to following Indonesian traffic rules and regulations. So many possibilities… But I made it to Siti’s house before 9:30, which makes my punctuality in Africa—culturally impressive, let’s go with ‘culturally impressive.’

And this is what my feet look like after
working hard all day.

We jumped right in hacking away at the ground with a hoe and a pitchfork. We dug out rocks and chopped up tree roots. Her husband popped over for a quick visit to bring us water and suggest that I become his second wife. I was kind of resentful of that conversation because I really don’t think that’s the best way to cement a new friendship with someone—having her husband hit on you in front of her. Fortunately, I’m excellent at stamping out those kinds of conversations with my natural charm and belligerence.  It didn’t seem to bother her too much (maybe since her husband actually helped for about ten minutes while regaling me with the benefits of polygamy) because nearly 4 hours later when we finished, she still invited me to lunch. After lunch, I ran home for a bit to charge my computer on my new inverter, which the nice khawaja guy who used to live here helped me set up. I clip these things that look like jumper cables on to the bolts on our solar battery, which is mostly not working (there are sparks, it’s cool), and then I can charge my computer on sunny days, during daylight, while it’s off. It has revolutionized my life. I love it so much. I also realize that there are benefits of hanging out with foreigners that include the fact that they do things like kayak down the Mori River—something that people here would never think to do. It was super fun. I have no photos because—I was in a kayak.

After charging the computer for an hour while working a bit in my own garden, I walked back to Siti’s to plant the peanuts, which we didn’t want to do until the sun wasn’t so hot (it’s a gardening thing, you wouldn’t understand). The last time I planted peanuts was in Aceh, post-tsunami, with a group of Indonesian volunteers who were training people who had newly inherited land and needed to learn how to cultivate it. At the time, I remember getting competitive (yeah, that’s what I do) with one of the guys who was this shy macho farmer from Medan.  He would finish his row and then do the end of mine before starting on his next row.  So once I booked it down my row and then finished his for him—it was a hilarious joke, I thought. Well, it made him laugh, and then we became friends so he told me about his girlfriend back home that he was knitting a purse for—he was adorable.  Anyway, apparently planting peanuts is like riding a bike because I am pretty good at it still. It’s a two-man job here—one person hacks the row for dumping in peanuts, the other person drops the peanuts in the ditch. As the next row is hacked, it covers the peanuts in the last row, burying them under a small layer of dirt.  Obviously, the hard part of this is being the one chopping a ditch with the hoe. Siti said, “I’m so tired. I think we should finish this later.” But I was in an American ‘git ‘er done’ mode. And I said, “No. Give me the hoe and we will finish this today before we get soaked in the coming rainstorm.”  And I hacked furiously and we finished planting the entire pot of peanuts. Yes, we did. And then Siti nicely said, “I would never have been able to get all this work finished without you.” Being useful—I kind of like it. And I think it’s a good way to cement a friendship.

Then I walked home as fast as I could because there was a for-real storm brewing. I made it back before it started in earnest. But I did get soaked on my way back to my house from the shower—it was kind of ok, though, because rain keeps you clean. And that’s why I use a sarong as a towel—it dries fast.

To recapitulate: my Dad is a super-hero. Happy Late Father’s Day. This would have been on time if I lived in civilization, but then it would have had to be a completely different story of me planting, say, turnips in Taiwan or something. If we can’t be American-punctual, lets be culturally impressive. Although, I think that you are both actually.

More on my dad--this is the newspaper I used to wrap up
a coffee mug I brought him from India. He spread out
the newspaper so that he could read the stories
from India. Then we had several interesting discussions about
the articles in it. Yup-that's my dad--likes the paper more than the mug.

This face. It's a good one.

"Every Time You Cross the Intl Date Line You Lose Brain Cells," says Science--this is proof

Since I write about my life, and a good portion of my life takes place in airports, here are some more musings from my most recent cross-continental trip in bullet-point form:

·      Asian airports are often superior in terms of offering free internet options.

·      Being able to understand multiple languages, specifically the ones announcing up-coming flights can often have the effect of giving one a massive headache. Really—there’s no rest for the brain listening to soothing mysterious syllables when your brain keeps trying to understand the scratchy voices of the announcers.

·      Here is a confession of a lone traveler: I often have conversations with myself in my own mind. These conversations are not always in English. When surrounded by multiple languages that I speak, sometimes I forget which language I am using to converse with myself. Fortunately, this bothers no one but the voices in my head. We often communicate by mixing and matching our favorite words…对，es possible que我 might be sedikit مجنون  हूँ।

·      When traveling on an airplane originating in China but picking up passengers in India, do not expect there to be any empty seats anywhere. Flights that hit the two most populous countries in the world in one go will always be full. Always. Also, Chinese people talk loudly. Indian people usually get served their vegetarian meals first, since they specially ordered it. African travelers on Asian flights seem to be quite diverse, and I can’t think of any stereotypes for them, but I did notice that it became harder and harder to see over all the tall people the closer I got to Africa.

·      Check-in people in India are only vaguely familiar with Ugandan travel regulations for foreigners, and they will follow the rules very carefully, including making the foreigner sign a form promising that the email from MAF in her phone is a legitimate form of onward transportation to South Sudan, as required by Ugandan law.

