Brain Gaps

I am TO Sudanese

The other day I was wearing a thobe and enjoying the smell of my bakhour (Sudanese incense that melts over coals and fills the room with fragrant smoke—don’t try this in places with fire alarms), and I was congratulating myself for my Sudanese-ness. My friends had been joking with me about how I’m not a khawaja anymore, I’m now Sudanese, and it went to my head. I know because I was hanging out with our West Darfur team, telling them that if wouldn’t matter if I broke curfew if I were wearing my thobe, because if I were, no one would know that I wasn’t Sudanese. I was helpfully informed by one of our staff, “Amanda, even if you are wearing a thobe, you are still white. And people will see your white hands.” This was really surprising and disappointing to me.  I mean, just the other day I took one of those online quizzes called “How White are You?” and I got 8 out of 100, which classified me as ‘not white at all.’ This is the same website whose informative quizzes helped to determine that I am Harry Potter (something I’ve suspected for some time now) and that I should be a red-head (which is going to be less possible since I’ve run out of henna I brought from India). Now it seems like these quizzes may not be entirely reflective of reality, and it has shaken the very foundations of my world. But the good news is, my wrists are no longer white because I got sunburnt in the car-ride on the way to Sirba, and even though we did break curfew (it’s the curfew for people who are obviously foreigners--7:00pm, i.e. the time that fun is just starting for all non-foreigner Sudanese), I was not abducted by any angry tribesmen, nor did I crash the car into a donkey or get stuck in the sand.

I had to leave when these
guys were just coming 

So I’m not white, if the characteristics of being white are directly related to being a 6^th grade girl in the 90’s (dancing to the Macarena and debating which boy-band is better, according to the quiz), but I am white if we are trying to hide from local police who enforce curfew and/or hostage-takers.  Wearing a thobe and knowing how to light coals for bakhour doesn’t make me Sudanese anymore than eating rice for breakfast makes me Indonesian or always bringing presents to people who invite me over for dinner makes me Syrian.

What I am is an American who has spent a cumulative two-thirds of her life in Asia and now lives in Africa, and with that comes many strange idiosyncrasies.

Eighth Grade at Deaf School graduation. Hey--Where's Waldo? 

I get annoyed when people tell me the weight of something in kilos and then remember that I’m American and try to translate that into pounds—like I didn’t have Canadian teachers all throughout my elementary school career, EY. But I do measure my morning running distances in miles, though I can tell people the distance I covered in kilometers, just in case they don’t understand. And I’m not the only one who mixes the English and the metric systems—in India everything is in kilos in the stores, but you measure well depth in feet.  So there, World.

Our rainy season family vacations were great!

But the truth is that there is a lot of American common knowledge out there that I’m not aware of (much of it having to do with ways of measuring), just as there is other international common knowledge that I missed out on, probably while I was flying over the international date line losing brain cells or something like that. I’ve been sorting through my brain, trying to find things that I don’t think are normal (which is hard since they ARE normal for me), and I’m pretty sure other third culture kids will relate to this, but even in our little group of identity-confused kids of multi-cultural upbringings, we have different brain gaps, which my bro-in-law likes to call affectionately the “third culture delay.”

Here are some of my brain gaps:

If we’re talking about the weather, I’ll give you the temperature in Fahrenheit if it’s hot and Celsius if it’s cold. (But I did just have to spell check ‘Fahrenheit’ because not only it is less practical when trying to remember the boiling or freezing points, it’s also harder to spell.)

I’ll tell you the length of something in centimeters and use the word ‘gallons’ with misguided confidence. I will admit to having no idea what a ‘quart’ is, but it is a fun word to say. Quart. Quart. Quart.

Wearing the right clothes is the best way to fit in--you can't tell I'm not Yemeni!

I can never remember if I’m supposed to put the day or the month first when writing dates numerically, so I usually just write the whole thing out: 19 February 1984 or February 19^th, 1984 (it’s my birthday—you should also remember this important date. And Hackers: take note that I never use it as my password anywhere because of my confusion with numerical dates. Also, I don’t have that much money, so it wouldn’t be worth your while anyway.).

When riding in cars, I prefer just to go sit in the back so I don’t have to worry about which side of the car the steering wheel is on.  I CAN drive—automatic and manual, but I sometimes forget which side of the road to be on and whether or not traffic rules are enforced. So it’s better just not to let me…

First camel ride a long time ago-my skills were acquired young

I could tell you almost as much about the Danish royal family as I could about the Obamas.

I find cricket and baseball equally boring.

Age 29, wearing a sari I bought at age 15 in Little India in Singapore.
My life came full circle once I finally fulfilled my destiny of living in India.

