Burrito

Two days ago, right before the epic Blizzard of '11, my roommate gave me a call. What his motivations were I cannot now tell you, perhaps he hoped to stave off the inevitable cannibalism that always follows great snowfalls, or maybe he just wanted to eat something massive and awe inspiring before nature did the same to us. A little "fuck you" in the face of impending doom. Whatever the motives he set off one of the greatest chain of events available to modern man with one simple question.

"What kind of burrito would you like?"

There are few experiences in life so fulfilling, so all encompassing, as eating a burrito. From that very first moment when you need to consider the very construction and essence of your personal burrito to the very messy end it provides an experience that is existential and yet so very material.

With a burritos construction you enter a funny world where suddenly "healthier" becomes "healthy", the differences between steak and beef are simultaneously expanded and contracted. In the real world steak is the superior of ground beef, in the world of burritos they are equals. Both distinguished yet different "meats", neither to be cast off without due consideration. And chicken, in the context of the burrito, becomes the "healthy choice", so long as you add the guac and sour cream in prodigious amounts.

Once constructed the sheer size and girth cant help but bring a smile to your face.

Burrito eating isn't without its hazards. Peeling away the strange aluminium/paper wrapper, seizing the massive lump in your child like hands, you realize you may be in over your head. Hunger gets the best of you and with that carnal delight that is all but lost in the civilized world you tear into the beast!

With the juices of joy dripping down your chin, flowing down your fingers, past your knuckles, down your writs, you devour on. Panic sets in at about this moment. Like the great Titanic and the epic Tower of Babel the true fault lies in the hubris of man. In our thirst for glory we create for the sake of creation, forgetting our place. A mere tortilla holds the vast bounty of bean and rice and meat and guac. You understand now that there is no turning back, that doom is knocking at the door. If you pause for even one moment, so much as to take a breath, sip your coke, or wipe the sweet grease from your face, all that is and was and ever will be of your burrito will spill forth into ruin and all will be lost.

So you eat on. You fill past bursting and then fill some more. You suffer as none have suffered and for the same reason all have suffered before, because you must. Sweat beads on your forehead, your breath gets shallow and labored. Yet bite after agonizing bite you devour on.

Because you must.

Yet it is all worth it. You take that final, triumphant bite. You know you have achieved greatness! As you sit back, contemplate the carnage before you, a realization strikes like lightning, you shall never eat again.

And this is ok, because the Burrito has filled you completely, both belly and soul.

Its Snowing

Its been awhile.

If I could sum up my last few months in one word, it would be "frustration".

I had this image on returning to America the triumphant hero. That I would stroll in and America would bow to my worth and value. I imagined I could apply to any old job and get it, extol my exploits and be welcome in the most exclusive circles, cast a wayward glance and watch the girls swoon.

This has not been the case.

The frustrations are numerous. For one, job hunting sucks. There just isn't anything out there that I WANT to do. I don't want to sell insurance or count peanuts for Scruge McDuck. All the jobs that seem right for me require years of experience in the field, but no one tells us how to get into the field.

The usual laments of a 20 something.

David Eggers comes to mind. In his modest memoir "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" he extols that strange mix of hope, desperation, and, worst of all, possibility that plagues us. I haven't read the book in years, tho it always sticks with me. Its the story, his story, of finding purpose and direction in those listless twenty something years. He uproots, starts a magazine, works hard, and fails and succeeds. He does stuff. I sit at home and watch my bank account, hoping some math lesson I missed in 8th grade will change that little numbers color.

Read the book, its good.

Today the snow started falling in giant fluffy flakes. It was the kind of snow fall that makes you dream of sleigh rides (not that anyone has ever actually been on a sleigh ride) and little villages nestled in the woods with warm fires and fat women inside each little home. It was the kind of snow that lulls you into a feeling a security. The snow left me with the idea that everything will be alright.

Now I look out and the snow continues to fall but its changed. Its now the kind of snow that will make the going tough and reminds you that its a long cold winter ahead. I guess thats how these things go. When it all starts you revel in the challenge, welcome the exciting, long for the difficult. You measure yourself against the idea.

Now, I can only measure myself against the reality.

Readjustment

People keep asking me "hows America?"

And what is a poor fresh RPCV like myself supposed to say?

Truth is, its a little over rated, but still #1.

