I was planted firmly on the planet with the notion that I am here to do something.  And this self-righteous idea has only been encouraged through each and every experience, activity, and job that I have stumbled into since birth.  Somehow, however, I find myself now at the age of 26, a college graduate, an Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, and a recipient of 4+ years experience in one particular field with absolutely no idea what that something I am meant to do is. 

I would like to blame this on Peace Corps.  And I mean this in the most loving way.  Well first, I will say that despite plenty of down patches, I am relieved that I have under my belt a two-year service to my country and to the world in general.  (See, there’s the self-righteous thing again!).  More humbly, I know that every triumph and error that came along during my service made me stronger and more accepting of the way the world is. 

However, as far back as I can remember I always knew exactly what my next step was.  Until I finished Peace Corps.  Okay, this is not entirely true.  I came out of Peace Corps absolutely certain that I wanted to be a cowgirl.  I could even go back and retrieve e-mails written to loved-ones detailing how I felt that this was my natural calling.  Cowgirlism.  Tom Robbins did no small job in convincing me of this very decision. 

And dammed right I left Africa to join the Wild Wild…easternmost coast of Maine.  There I spent hours with cows and in hayfields and loved the way it made my body feel.  But the day would end and I would feel that missing piece.  Quelque chose qui manqué.  I was happy to move back to Africa and even happier to be with a someone who made me smile so much. 

And who continues to do so.  Through my current confusion and frustration I never am unappreciative of the fact that I get to spend each day with one of the best human beings I have met.  But there continues to grow, nay fester in me this notion that I have yet to reach some unannounced goal.  That there is some potential I am just out of reach of. 

A Chicken in Every Guestroom

Seven months ago, I left that plow in the field to look for a job in the town.  And I’ll tell you, it ain’t easy being a cowgirl living in the city.  But there are ways I have attempted to cope with my new city digs in order to retain my love for all things that grow, live, and feed us.  

For starters, I needed to fill our huge terrace with as many green things as possible.  Initially I thought this would be easy: buy some pots, find some dirt, plant some seeds.  Plants want to grow!  The hitch came when I needed to incorporate my helpful boyfriend and an employee of his parents to carry all that up to our apartment.  Which is on the top floor of a five story building.  (PENTHOUSE! )  After adorning the terrace with multiple beautiful, heavy clay pots, our real task came when all three of us had to lug a multi-kilo bag of compost up to the rooftop.  No one was very happy with me that afternoon but our terrace sure came alive!

I am finding this to be trickier than expected due to the ever-intense weather that Cotonou nails on us.  In my seven months here I have seen the most stifling heat and the heaviest rain.  These contrasting weather patterns make for a lack of consistency that my plants do not love.  Still, I have been happy trying to keep these plants alive.  

But when it came down to it, fighting for the roots of these plants has not fulfilled my true cowgirl needs.  I am an animal lover through and through, and my favorite pets are more commonly found on a farm.  I had been missing my routine morning meetings with the cows, collecting eggs from the hundred of chickens in the barn.  And sometimes, on the rare day, I longed to bring day-old bread out to those feisty, mischievous, and ever-growing pigs.  

I first indulged my livestock-rearing needs by starting up an agriculture club at the school that I teach at.  Though I’d like to say my lessons in composting, recycling, and starting a plant nursery were popular, it was my promise of chicks that drew in most of my loyal members.  Searching Cotonou for plain lumber, tools, and chicken wire was not as easy a feat as I’d like to report.  No one understood why a little white lady wants to use a hammer, never mind letting the children of American diplomats and NGO workers do physical labor.  If I’ve done nothing else thus far in this country though, it has been to make sure those hands are not so delicate.  

So we built this epic chicken hutchand came upon a Mama hen and her three chicks.  African chickens look so different from most American chickens you see.  Each chick had different patterns and variegated feathers.  Unfortunately, one…then two were promptly taken by…something.  Rat or human I cannot say.  But the mama and the left-behind have stayed strong and are a man attraction at QSI Benin.  

So when my homegirl Sara trucked into town from the bush with two tiny, motherless chicks I was delighted to grow our school’s chicken family.  The remaining chick at the school was still young; I figured the mama would philanthropically take in the two new nuggets.  Had I been wiser, I would have realized that this mama had just lost two chicks and therefore viewed all creatures in her pen as predators. 

