Just came in from fireworks, which were incredible, to find an email from my dad in my mailbox. lt's mid-morning there, and was hoping to hear from him on the New Year, also in large part because there is rioting in Kenya over the latest elections, and l wanted to know if he was alright.
Here is his response.
"Yes, things are very tense and unsettled here. Lots of rioting, roughly 125 dead, but almost all of it is in the downtown areas of cities and the slum areas (mostly Nairobi, Kisumu, and Mombasa). Kibaki literally stole the election from Raila Odinga (rigging, very obvious rigging) and people are really pissed. Odinga has called on his supporters to do a peaceful protest rally on Thursday, 3rd, and says he expects a million people to show up. He might be right. I suspect the unrest is going to continue until one way or another Kibaki is forced to step down. I just don't see people giving in to his theft of the election. So we might be in for several months of unrest. Hopefully it won't take that long, but who knows?
Meanwhile it's bad. Angelina, my house help, had her house in Kawangware burned down and lost everything but one bed and a few clothes. Fanice, Cathy's <dad's ex> house help, also had her house in Kawangware burned down. Josephine almost had her's burned too but the police showed up just in time and prevented it happening. But she was really scared. In the midst of it, she sent me a text saying houses were burning and her's would probably be burned and she didn't know if they would survive. When I finally managed to get through to her on the phone, she said the police had arrived just in time and they were all OK (Angelina and Fanice too). I finally decided to go out today (without Aidan <that's my little brother>) to try to help Victor find food for him and Vincent and to try to find some phone scratch cards so Josephine would have some credit to be able to call if she needed help (or if Angelina or Fanice did). Everything was shut down tight. At Yaya <the local mall>, the guards there weren't even letting people into the parking areas. On Ngong Road near the Nakumatt closest to Yaya, there were smoking embers of a burned barricade in the middle of the road and a couple of military men standing by. I finally left Victor at Adams Arcade and he managed to find some food and, later, some phone cards. But people are really worried. They know people won't let Kibaki stay but don't know what the country is going to have to go through in order to get him out. And unfortunately it's turned into a tribal thing and a lot of the fighting, attacking, and burning of houses and businesses is Kikuyus (Kibaki) attacking Luos (Odinga) or vice versa. It's the most open and virulent tribal strife since Kenya got independence, and that obviously also has people worried. There's a real chance it could turn into open warfare, especially in the western areas, but hopefully it won't come to that. But it could leave wounds that make tribalism a major issue for years to come and that would really be a tragedy."
As you can tell, not only is the place l consider my homeland falling apart, the two men l love most (and some of my dearest childhood friends) are smack in the middle of it, and before it's even gotten to the REALLY ugly part, they're already having trouble finding food. For those of you who ever wondered what real anarchy might be like, or who are anarchists yourselves but have yet to really experience it, here you go. Nairobi has the highest urban population in East Africa, with an estimated population of between 3 and 4 million (according to the 1999 Census, 2,143,254 inhabitants in the administrative area of Nairobi lived within 684 square kilometers). This could literally halt the economy, and force a significant percentage of that very large population into starvation pretty much overnight. Imagine what kind of chaos that creates. And what happens if an initially peaceful protest of a MILLION people goes awry? l was literally and physically right in the very middle of the riots that followed the death of Robert Ouko at twelve or fourteen, and THAT mob was probably only a couple of hundred people, but l can tell you l've never been so scared in my life. Maybe THIS is what the American people are afraid of when it comes to rebelling against a president for whom they did not vote. l can't say l really blame them at this very moment.
Meanwhile, my father is risking his life to feed his son with food that seems to be fast running scarce.
On top of all this, l was informed that my dad's ex said she was buying a house in Sydney and may try and take my brother back to Sydney with her, in which case he and l may never see him again. Her contract in Nairobi isn't up for two years - and the divorce isn't even final - but there's nothing stopping her from booking a ticket and flying my brother out on one of the nights or weekends that he's at her place. The chances of that happening just increased 20-50% now that the city is so unsafe.