While sitting in my hut I exaggerated the wonderful nature of the U.S. of A. The food was better in my mind, the convenience of driving more fun, the juices and snacks more plentiful. The idea of America was an incredibly powerful part of my Peace Corps experience.

Shortly before I came home I had a vivid dream. At the time I had a big, bushy, mountain man beard which could have hidden away any number of small woodland creatures. In my dream, and it was one of those drams you think is absolutely and utterly real, I found myself in front of a plate piled high with Buffalo Wings.

The poor guys didn't have a chance!

I recall eating one wing in particular, one of the little two bone guys, and I was intently trying to get all the succulent meat out from between the two bones, working it this way and that, hot sauce and chicken bits smearing across and into and around my beard and face and hands.

It was glorious!

When I woke up I had to wash my face several times. I was convinced that I had wing remains all over me.

A few days ago myself and a handful of friends hit up Buffalo Wild Wings, that chain place which specializes in providing the ultimate in televised entertainment and fifty million sauces for your wings. Being the over zealous individual that I am, I ordered 18 wings in three sauces.

A few things I learned;

1. American hot sauce is not as hot as I recall.

2. There is such a thing as too many wings

3. An individual who has been a defacto vegetarian for two years should never, ever, ever, ever, eat a meal that is 99% meat and 1% spicy hot sauce.

4. Dont chase your dreams.

The wings were good, dont get me wrong. But it was at that moment, perhaps 12 wings in, when I realized I was attempting to achieve something that was impossible. The concept and the idea of America that had sustained me in Lesotho was non transferable to the real U. S. of A.

As a PCV I needed the idea. I needed to build america up as a land of dreams, a land where anything was possible, a place of both milk and honey. Those cold lonely nights in my hut were bearable because I could imagine a place with heat, I could imagine a place where iced coffee was just $5 away (and I suppose a place where I had $5, another myth).

Yet despite the disappointment, I wouldnt trade those days of fantasy for any reality that resembled it. I'm glad I'm disappointed. I'm happy that America isn't all I'd imagined. It reminds me that the world is a real place, America is a real place, and I have a place in that.

Abstract, wandering, not entirely clear, I know, but important none the less.

On a side note: I enjoy blogging. The hubris that I spoke of in my first post is still there. I enjoy a certain comfort in thinking that someone out there might read what I write. The egoism of thinking my ideas are worth publication, which is the disease of my generation, is incubating nicely within me.

The blog will stay, my self gratifying posts will (if I'm not as lazy) continue to appear.

Leavin' on a Jet Plane!

Thats what your supposed to write in posts like these.

I'm sitting here in the Johannesburg Airport waiting for my flight. Its 7pm and my flight doesnt leave until 10. So I have some time.

I suppose you all want to hear about how I feel about leaving, what my service meant to me, or a few words on the state of mankind.

Sorry, you wont get it.

Not yet anyway.

Instead I present for your consideration:

Wavin' Flag

Walkin'

I’ve taken to pacing in the evening. Once the sun dips down below the opposite ridge of the valley I put on my wool hat, turn on my iPod, and walk 33 paces down my “lawn”, turn around, and walk 33 paces back the other way to my pit-latrine. I’ve been known to do this for up to an hour and a half (until it gets too dark to see anything, and I get too hungry to think anything.)

The Bo-Me’ have taken to calling me “the Chicken”, because I look like a chicken looking for food I guess.

The children always ask me what I’m doing.

I don’t have much of an answer for them. I tell them, “I’m thinking” and they ask “about what?” and that’s where the language barrier slams down between us.

Even if I had the words I’m not sure I’d be able to explain.

When I graduated High School I was at a bit of a crossroads. I’d just been cut free from the life I’d known since I was 5. Wake up, go to school, explain why I was late, learn some, come home, do anything but homework, and repeat. After High School we’re lead to believe that the entire world is before us. Truth be told, I knew that at least the next few years would hold much the same.

College was another routine and more of the same. Throw in a job and you more or less have the same thing. Even after College I knew the general direction I wanted to go.

Cross roads isn’t the right analogy. With a cross roads you can go left, right, or straight. Maybe its one of those crazy five point crossroads that everyone panics a bit when they come too. You still have clear options. Now I have a feeling that its more like the road has come to an end at the ocean.

I can do anything.

I can do nothing.