And thus, Logan and I welcomed Token and Hawk into our apartment.  I had a tough sell at first.  Logan hadn’t even wanted a pet, forget pets who are meant to live in coops on farms.  But with the promise of temporariness he obliged and we made our guest bathroom into a coop.  Quickly, the chicks imprinted on us.  When let out of their tiled home, they were constantly underfoot.  Their first use of wings was to fly up onto the couch to sit with us.  They enjoyed being pet, and it was impossible not to grow fond of them as they climbed up to cuddle in the crook of my neck, underneath my hair.  They were inexpensive to keep, easy to clean up after, and low-maintenance.   When we were busy for a couple of days, they were fine left with a pile of ground corn and rice.  When Logan was traveling they became my best company. 

Token passed away a couple weeks after he came to us.  He had been weak since arrival and though we tried to fatten him up and keep him clean he never strengthened.  We were left with one lonely and squeaky chick. 

As a farmer, I like to think of myself as an animal welfare advocate.  “Animal welfare means ensuring that all animals used by humans have their basic needs fulfilled in terms of food, shelter and health, and that they experience no unnecessary suffering in providing for human needs.”  I am an omnivore and am dependent on cheese for my general happiness, after all.  But embarrassingly often my actions reflect the agenda of the animal rights activists who “view humans and animals as essentially equal and condemns any and all use of animals for human benefit”( http://www.furcommission.com/welfare/animal-welfare-v-animal-rights/). 

Logan and I felt compelled to give Hawk the best life ever.  He got plenty of attention, the best of our left-overs, and could easily guilt us into “just a few more minutes” before his bedtime.  Which should always have been at dusk.  Unbeknownst to me, Logan had even begun building a fenced-in area at his parents’ house so that Hawk could play in the lawn without being nibbled on by Bella, their friendly but curious yellow lab.  

It was on Hawk’s first adventure day in the garden that his demise came.  Bella had a play-date that day and that dog was more than curious.  Within minutes of being let out into the yard the dog managed to break through the fence to kill the defenseless bird.  I am not one to root against nature’s carnation, but I sure wish that this well-fed dog had taken her aggressive play somewhere else.  

With a heavy heart, I write this blog for my beloved Hawk.  You were just a chick and you pooped everywhere, but I will miss your squawking buddy.  It will take time to move onto another home animal husbandry project, but plans are in the work figuring out how to lead a fresh cow up all those stairs.  

Getting Hashed All Over the World

I first started going to Hashes when I was nine years old and living in Madagascar.  Although not yet part of the “drinking club” I was born with a “running problem”.  My family, along with other international and Malagasy families and individuals got together every Sunday afternoon to follow a pre-marked route set with checkpoints and false trails.  A group of 40+ vazaha’s (foreign people) would run through rice-paddies and mud flats, allowing a good show for the lucky local village we were rampaging that week.  More than once was a chicken forcibly purchased due to one of our dogs who got carried away.  When the trail concluded, the group would collect at the cars and go back to the house of the “hare” who had set the Hash that week for a bbq and of course, the hash all those who had made some offense during the hash.  

What does it mean to be hashed?  You stand in a line along your fellow hash-ees with a piss-pot filled with your beverage of choice and have to chug it before a certain Hash tune is completed.  Anything left in the piss-pot at the end of said tune has to be dumped on your head.  This was way grosser when I was young and my drink was a cold Coka.  

Reasons you might be hashed:

•  Missing too many hashes.
•  Coming to too many hashes.  (At certain “number of hashes attended” you will be hashed and rewarded a sweet T-shirt.  In Mad I got up to 150 and counting). 
• Running on the walking trail
• Setting a trail that was too long 
•  (Or too short). 
•  Wearing new shoes.  (in this case you likely will be dismissed of using the piss-pot as your Hash Master will suggest that you drink your beverage directly out of those shiny new Tennis shoes).

As I’ve gotten older, I have learned that the Hash House Harriers is a world-wide club started in the streets of Malaysia.  Communities in multiple countries now collect on a Saturday and Sunday afternoon to run and drink beer together.  I’ve had the great fortune (or bad luck) to attend hashes in a few different countries, but none have been as intense and silly as the one my father is currently vice-Hash Master of in Rwanda. 