I can tell you as much about Premier League Football as I can about American Pro Football, which is to say, I know enough not to sound like an idiot in a brief conversation about favorite teams, but that’s about it.  Definitely do not ask me about names of any players who are not married to famous beautiful women.

The longer I stay out of the US, the less I know about famous musicians or the names of anyone who won a Grammy, and if you scroll through my iTunes account you will find that a significant portion of my music has been designated as “Unknown Artist” or “002 ÇáÍÇáÉ Çíå” because my taste in music is broader than my computer's ability to guess what the name of the singer is.

Crashing an Ethiopian wedding in Somaliland
with Kenyan and Sudanese friends.
This is my normal.

I can tell you the capital city of Burkina Faso, but I really don’t know what part of the US Iowa is in, much less if it even has any cities, one of which may have been designated as a capital. I'm only about 80% sure that it is a state. Iowa is a thing, right? It's not just a mispronunciation of Ohio, is it? (I know that the way to pronounce 'Ohio' varies from country to country. In India I heard it called "OH-HEE-Oh.")

A Somali friend in Yemen with more patriotism for my country
than I'll ever be able to muster. She deserves my passport more than I do.

I could fill in these gaps in my knowledge, and sometimes I’ve even tried to do that, but usually I just embrace the imbalance in my life or I try to balance out the imbalance by taking on as many characteristics as possible from countries where I’ve had the privilege to live. It’s OK. Make fun of me at will—people all over the world have been doing it for years. But don’t expect me to listen to boy-bands or dance to the Macarena or join your fantasy football league—whether it’s American-style football or The Rest of the World-style football.

High-school me demonstrating how to balance on the imbalance in one's life
OR
just climbing on a weird totem pole at Pangadaran because climbing things is fun.
(I always climb in flip-flops.)

Fast and Furious: Darfur Sand Drift

My preferred method of transportation

I hate driving. I find it very stressful. Maybe this is because it's forever associated with reverse-culture shock for me when I had to get my driver's license the year I went back to the States for college. Everyone else my age had been driving since they were 15, and knew things like 'how to put gas in one's car' and 'why one should never get out of the car when one is going through an automatic car wash.' Also, I failed my driving test the first time I took it. It is the only test of any kind that I ever failed, and the reason I failed was because there was a police car stopped by the side of the road, and I drove AROUND him (it seemed logical to me, having grown up in Indonesia where one avoids police officers and their inexorable avarice at all costs). Apparently, though, I was supposed to stop and wait for him to drive away first instead…who knew? All of you law-abiding American citizens probably… Whatever the reason, I avoid driving whenever possible, and it's usually possible because I live in places with public transportation (It's a thing, America!). Otherwise, I get whoever is with me to drive, whether it's my eight-months-pregnant baby sister or my grandfather who hit a deer twice in a week once and nearly killed us 5 times in a 2 hour drive from Philly to DC. But driving is still a useful skill to have, and it came in handy for me because…

This camel comes with a gun-look under my foot (just in case)

I went for a drive while in Darfur. I can’t get into the details of why this happened for various and sundry reasons that could cause problems for various and sundry peoples, possibly including myself.  Although, if I were the only reason, I’m sure I would not let myself stand in my way of telling a good story—priorities, you know. Anyway, with that confusing disclaimer, I ended up being the one with the car, the keys to the car, and the ability to drive the car. The previous day I’d been given ‘permission’ to take the car to the nearby souq to get food for Friday, when everything was going to be closed except the main marketplace. I was told I could go with the cook if I needed anything. So when another situation came up that required the car, I just went off that previous permission, grabbed the keys, took photos of myself holding said keys to psych myself up, and then hitched up my skirt and awkwardly hauled myself into the truck. It was one of those trucks where there is no moving the seat forward. And we were in one of those driveways where misjudging by a few centimeters can cause you to crash into a drilling machine or some PVC pipes. (You know those kinds of driveways…) I managed to back out successfully, not hitting the donkey cart or sauntering man behind me and only killing the engine once, when I was trying to get the feel of the old rust bucket’s clutch.

I was then directed to drive down a series of sandy, bumpy roads, dodging children, goats, cows (it was almost like being in India again, except there I was riding a bike and I only hit a cow ONCE), horses, donkeys, dogs, sheep, and piles of trash. There was one random stretch of paved road where I got up to 4^th for a while, and that was kind of fun—less bumpy anyway. And it didn’t feel like I was driving at the beach, trying to hold the tires straight in the sand, like it did elsewhere. I also got up to 5^th at another time, but it was an accident, as I meant to go into 3^rd, but didn’t catch it right.  The truck was very upset with me, and I apologized profusely, and stayed mostly in 2^nd after that to make up for it.

That is definitely my nose and open mouth--
thanks passenger for the plethora of photos of me driving.