While I pace I think about all my options. Professional options; I could get a job, go back into politics, try to find something else I believe in. Educational options; law school, grad school, technical school, language school… And personal options; time with family, time with friends, places to live, girls, girls, girls…

I attempted to explain this to a girl of 12 who has particularly good English. She didn’t understand at all.

Take all this, the ending of the road, the open sea, the possibilities of life all spread out before me, and then add in that nagging question, that question you cant help when answering truthfully but sound a little conceited, cliché, hokey or foolish.

What has the last two years been?

So I just walk. Thirty three steps this way, followed by thirty three that way. One slow step at a time the questions come and the questions go.

A Ramble on Romance

Valentines Day is looming. My calendar calls it “St. Valentines Day”, but I don’t see anything saintly about it. It sucks. Mostly it sucks because it brutally reminds the lonely hearted just how lonely their hearts really are.

I’ve never been good at Valentines Day. I think if you were to poll my past girlfriends you would realize that I’m not a terribly romantic person. You would also likely hear a few other choice things, which is why I do not advise you to poll my past girlfriends.

Valentines Day is a lot of pressure. You have to take all kinds of things into consideration. What she likes, what has meaning, what she wants, what you’ve given in the past, blah, blah, blah. I recall one instance (I don’t even think it was Valentines Day, it was an anniversary or some other important thing like that, but the point still stands) where I thought to myself “self, we should really try to be romantic this time around” and that sounded like a rather good idea at the time. So we (Self and I) went out and got a dozen roses. That’s twelve. Apparently roses are five bucks a pop.

I was going to say “I’ll let you do the math” but I wont. $5 x 12 = $60.

I know, I know, you can’t put a price on love. The depths of the heart cannot be judged by the depth of the wallet. All I want is a rational, grounded, understanding of what $60 could be! The sacrifice that $60 represented, at that stage of my life, was quite significant. But I digress.

Upon presentation of said floral arrangement I was shocked to hear “oh, flowers again…” Apparently this girl was wise to my ticks. More appropriately my one trick. For when it comes to affairs of romance and the such I’m really a one trick horse.

I lack creativity. I have no sense of the meaningful, what ever that is. I’m not spontaneous.

I am deficient in romance.

Unromantic.

Romance is too much pressure. If it’s the thought that counts its gotta be a good thought. And I’m kinda dumb.

And another thing! Spontaneous?! How the hell is a guy supposed to be spontaneous? Valentines day is right there on the calendar! Its hardly spontaneous if its scheduled.

So what’s to blame? Why is Romance so hard?

Movies.

That’s why. All these silly girls watch silly romantic comedies where all the silly guys are nothing but kind and loving and spontaneous and thoughtful and romantic. Some hunk or another does the right thing at the right time and always knows what to say. Well you know what? Most guys don’t know this stuff. Most guys have trouble figuring out their own feelings. How are they supposed to know how girls feel?

Why is all the pressure on the guy anyway? Isn’t love a two way street? A girl can get away with a DVD but a guy’s gotta do something meaningful and sweet.

I got on a little rant there.

Anyway, here’s to Valentines Day.

A Cultural Exchange

I don’t dance

I have never been known for my dancing abilities. I have that unfortunate combination of genes that both obliterate rhythm and coordination. Add to that a complete disconnect from what music is “hip” and “cool” and you get someone who, for the greater good and a love of humanity, stays away from the dance floor.

This was fine and good for the first 24 years of my life. I was able to fake it enough, bob my head when I needed too, shuffle my feet when asked, and rock back and forth. I could shimmy my way across the dance floor to the place where others with my unfortunate condition congregate. Couches, kitchens, tables, and porches. These were my sanctuaries.

In Peace Corps when you get four or more volunteers in the same place with anything resembling a beat or sounds that are close to music (and I’ve noticed the sounds don’t have to sound much like music) you suddenly have a gathering that falls into the category of “Dance Party”. I’m not sure what happened to good ol’ fashioned parties, but they appear to have gone the way of the dodo, being completely replaced with what the trendy folk call a “DP”.

It became clear that my old tricks and strategies were of no use. In a one room rondaval the kitchen is the dance floor, there are no couches, the two chairs have been pushed aside, no group of smokers to hide in. Its all DP all the time. No sanctuary, no hope.

So you dance.

And I've danced.