My New Year has suddenly become far more than a bad sunburn and a day at the beach. Now l have this: www.cnn.com/video/#/vide...tion.wrap.itn
Terrified Ali
Monday, December 31, 2007
What a vacation.
l went to the beach.
lt was awesome. Met new in-laws, welcomed young new life, met more family friends, and got to know them all better than l had the last time l'd seen them, or at least from the moment we met.
lt rained every day but two. Yesterday was one of them. It was our last day at the beach, and l was really pissed about that since l wanted to go out and dance with the young generation and have a New Year blowout, but my flight leaves tomorrow morning, and it wasn't possible.
Turns out dancing wouldn't be possible anyway. Yesterday being one of the sunny days, l went out, walked four miles around the beach, and forgot to apply a second layer of lotion to my legs. l am now swollen to twice my size, and one would wonder if l was pregnant by the looks of my ankles. My man suggested they might be second degree burns, and l'm thinking he may be right. l walk kind of like a duck so my legs don't rub together and chafe any more than necessary, and my ankles are so stiff and tight that they won't move properly, which means that even if l WAS still at the beach, there'd be nooooo dancin for the Ali, not a chance.
So we went out to a lovely french dinner. My mother dressed me up in her clothes, and l never thought l'd say this, but l looked smashing. l asked her if she was dressing me up for the fun of it, or if she didn't think what l brought would look good enough. She said a little of both. l was slightly offended, but l think she thought l was going to wear my bathing suit coverup, since she hadn't seen the outfit l packed. lt was cute and amusingly honest nonetheless, but as l said, l looked damn good, so hey, who gets to play such fun dressup with their moms at 31?? :)
So the family's all gone to bed, and l'm sitting here, about to finish this blog, as it's going to be New Year's in Costa Rica in about 8 minutes. l will walk out on my mom's patio, which overlooks the entire city of San Jose, finish my celebratory drink, have a cigarettte, watch the fireworks, count my blessings and reflect upon the year past and the one to come, and go to bed, a pleasantly buzzed, extremely itchy, slightly injured but very contented lobster.
Happy New Year, yáll. (apparently costa rican style, since my mom's computer is possessed by some spanish program that wants to add accents to all of my shit)
lt was awesome. Met new in-laws, welcomed young new life, met more family friends, and got to know them all better than l had the last time l'd seen them, or at least from the moment we met.
lt rained every day but two. Yesterday was one of them. It was our last day at the beach, and l was really pissed about that since l wanted to go out and dance with the young generation and have a New Year blowout, but my flight leaves tomorrow morning, and it wasn't possible.
Turns out dancing wouldn't be possible anyway. Yesterday being one of the sunny days, l went out, walked four miles around the beach, and forgot to apply a second layer of lotion to my legs. l am now swollen to twice my size, and one would wonder if l was pregnant by the looks of my ankles. My man suggested they might be second degree burns, and l'm thinking he may be right. l walk kind of like a duck so my legs don't rub together and chafe any more than necessary, and my ankles are so stiff and tight that they won't move properly, which means that even if l WAS still at the beach, there'd be nooooo dancin for the Ali, not a chance.
So we went out to a lovely french dinner. My mother dressed me up in her clothes, and l never thought l'd say this, but l looked smashing. l asked her if she was dressing me up for the fun of it, or if she didn't think what l brought would look good enough. She said a little of both. l was slightly offended, but l think she thought l was going to wear my bathing suit coverup, since she hadn't seen the outfit l packed. lt was cute and amusingly honest nonetheless, but as l said, l looked damn good, so hey, who gets to play such fun dressup with their moms at 31?? :)
So the family's all gone to bed, and l'm sitting here, about to finish this blog, as it's going to be New Year's in Costa Rica in about 8 minutes. l will walk out on my mom's patio, which overlooks the entire city of San Jose, finish my celebratory drink, have a cigarettte, watch the fireworks, count my blessings and reflect upon the year past and the one to come, and go to bed, a pleasantly buzzed, extremely itchy, slightly injured but very contented lobster.
Happy New Year, yáll. (apparently costa rican style, since my mom's computer is possessed by some spanish program that wants to add accents to all of my shit)
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Costa Rrrrrrrriiiiiiicaaaaaaa, baby!
l leave for Costa Rica in two days. Off to see my mother, and the Texan side of the family, who's also flying down, and whom l haven't seen in something like five or six years...maybe seven....ack. Anyway, it'll be really kickass to see them.