At one point we were driving through a very narrow marketplace, on a sandy bumpy road, and the person with me noticed my concern, so I said that I was just really worried about hitting someone. This led to an opportunity to learn the difference in the Sudanese word for ‘to crash into someone with one’s car’ versus the Levantine word (which is funny, apparently) for the same unfortunate accident. 

'Concentration' face

'Please don't let me hit that donkey' face

On our journey, we stopped outside a little shop and picked up a couple of passengers. While we were stopped, my truck, parked with the particular reckless abandon of one who just wanted to stop driving and get out of said truck, got pinned in by two annoying little cars. Seriously. One of them was red.  Red cars think they’re better than everyone, but they’re just stupid and bad at parking. Still, we had to leave, and I know there was room to slowly maneuver up and around and back and over to get out, but also there were people around…sitting on the curbs with their feet in the street and sheep meandering around behind me. The stress of this caused me to kill the car 3 times while trying to reverse slowly in the sand. At this point, one of my helpful passengers piped up from the back, “I think you are not a professional driver.” Thanks for the confidence boost, person who can’t drive… But he is not wrong…

'I think I'm going to maybe make it home alive' face
(I took none of these photos but I didn't think they should go to waste)

Here are some photos this not-professional-driver took from behind the wheel (another reason why I should not be trusted with cars, though I never took photos when I was close enough to hit anyone or thing), and others that another helpful passenger took. And some others that happened at other parts of the Darfur trip that are interesting and have nothing to do with anything else in this blog post.

I took this photo while driving--multi-tasking.

I took this photo and also did NOT hit that donkey cart. I'm a genius.

Meat and police escort--this was our manly meat-plate lunch.
I ate a piece of almost-cooked goat meat.
It took me all of lunch time to chew it.

Cute kids helping their families gather water
and staring at the crazy khawaja

Getting water from a hand-dug well

A lady dropped her bucket in the well and this nice guy climbed down to get it for her.
I chronicled the whole thing on my phone while yelling down at him to be careful.
People were very entertained by my concern.

Collecting water for their animals

Another hand-dug well with colorful ladies

Camels keeping each other cool--they are such caring creatures.

We were greeted by enthusiastic horsemen who raced alongside us,
cheering and waving. It was super fun. My job is the best.

The beautiful ladies surrounded me and sang songs. I was only a little terrified. 

My camel-riding friend. We talked about how cool it is to be
people who ride camels and how horses are stupid.

The town meeting. I like these people. I should move here.

Faking It

So I was in West Darfur this weekend visiting projects and people, eating lots of sand, and collecting stories for this blog. I mentioned before, but for foreigners to be allowed to travel outside of Khartoum, we need special government permission. For the Darfur states, you need permission to travel to the state and then permission to travel around the state. You also need police escorts to travel outside of the main town or you risk being abducted by various peoples with grudges against various other peoples who like to use foreigners as bargaining tools and/or sources of income. As soon as I arrived in Geneina, I dumped off my stuff at the guest house and headed over to the local government office to register my permits and arrange for the police escort, and that's where this story starts...

Geneina--it's a nice little dusty desert down

Note: Words in italics were spoken in Arabic.

In my thobe, ready to Darfur

Majid: When we go inside to talk to the governmental officials, don’t speak any Arabic. Just let them talk to me. If they think you speak Arabic, they will ask lots of questions.

Me: OK. I will only speak English….starting now.

So we went into the tin-walled office/people oven, and sat down in chairs that looked fancy, but had clearly defined butt-imprints from where many people before us had sat and waited for hours until those chairs would never be able to forget them. I will also never be able to forget the chair that I sank into…

Walking in was pretty awkward for me because in Arab culture there are a plethora of greetings that one must give upon entrance, each of which has a specific answer. Allow me to give you some examples that, if you don’t speak Arabic, will mean absolutely nothing to you. But it will be cathartic for me.

Person 1: Salam 3alaykum

Person 2: 3alaykum salam

Person 1: Allah ya5tik al-3afiya

Person 2: Allah ya3fik.

Person 1: Alhamdulilah 3asalama

Person 2: Allah yasalmak

Person 1: Keyf halak?

Clay pots for storing water--they keep it nice and cool

Person 2: Tamam wallah… And then at this point everyone is talking all over each other and it doesn’t matter what you say, but it should probably be a bunch of questions as to the other person’s health and the well-being of his family. You should also be slapping his right shoulder with your left hand while gripping his right hand with your right hand and telling him how great you and your family are—the Sudanese way is to say you are all 100% great (miya-miya).