When Peace Corps asked me if I was ready for new cultural experiences I never imagined this. What is someone like myself supposed to do? I’m not entirely sure what’s supposed to happen when you’re on the dance floor. Frank Sinatra led me to believe that dancing was “making love to music”, but if that’s the case, the love making going on here wouldn’t have a place on Showtime. It’s the kind that would exist behind the little black curtain in the video store. “Bumping” and “Grinding” looks like a high risk behavior, something where you call up your doctor the day after.

Yet I dance.

I change.

I adapt.

For I am human.

But don’t for a second think I like it.

Fightin'

I’m itchin’ for a fight. I have been for a while.

We just received three new volunteers here in Butha-Buthe. They’re all nice, optimistic, hopeful young kids. They’ll undoubtedly change the world (and Africa along the way!). To an old veteran like me it’s nice to see the fresh energy, the new faces, the hope and pleasure of being a volunteer.

It reminds me why I came and how I felt at first.

I’ve spent some time with these newbies, showed them around town a bit, tried to convey some of the finer points of life and travel in Lesotho. The difficulty is in keeping my jaded bitter old thoughts to myself. Last night one of the newbies asked me what the hardest part of Peace Corps has been. I gave the usual answers, missing friends, family, projects falling apart, lack of motivation in myself and others, ect, ect, bullshit, bullshit…

Then a thought occurred to me. Something I had had a feeling of for some time but never put to words. Something that had been festering under the skin for the past year or so, growing and breeding and lead to a lot of my frustrations.

I wanted a fight.

I didn’t want to lay my sudden insight on the poor guy, so here I am, laying it on you. You’re the outlet for keeping hope and optimism alive as long as possible.

Here in Lesotho I act as a facilitator. That’s a fancy way of saying I don’t “own” the projects I work on. None of them are “mine”, and that’s the point. They should be “owned” by the Basotho. The ideas should be community driven, initiated, and executed while I just sit there and give them the ability to achieve their goals. Skill transfer, an idea sounding board, maybe just a little bit of money. I’m the tool box, they’re the carpenters.

This Sucks. Nothing is mine. I don’t feel the passionate need to “go to the mattresses”. I don’t say up at night worrying about success or failure. So much of it is out of my hands that its hard to get worked up over it. I miss the days of really fighting the good fight. I miss applying myself to a task, which was in my own hands to achieve, and really working out the short and long of it. In short, I miss the conflict, the struggle, the challenge.

I’m itchin’ for a fight.

Watch out.

Just thoughts

I have just around seven months left in my Peace Corps service. To be a bit more precise I have 31 weeks left if I choose to close my service (CoS) in July. With only half a year left its natural to look back and think of the things I’ve done.

My mind then goes blank.

A large part of the Peace Corps support structure is to remind us that we are just one person, one little cog, one little ant in the grand scheme of things. They remind us that even if our projects fail, if our support groups disappear and the clubs never fully form, our simple presence in the village, at the work place, changes lives and helps.

We will never see the change we make.

Despite these constant reminders its hard not to get discouraged. Most of the projects, due to a lack of commitment, money issues, misunderstandings, or what have you, have failed. Small projects, such as setting up gardens or co-ops get my hopes up, and then a month or so later turn into disappointments. This late in the game I don’t even know if I can say I’m giving it my all anymore.

Its hard.

At the same time I sit here and look back on the past year and half I’ve spent in Africa, living a life that would be hard to even comprehend in America, and think fondly of it. It’s a bit of a paradox. A sense of failure mixed with accomplishment.

The skills I’ll take away from this are far to interpersonal and deeply rooted to accurately explain. I’m certain that I can tolerate just about any work condition. I’m sure that when (if) I get a real job there wont be a task to hard, boring, or useless for me to take on. I’m also afraid I wont be able to share, in the true sense, how important this has been in my life.
Stories will be told, but details left out.

Memories related but meaning lost.

Merry X-mass if I don’t post before then!

I Havn't Forgotten...

Its been about 5 months since my last post. Sorry about that. The thing is that when I finally sit down in front of a computer I find myself far too tired or busy or distracted to really write anything.

I've actually been writing alot! We have a new news letter here in country by PCV's for PCV's. I've taken on the responsibility (because I dont know how to say no, and it makes up for my laziness at site) of editing the poor thing. When there isnt an article to full room, I write one up. I'm rather enjoying it!

Stay tuned, I promise I'll post something tomorrow, even if its a short, uninteresting little blurb like this.

Adios