My grandmother will also be flying down. She's now 91. She's always looked two decades younger than she was, and has always been spry. l think this will be the first time l see her at her own age. l'm not sure how l feel about that. l've honestly never liked her much. l liked her a lot more when my grandfather was still alive. He was her raison d'etre, and l think after his death, the world became a very ugly place for her. She didn't feel like she belonged amongst all this technology, this rap stuff, this world that had changed so much since she was a child. And when my grandad died, l think the world took from her the only human being who ever understood her. Since then, she has just been generally disapproving of everything, and my mom catches the most hell for that. She just can't seem to do anything right in her mother's eyes, and l wonder if that's why my mother has been so very patient with me through all my stupid bullshit - even times when l probably would have benefited more from a kick in the ass than a loving, accommodating response. l can't imagine how painful it must be to grow up with a parent who never quite appreciates you...no matter how admirable and mature you prove yourself to be.
But l had my moments with the grandmother too. After my mom and l moved back from Kenya, we stayed with my grandmother for a few months. lt was shortly after my grandad's passing, so we helped her pack up his stuff, and l think she needed the company. But she made my life miserable. lt didn't help l was seventeen and adjusting to some major changes of my own, but l discovered during this time, for the first time, that she was racist. My best friend's boyfriend was Mexican, and one day when they picked me up, my grandmother made some comment about how he didn't belong in that neighborhood. They picked me up a block away after that. l realize now that l should have had the presence of mind to remember she was in mourning and l should have been more considerate.
l realize now that she just feels LOST. She doesn't know how to navigate this world that moves so fast, and she has nobody to compare this growth with. And l realize that because l never had much in common with her, l never actually TALKED to her, and l certainly didn't listen. l never asked her how she felt about the life she lived and what she'd seen, or the life lessons she felt she'd been given. To me, she was just some woman born almost a century ago, restricted by misogyny, war, and financial depression, in small town Waco, whose major excitements in life seemed to pretty much be bake sales and church. But does that mean her life wasn't rich in some ways?
l've decided l intend to find out. l wrote her a letter this year, apologizing for my general aloofness and disinterest. l pretty much let it all hang out, and owned my lack of compassion. lt was a difficult, humbling letter to write. But l think she understood, and l know she appreciated it. This year l am giving her a notebook in which l hope and will encourage her to write about the stories and moments in her life that shaped her, changed her, surprised her, and pleased her. l hope that it's not too late to get to know her. And l think this is my goal for this trip.
My grandmother will also be flying down. She's now 91. She's always looked two decades younger than she was, and has always been spry. l think this will be the first time l see her at her own age. l'm not sure how l feel about that. l've honestly never liked her much. l liked her a lot more when my grandfather was still alive. He was her raison d'etre, and l think after his death, the world became a very ugly place for her. She didn't feel like she belonged amongst all this technology, this rap stuff, this world that had changed so much since she was a child. And when my grandad died, l think the world took from her the only human being who ever understood her. Since then, she has just been generally disapproving of everything, and my mom catches the most hell for that. She just can't seem to do anything right in her mother's eyes, and l wonder if that's why my mother has been so very patient with me through all my stupid bullshit - even times when l probably would have benefited more from a kick in the ass than a loving, accommodating response. l can't imagine how painful it must be to grow up with a parent who never quite appreciates you...no matter how admirable and mature you prove yourself to be.
But l had my moments with the grandmother too. After my mom and l moved back from Kenya, we stayed with my grandmother for a few months. lt was shortly after my grandad's passing, so we helped her pack up his stuff, and l think she needed the company. But she made my life miserable. lt didn't help l was seventeen and adjusting to some major changes of my own, but l discovered during this time, for the first time, that she was racist. My best friend's boyfriend was Mexican, and one day when they picked me up, my grandmother made some comment about how he didn't belong in that neighborhood. They picked me up a block away after that. l realize now that l should have had the presence of mind to remember she was in mourning and l should have been more considerate.
l realize now that she just feels LOST. She doesn't know how to navigate this world that moves so fast, and she has nobody to compare this growth with. And l realize that because l never had much in common with her, l never actually TALKED to her, and l certainly didn't listen. l never asked her how she felt about the life she lived and what she'd seen, or the life lessons she felt she'd been given. To me, she was just some woman born almost a century ago, restricted by misogyny, war, and financial depression, in small town Waco, whose major excitements in life seemed to pretty much be bake sales and church. But does that mean her life wasn't rich in some ways?
l've decided l intend to find out. l wrote her a letter this year, apologizing for my general aloofness and disinterest. l pretty much let it all hang out, and owned my lack of compassion. lt was a difficult, humbling letter to write. But l think she understood, and l know she appreciated it. This year l am giving her a notebook in which l hope and will encourage her to write about the stories and moments in her life that shaped her, changed her, surprised her, and pleased her. l hope that it's not too late to get to know her. And l think this is my goal for this trip.