Also, my dream finally came true of being able to answer the question, “Does anyone here speak ________?” In this case it was two concerned Arab men, who had the unfortunate distinction of looking like Hollywood’s idea of terrorists. They started to explain to me that someone had taken their passports and walked away somewhere. I helpfully replied, “They did what?!” and calmed their nerves considerably. Fortunately, at that moment when I was getting ready to go fight for my Arab brothers and their passports, the Indian transit official brought them their travel documents. Happy and relieved, the nice Arab terrorist-like men gave me some lovely chocolates in gratitude for me doing absolutely nothing for them. (عادي)

"Don miss" this exciting display of globes in the
Lonely Planet Store in the KL Airport--my new favorite store in the world!

So now I’m back in South Sudan, and we managed to land in spite of the fact that the airstrip is overgrown a bit with tall grass.  The MAF pilot insisted I cut the grass on the airstrip before they would come pick me up in November. Fortunately, other people have to leave before me, so I think they’ve already handled the grass-cutting issues. And I say, just let a flock of goats and/or cows at it.

And this dude and his cow could totally mosey
 on over to the airstrip and get busy.

Leaving Home for Home

Today (the day when I am writing this particular paragraph anyway), I spoke a mixture of Bahasa and Mandarin with a little old man selling me coffee (for oleh-olehs, I still don’t drink it myself) while side-nodding my head like an Indian. I probably would have clicked my tongue or raised my eyebrows for ‘no’ like an Arab if the opportunity had come up. I’m a very confused Asian, as I have lived in almost every region of Asia—East Asia (China), South Asia (India), the Middle East or Near East, whichever you prefer (Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Yemen), and of course South East Asia (Indonesia). I still need to get to Central Asia. Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, and/or Uzbekistan—I will get there someday, probably….I hope…

I gave him the "namaste hands" when I left.
Also, notice that his shop specializes in coffee and toilet paper.

But now I live in Africa.

I think I mentioned this before, but as a kid, someone once told me if I learned Arabic, Mandarin, and Hindi, in addition to the Indonesian that I already spoke, then I could talk to most people in Asia. And at the time, I was convinced that Asians of every region were the coolest people in the world, and the only ones worth talking to…or something like that…anyway, I decided I would learn those languages. While my Mandarin and Hindi aren’t as deep as my Arabic and Indonesian, I can carry on decent conversations on a variety of subjects, and someday I hope that I will be able to improve on that too. But, like I said, now I live in Africa. I figured it would happen some day, and I even hoped it would, but I’m finding that it still doesn’t make it easier to leave here. I won’t just miss my parents and my friends and the wonderful food—I’ll also miss speaking Asian languages, holding up two fingers for photographs, and finding Hello Kitty-brand white sugar for sale in the grocery store.  I just really love it here.

 

Extra-sweet Hello Kitty Sugar

Peace sign photos with cool kids Ica and Jeri from nearby Panti Asuhan.
I love me some orphans.

One time a friend told me, when I was bemoaning the fact that I didn’t want to leave behind ‘my’ people (I was moving on from one of my international jobs), and she said, “Amanda, you have lots of people. You’re not someone who connects with just one.” And she is a very wise woman, and I think she is right. Because I realized recently that I’m already developing some African loyalties.  When a friend commented about how much she loved Asian elephants on a photo I posted from my elephant-riding fun in Thailand, I found myself wanting to get defensive of African elephants, even though my friend hadn’t said anything derogative at all towards the Africa pachyderm with their extra-large ears. When I noticed that defensiveness, I felt pleased that I have clearly started to put down some emotional roots in Africa, and I know I don’t just love their variety of wild life.

I’m looking forward to some more runs and bike rides through the jungle, dancing and singing with my charismatic brothers and sisters in church, hanging with my friends under the mango tree, and feasting my eyes on the most beautiful clear starry night sky I’ve ever seen anywhere. Mundri, South Sudan is my home now, one of many I’ve loved, and I’m sure I’ll be glad to be back once I'm there. But I’m still sad to leave the first home that I knew was home once I knew what home was supposed to be. 

So you can see some of the greatness of Indonesia, here are some photos of some favorite moments/places/people:

Martabak Asin--and tons of other great food.
I love you, Martabak. Bade sono pisan ka temenku, Si Martabak.

Holding cute tiny babies named Amanda.
It is a name that will bring you greatness, Small Child!

Buying veggies at the pasar--we really need better pasar2 in SSudan,
 and we know I can't count on my garden since I have no weeding skills.

Bumbus at the pasar!

Yeah, I like pasars, OK? You should too.

This wasn't a favorite moment, but I wanted to show you how
many network signals were available from one spot in the mall.
 Yes, 21st Century, you have made it to SEAsia.

Worshipping in Bahasa with my Indo family.

Seeing this special friend again! I love you dan keluargamu juga, Iren!

Playing with Iren's kids who are not afraid of me,
though Kasyfi refused to take photos with me.
But Kafya didn't mind the paparazzi.

This was a truly great moment: one of my most favorite people
and one of my most favorite foods.

Best for last: the Ortu. Love them. Blessed to be their daughter.
Will miss them the most.