I wasn’t sure if someone who doesn’t speak Arabic would know those things, so I just decided to completely feign ignorance of the whole ritual. I know that plenty of Arabic-less foreigners at least know “salam 3alaykum,” but if I said that with correct pronunciation, would it give me away? But then it feels bad mispronouncing something when I’m not, say, pretending to be an Australian speaking Indonesian or something like that … And you know how sometimes all you say is two words and then people go off about how well you speak their language—even if all you knew was those two words? I’d just been told by the lady checking me into my WFP flight that morning that my Arabic was really good and she was shocked because none of the Americans she knows who speak any Arabic can pronounce things correctly—which is actually pretty unfair, as I know plenty of Americans who speak excellent Arabic. I could name names, but I don’t want to embarrass them…(one of them, we'll call her "Emily" probably just got advanced-mid on her most recent Arabic test). Of course, the ones who don’t speak it well are often more memorable. I still remember a little blonde southern belle in my Arabic class at the University of Memphis who learned how to say “I eat” in Arabic, and excitedly exclaimed to the rest of the class, “Ya’ll! We’re speakin’ Ay-Rab-Ik!” She was also the one who informed us that her boyfriend, Musa Habibi, should not cause us any undue concern. “Ya’ll, he’s Palestinian, but ya’ll, he’s not a terrorist. I know. I asked him. I said, ‘Musa Habibi, are you a terrorist?’ and he said, ‘No.’” So there was that… and I guess if she’d been my only experience with Americans speaking Arabic, then I can understand the flight attendant’s surprise. I, personally, have no excuse for not speaking Arabic, having lived in 6 Arabic-speaking nations, though I have never had a non-terrorist Palestinian boyfriend either and I feel like that should be an advantage too…

Enjoying the view with Tahany

Pretending not to speak a language that you do speak fairly well, is not as easy as it seems. First, I had to really concentrate and not answer questions about myself that I understood, especially ones where I felt the need to defend myself (i.e. Why didn’t you get your permission renewed? Answer I wanted to give: we did, look at the form, moron!—probably a good thing I wasn’t talking…). The other thing goes back to the Arabic greeting question-and-answer issue, and not giving the answer to the questions feels like singing a song, but leaving out the last note. To relieve my feelings, I spent the rest of our wait-time secretly texting a bunch of my friends in Arabic, carefully hiding my phone from others sitting nearby.

We ended up sitting around for about an hour or so because the guy we needed to talk to wasn’t there. If we left for lunch, there was no guarantee he’d be there when we got back, and the next day was the weekend, and we’d miss them completely if we didn’t finalize our plans that day. When the guy finally got there, he was really polite and friendly and the first thing he asked me was, “Do you speak any Arabic?”

Donkey carrying water-system 1

I said, “Small.” I don’t even think I really perjured myself, because it is a grammatically incorrect not-really-an-answer to his question. It’s like if someone asked you if you like to eat chicken and you said, “Bob.” It’s not lying – it’s just nonsense.

As we walked out the door, I did decide to say, “Shukran.” I thought it would be something that my character (I was playing the part of ‘random foreign girl working for INGO in Sudan’) would actually know. But Majid gave me a look…so maybe I was wrong…

Donkey carrying water-system 2

Anyway, as soon as we walked out the gate, Majid turned to me in great relief (English isn’t his favorite), and started chattering back at me in Arabic about the whole ordeal and about what we were going to eat for lunch when we got back to the office. I was also relieved as I grabbed on to the handle of the truck to heave myself into the cab (all these NGO cars are so dang tall with their four-wheel drive tires). I was thinking that this no-Arabic thing could come back to bite us in our chair-imprinting butts. I mean, what if the nice man in charge asks some other IAS person about me and they talk about how I speak Arabic (it’s my one defining feature)? But then I found out from Majid that another guy from the same office would be joining us on our trips out of town, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep the cat in the bag at that point. I was planning to try to convince the guy that I learned Arabic quickly on Friday during prayer time (a miracle!), but then Majid said it wouldn’t really matter. The main reason he didn’t want me to speak Arabic at the government office was because he thought it would mean that we would get stuck there longer because everyone would want to talk to me. Since we were there for an hour and a half anyway, I don’t know that it would have made much difference, but I do sometimes like to show off, and I usually try to make a point of being extra-charming to security officers because you never know when that will come in handy…and that can be time-consuming.  

The important thing is that we made it out alive, with a police escort lined  up for our next two trips, and no slip-ups from me, the random foreign girl working for an INGO in Sudan who never broke character (until the very end when I said "shukran").

 This may be my favorite awkward photo--the man moved in while I was still talking to the lady.
Does this count as a photo bomb? Technically, I think I was the one not paying attention to the camera man.

Sign at the Khawaja Store: For breakfast, I'd like some sausaga and egges,
and for lunch - a purger and a bottle of carponated water, please.