Monday, September 24, 2007
We love these things.
Who was the last person to call you baby?
The guy l'm hangin with. But l call him baby too, so we're even.
2. When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?
I have to, it won't fit in the trunk.
3. If you had to kiss the last person you kissed, would you?
Gimme a reason not to and l'll give you three why l should.
4. Has someone ever sang a song to you?
DUDE!!! NEVER EVER! Where's John Cusack when you need him. Oh wait, he didn't sing. Well, nobody ever rocked a Peter Gabriel song ala boombox under my bedroom window either.
5. Do you play Sudoku?
l'm a smart chick. Therefore, l have a number of better ways to spend my time and intellect.
(2010 edit: l'm completely and utterly addicted to it now.)
6. If abandoned alone in the wilderness would you survive?
Oh hell yeah. l might be grumpy tho.
7. If your house was on fire, what would be the first thing you would do?
Me, my cat, my art, my writing, and first but mentioned last, the two memoir books my mother made me.
8. Who was the last person you shared a bed with?
The sweetheart l'm hangin with. We don't get to share a bed as often as l'd like, but he says he'd never get to work on time, and he's right. lt's a weird mixed compliment.
9. Who do you text the most?
Brooke, usually. Lately upstaged by the guy l'm hangin with.
10. Who last said they loved you?
My boy Mike. l love him so much. He's my best guy friend.
11. What color are your eyes?
Gray and green.
12. How tall are you?
5'5" and a half. The half counts. l used to be five six until l had a compression fracture and lost half, swingin on some rope swing in a graveyard and falling off when l was eighteen. l called my mom from the hospital and she told me to take two aspirin and come home. She figured out later it was actually for real.
13. Do you like your parents?
Oh, hell yes. They are the most engaging, interesting, astute people l could ever hope to know. l have 'mom' and 'dad' tattooed on my feet. l told em they were the only tattoos they could never bitch about. l have a sneaky feeling they're flattered.
14. Do you secretly like someone?
lf l like someone it's never a secret. THEY may not realize it, but that's not cuz l haven't been giving them clues. Big ones.
15. Why did your last relationship end?
Long distance. Too hard.
16. Who was the last person you said you loved on the phone?
Mom.
17. Favorite ex-Beatle?
Are there any *current* Beatles?
18. Where was the furthest place you traveled?
Probably Australia. Then Kenya, Belgium and Malaysia. lndia too, for a short bit.
19. Do you like mustard?
Hot and spicy baby.
20. Do you prefer to sleep or eat?
Sleep. l have the BEST DREAMS.
21. Do you look like your mom or dad?
l looked like my dad for a long time - strong fucking genes - but my smile is what makes me resemble my mom now. We hate that our smiles are so gummy, but we have great ones.
22. How long does it take you in the shower?
Generally about fifteen/twenty minutes. Unless l'm shaving.
23. Can you do splits?
Yeah. But it hurts when l do it now. And you better be promising me gifts to do it.
24. What movie do you want to see right now?
The final conclusion to the Resident Evil series. And Knocked Up.
25. What did you do for New Year's Eve?
Sat on my ass and drank beer alone. What can l say, it just wasn't that big a deal.
26. Do you think The Grudge was crappy?
l loved it. Scared the shit out of me, great acting on the part of the non-American actors. But l love Michelle Gellar, l have a thing for Buffy.
27. Was your mom a cheerleader?
Yes. Head cheerleader. Turned bohemian world traveler. From Waco, no less.
28. What's the last letter of your middle name?
T.
29. How many hours of sleep do you get a night?
That all depends on whether or not l'm getting laid.
30. Do you like care bears?
What am l, five?
31. What do you buy at the Movies?
Um..... movies? Oh, you mean the theater. l go maybe once a year now, if that. But l'm a sucker for the nachos.