Here, after your tenth Hash you are given a “hash name”.  These are generally incriminating and often-times crude but it certainly adds to the chaotic environment that is the Kigali Hash.  This past Sunday, I was given the honor of receiving a Hash name of my own.  This is quite a process, involving a circle interview with all of that week’s Hash participants.  There you are asked important questions such as “what is your favorite body part on the other gender?” (or same gender if you choose, Hashers are pretty open!),  “where is the best ganga you’ve ever smoked?”, and so on.  Afterwards you are sent away while the group discusses and comes up with your name.  

When you come back you will be told your name and will then proceed to be put through a hazing, I mean hashing, session.  I think this part is better said with pictures. 

1.  Before…

2.  Being given our names…

3.  Being initiated…

4.  And finally Uwase (my name) and Ass Lover are born into the Kigali Hash House Harriers community!

Convinced to find a Hash House Harriers organization in your town?  I know you want to get some.  

I know that this post has gotten long.  But I want to end by empathizing how great a community the Hash can be.  Especially in groups that set both a running and walking trail, it is a great club for members of all ages and abilities.  Sure it is a group that includes a fair amount of drinking, but before that the primary goal is to get together and exercise.  Living overseas, it is a way to build communities in spaces that often feel very isolating.  What I love particularly about the Kigali Hash is that there are just as many Rwandans that come every week as international folk.  The separation between host country national and ex-pat disappears when you are panting up one of Kigali’s thousand hills together.  It disappears further after you’ve been forced to chug a beer next to them because let’s be honest, you were both walking on the Runner's trail. 

The Culture of Travel

I feel like a brat for saying this, as many cowgirls don’t get the luxury of travel I have had, but I am so tired of being in motion.  I am tired of airports, traffic jams, and being enclosed for hours in planes, cars, and trains.  The act of traveling is usually my favorite activity.  Completely alone but in the midst of many strangers, I find my best thinking, writing, and reading get’s done. 

The thinking is promoted by the combination of whatever is stressing me out at the current time combined with an engaging podcast flowing through my ears.  To me, there is nothing like a good podcast.  I am of course, a proud member of NPR nation.  Can’t go a day without some snippets of Morning Edition, Terry Gross’s soothing interviews, or the nerdy humor of Wait Wait Don’t Tell me.  With eclectic shows sharing random information about the week, I find myself connected to the places I am moving in and out of.  I find that traveling is the best time to catch up on shows that I don’t have enough time to listen to during the week.  This past week, stuck in the Nairobi airport waiting for my flight to Kigali, I listened to an excellent This American Life based about sacrificing animals.  It’s more than it seems: check it out. 

The over thinking combined with the more relaxed activity of podcast listening lends itself to filling up a notebook.  I always feel like I am at a stage of transition when I am traveling; heading to the next place where I will spend some juncture of my life.  It is therefore a great time to put down what has been going on and generate hopes for what might come.  When I am having serious writer’s block, which I have suffered through a lot in the last four years, I just start writing lists.  I can make a list about anything really.  “Best meals I’ve cooked in the last year” “Jobs I might be surprisingly good at” or on the more pessimistic side “People who I once felt completely bonded to and now no longer-and why”.  I try to keep it upbeat because nobody likes to sit next to a sobbing cowgirl on the plane.  They still serve wine on international flights, after all. 

Reading, I suppose, is a given.  Everyone reads when they are traveling.  I find that when I am going through a phase of non-reading a trip is the best way to get me into a book.  After Peace Corps, for example, I was so tired of reading.  Too much time had been spent alone in my hut devouring books one after another.  It started to feel like just another lonesome activity, and I was tired of being alone all of the time.  But when I met up with Ross in Kigali for my papa’s wedding, he brought my mom’s Christmas gift of a Kindle loaded up with his new favorite author.  I didn't read at all while I had time to spend with him, but the minute I was back in an airport flying away from them there was nothing so soothing as Hiroko Murakami’s Dance, Dance, Dance.  Books are another way I can track my life transitions it seems. 

I am not in a reading mood right now.  Not much in a writing mood, though I am trying to keep this up to date.  And amazingly, my head feels too full to even engage with much NPR.  For the first time in a long time, I just want to ease into one place.  My new apartment, cooking at night next to my homeboy, and waking up in the morning to a job that expands my language and ag extention skills.  Is that too much to ask?  Absurdly, it might be exactly how I get to spend the next couple of years in my life.  Could I be so lucky? 