32. Do you know how to play poker?
Oddly l seem to be a natural, which is weird when my entire strategy is to bluff when l'm down and pretend to be low when l'm high. But it works. Which is good when my step-family does nothing but drink and play poker. lt's also fun to play penny poker with seniors.
33. Do you wear your seatbelt?
Hell yeah, dude. The idea of breaking a windshield with my head isn't fun.
34. What do you wear to sleep?
Um, nothing?
35. Anything big ever happen in your town?
Depends on which town. The whole Davidian standoff in Waco happened on my birthday when l was there. Nairobi's embassy got bombed, and l was present when its Minister of Agriculture, Ouko, was murdered. l got caught in those riots one day and teargassed. The Olympics in Atlanta was bombed. Seattle had WTO. Pick a town. l've seen some weird shit.
36. Is your hair straight or curly?
Currrrrrly.
37. Is your tongue pierced?
Used to be. Went to jail, they made me take the jewelry out, and it was closed up when l got out.
38. Do you like Liver and Onions?
l try to. But it never happens. l like the onions.
39. Do you like funny or serious people better?
Both. No comparison. But if a person is so serious they can't make me laugh, then l'll go with funny. l need humor in my life and lots of it.
40. Ever been to L.A.?
For like a day or two. lt blew. l hated it. Too much superficiality for me. Ugh.
41. Who or what is on your mind right now?
Well, duh. Sex.
42. Any plans for tonight?
l'm answering this survey.
43. What's your favorite song at the moment?
Dunno.
44. Do you hate chocolate?
Wtf? Who "hates" chocolate?!
45. Are you in college?
No.
46. Do you need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy?
lf l did, l wouldn't be all that healthy now, would l.
47. If you could have any job what would it be?
Hip hop dancer or choreographer.
48. Are you easy to get along with?
Unless you piss me off.
49. What is your favorite time of day?
Beer o'clock.
50. Are you a generally happy person?
Yeah. l dig life. And me.
The guy l'm hangin with. But l call him baby too, so we're even.
2. When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?
I have to, it won't fit in the trunk.
3. If you had to kiss the last person you kissed, would you?
Gimme a reason not to and l'll give you three why l should.
4. Has someone ever sang a song to you?
DUDE!!! NEVER EVER! Where's John Cusack when you need him. Oh wait, he didn't sing. Well, nobody ever rocked a Peter Gabriel song ala boombox under my bedroom window either.
5. Do you play Sudoku?
l'm a smart chick. Therefore, l have a number of better ways to spend my time and intellect.
(2010 edit: l'm completely and utterly addicted to it now.)
6. If abandoned alone in the wilderness would you survive?
Oh hell yeah. l might be grumpy tho.
7. If your house was on fire, what would be the first thing you would do?
Me, my cat, my art, my writing, and first but mentioned last, the two memoir books my mother made me.
8. Who was the last person you shared a bed with?
The sweetheart l'm hangin with. We don't get to share a bed as often as l'd like, but he says he'd never get to work on time, and he's right. lt's a weird mixed compliment.
9. Who do you text the most?
Brooke, usually. Lately upstaged by the guy l'm hangin with.
10. Who last said they loved you?
My boy Mike. l love him so much. He's my best guy friend.
11. What color are your eyes?
Gray and green.
12. How tall are you?
5'5" and a half. The half counts. l used to be five six until l had a compression fracture and lost half, swingin on some rope swing in a graveyard and falling off when l was eighteen. l called my mom from the hospital and she told me to take two aspirin and come home. She figured out later it was actually for real.
13. Do you like your parents?
Oh, hell yes. They are the most engaging, interesting, astute people l could ever hope to know. l have 'mom' and 'dad' tattooed on my feet. l told em they were the only tattoos they could never bitch about. l have a sneaky feeling they're flattered.
14. Do you secretly like someone?
lf l like someone it's never a secret. THEY may not realize it, but that's not cuz l haven't been giving them clues. Big ones.
15. Why did your last relationship end?
Long distance. Too hard.
16. Who was the last person you said you loved on the phone?
Mom.
17. Favorite ex-Beatle?
Are there any *current* Beatles?
18. Where was the furthest place you traveled?
Probably Australia. Then Kenya, Belgium and Malaysia. lndia too, for a short bit.