Two weeks in Kigali than back on the old travel-routine.  Then we shall see. 

holdin' hands

Logan doesn’t much like to hold my hand.  That’s okay though: the entire rest of the country seems up for it.  Something I find most difficult living in Benin is trying to cross the street.  The other day, after standing for awhile worrying over the right moment to step, a not-too-sketchy and very nice young man grabbed my hand and pulled me safely across.  Upon arrival, all he asked for return was my hand in marriage!

You would think after living in other African countries and in India for so long I would be used to the way traffic moves here, but I just can’t seem to figure it out.  Luckily I have plenty of observation time to do so now, as it takes me between 7 and 13 minutes to get the courage up to sprint from one side of the street to other.  

First you have the regular cars.  Mostly tinny old box-like cars that have been running for decades and will continue to run for the next couple.  They cruise around effortlessly, owning the road.  It is certainly a status symbol to have a set of four wheels here.  

But the cars are not what throw me.  It’s the so called “zems”, or moto’s, chasing each other around that make me nervous.  In a seemingly endless race they swerve in and out of any lane, sidewalk, or parking lot they think will get them wherever they are going the quickest.  They are also my main source of transportation.  Instead of hailing a taxi, the easiest way to get around Cotonou is jumping on the back of some dude’s moto.  Party of two?  He’ll take you both.  Geared up in florescent yellow jerseys, these zem drivers are everywhere, and for 60 cents he will take you just about anywhere, quickly.  You better have your wits about you though.  Just because they are your hired ride doesn’t mean they are going to keep you comfortable.  I spend my rides with one hand clutching the bike and the other firmly holding my driver’s shoulder.  I’m not sure if that is correct fomba (culture…gotta keep some ‘gasy in here), but that is my method.  In fact, Cotonou is the only place I have ever been in a vehicular accident (knock knock knock).  It was my first day in Cotonou (ten months ago) ago and first thing, Logan throws me on a moto by myself and, whilst trying to pass me, let’s his driver hit mine.  Maybe not his fault, but all I am saying is that a city so full of roundabouts should not be filling them with motorcycles that don’t believe in lanes.  

Don’t worry Mom, I am wearing my helmet.  

So all of these vehicles rage the streets of Cotonou and have no sense of pedestrian rights.  The walker is at the bottom of the caste here.  There is really no place for the self-righteous pedestrian, something that most Americans inherently are.  I forget this sometime and will continue walking expecting cars or motos to yield to me.  As a starkly white woman, this does work better in my favor than it would for someone who does not stick out so much.  But I am growing more and more aware that this will not keep working out in my favor.  I either need to join the world on wheels or be ever-so-thoughtful about where I place my boots.  

Which is why I hesitated slightly when proposed to the other day.  Perhaps all I need is a good-lookin’ Beninese dude to walk me across streets for the rest of my time here.  I don’t much like giving up such an independence as walking on my own, but for the sake of stayin’ on my feet it might be worth it. 

Gettin' Rid of the Blues

One of my favorite books is about a girl who is born with thumbs so large they promote a love, nay NEED for hitchhiking.  This hobby turns into a deep affection that is representative not only of her over-sized thumbs but of an innate need to keep on moving.  It is one of my favorite books because, despite having small stubby thumbs, I relate far too well with Sissy Hancock in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.   I have been in many places and in each one found love, friendship, and comfort but always wind up scratching that itch to keep on moving.  

Until about a month ago, I'd been living in plenty of places for various amounts of time.  All of these places were premeditated, all revolving around jobs and schools.  But now I am, for the first time, jumping out into the world with no real plan except to find something, someone, or someplace that feels like contentedness.  I suppose that is an outlandish goal, but it is mine at the moment.  I am a runaway cowgirl that has let go of previous perceived law and order in my life.  

I am moving to move.  I will do all that I can to make ends meet, to keep on farming, and as noted before, to find things that make me feel happy.  Today I am on my 17^th hour on an airplane heading to Cotonou, Benin.  There is a tiny Beninese child sitting beside me who is just loving my version of peak-a-boo.  There’s a bit of happiness right there.  FOUND IT.  

I was watching Lonesome Dove last night, amazingly for the first time considering my four-year-old-boy-like interest in cowboys, and easily fell for these dudes pushing cattle from one side of the country to the other.  Through sandstorms and water snake-ridden rivers, there is a constant feeling of urgently pushing forward.  I think for a long time I have felt like that.  I hope that I can come to a place where I don't.