19. Do you like mustard?
Hot and spicy baby.
20. Do you prefer to sleep or eat?
Sleep. l have the BEST DREAMS.
21. Do you look like your mom or dad?
l looked like my dad for a long time - strong fucking genes - but my smile is what makes me resemble my mom now. We hate that our smiles are so gummy, but we have great ones.
22. How long does it take you in the shower?
Generally about fifteen/twenty minutes. Unless l'm shaving.
23. Can you do splits?
Yeah. But it hurts when l do it now. And you better be promising me gifts to do it.
24. What movie do you want to see right now?
The final conclusion to the Resident Evil series. And Knocked Up.
25. What did you do for New Year's Eve?
Sat on my ass and drank beer alone. What can l say, it just wasn't that big a deal.
26. Do you think The Grudge was crappy?
l loved it. Scared the shit out of me, great acting on the part of the non-American actors. But l love Michelle Gellar, l have a thing for Buffy.
27. Was your mom a cheerleader?
Yes. Head cheerleader. Turned bohemian world traveler. From Waco, no less.
28. What's the last letter of your middle name?
T.
29. How many hours of sleep do you get a night?
That all depends on whether or not l'm getting laid.
30. Do you like care bears?
What am l, five?
31. What do you buy at the Movies?
Um..... movies? Oh, you mean the theater. l go maybe once a year now, if that. But l'm a sucker for the nachos.
32. Do you know how to play poker?
Oddly l seem to be a natural, which is weird when my entire strategy is to bluff when l'm down and pretend to be low when l'm high. But it works. Which is good when my step-family does nothing but drink and play poker. lt's also fun to play penny poker with seniors.
33. Do you wear your seatbelt?
Hell yeah, dude. The idea of breaking a windshield with my head isn't fun.
34. What do you wear to sleep?
Um, nothing?
35. Anything big ever happen in your town?
Depends on which town. The whole Davidian standoff in Waco happened on my birthday when l was there. Nairobi's embassy got bombed, and l was present when its Minister of Agriculture, Ouko, was murdered. l got caught in those riots one day and teargassed. The Olympics in Atlanta was bombed. Seattle had WTO. Pick a town. l've seen some weird shit.
36. Is your hair straight or curly?
Currrrrrly.
37. Is your tongue pierced?
Used to be. Went to jail, they made me take the jewelry out, and it was closed up when l got out.
38. Do you like Liver and Onions?
l try to. But it never happens. l like the onions.
39. Do you like funny or serious people better?
Both. No comparison. But if a person is so serious they can't make me laugh, then l'll go with funny. l need humor in my life and lots of it.
40. Ever been to L.A.?
For like a day or two. lt blew. l hated it. Too much superficiality for me. Ugh.
41. Who or what is on your mind right now?
Well, duh. Sex.
42. Any plans for tonight?
l'm answering this survey.
43. What's your favorite song at the moment?
Dunno.
44. Do you hate chocolate?
Wtf? Who "hates" chocolate?!
45. Are you in college?
No.
46. Do you need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy?
lf l did, l wouldn't be all that healthy now, would l.
47. If you could have any job what would it be?
Hip hop dancer or choreographer.
48. Are you easy to get along with?
Unless you piss me off.
49. What is your favorite time of day?
Beer o'clock.
50. Are you a generally happy person?
Yeah. l dig life. And me.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
On the bathroom door at my favorite doggie hangout
Some of you may have seen this already....
The 86 Rules of Drinking
1. If you owe someone money, always pay them back in a bar. Preferably during happy hour.
2. Always toast before doing a shot.
3. Whoever buys the shot gets the first chance to offer a toast.
4. Change your toast at least once a month.
5. Buying someone a drink is five times better than a handshake.
6. Buying a strange woman a drink is still cool. Buying all her drinks is dumb.
7. Never borrow more than one cigarette from the same person in one night.
8. When the bartender is slammed, resist the powerful urge to order a slightly-dirty, very-dry, in-and-out, super-chilled half-and-half martini with a lemon twist. Limit orders to beer, straight shots and two-part cocktails.
9. Get the bartender's attention with eye contact and a smile.
10. Do not make eye contact with the bartender if you do not want a drink.
11. Unacceptable things to say after doing a shot: Great, now I’m going to get drunk. I hate shots. It’s coming back up.
12. Never, ever tell a bartender he made your drink too strong.
13. If he makes it too weak, order a double next time. He'll get the message.
14. If you offer to buy a woman a drink and she refuses, she does not like you.
15. If you offer to buy a woman a drink and she accepts, she still might not like you.
16. If she buys you a drink, she likes you.
17. If someone offers to buy you a drink, do not upgrade your liquor preference.
18. Always have a corkscrew in your house.
19. If you don't have a corkscrew, push the cork down into the bottle with a pen.
20. Drink one girly drink in public and you will forever be known as the guy who drinks girly drinks.
21. Our parents were better drinkers than we are.
22. Never talk to someone in the restroom unless you're doing the same thing—urinating, waiting in line or washing your hands.
23. Girls hang out, apply make-up, and have long talks in the bathroom. Men do not.
24. After your sixth drink, do not look at yourself in the mirror. It will shake your confidence.
25. It is only permissible to shout 'woo-hoo!' if you are doing a shot with four or more people.
26. If there is a d.j., you can request a song only once per night. If he doesn't play it within half an hour, do not approach him again. If he does play it, do not approach him again.
27. Learn how to make a rose out of a bar napkin. You'll be surprised how well it works.
28. If you can't afford to tip, you can't afford to drink in a bar. Go to the liquor store.
29. If you owe someone twenty dollars or less, you may pay them back in beer.
30. Never complain about the quality or brand of a free drink.
31. If you have been roommates with someone more than six months, you may drink all their beer, even if it's hidden, as long as you leave them one.
32. You can have a shot of their hard liquor only if the cap has been cracked and the bottle goes for less than $25.
33. The only thing that tastes better than free liquor is stolen liquor.
34. If you bring Old Milwaukee to a party, you must drink at least two cans before you start drinking the imported beer in the fridge.
35. Learn to appreciate hangovers. If it was all good times every jackass would be doing it.
36. If you ever feel depressed, get out a bartender’s guide and browse through all the drinks you’ve never tried.
37. Try one new drink each week.
38. If you are the bar's sole customer, you are obliged to make small talk with the bartender until he stops acknowledging you. Then you're off the hook. The same goes for him.
39. Never tip with coins that have touched you. If your change is $1.50, you can tell the barmaid to keep the change, but once she has handed it to you, you cannot give it back. To a bartender or cocktail waitress, small change has no value.
40. If you have ever told a bartender, “Hey, it all spends the same,” then you are a cheap ass.
41. Anyone on stage or behind a bar is fifty percent better looking.
42. You can tell how hard a drinker someone is by how close they keep their drink to their mouth.
43. A bar is a college, not a nursery. If you spill a beer, clean it up. If you break a glass, wait for a staff member to clean it up, then blame it on someone else.
44. Being drunk is feeling sophisticated without being able to say it.
45. It's okay to drink alone.
46. After three drinks, you will forget a woman's name two seconds after she tells you. The rest of the night you will call her “baby” or “darling”.
47. Nothing screams 'nancy boy' louder than swirling an oversized brandy snifter.
48. Men don't drink from straws. Unless you're doing a Mind or Face Eraser.
49. If you do a shot, finish it. If you don't plan to finish it, don't accept it.
50. Never brood in a dance bar. Never dance in a dive bar.
51. Never play more than three songs by the same artist in a row.
52. Your songs will come on as you're leaving the bar.
53. Never yell out jukebox selections to someone you don't know.
54. Never lie in a bar. You may, however, grossly exaggerate and lean.
55. If you think you might be slurring a little, then you are slurring a lot. If you think you are slurring a lot, then you are not speaking English.
56. Screaming, “Someone buy me a drink!” has never worked.
57. For every drink, there is a five percent better chance you will get in a fight. There is also a three percent better chance you will lose the fight.
58. Fighting an extremely drunk person when you are sober is hilarious.
59. If you are broke and a friend is “sporting you”, you must laugh at all his jokes and play wingman when he makes his move.
60. If you are broke and a friend is “making sport of you”, you may steal any drink he leaves unattended.
61. Never rest your head on a table or bar top. It is the equivalent of voluntarily putting your head on a chopping block.
62. If you are trading rounds with a friend and he asks if you're ready for another, always say yes. Once you fall out of sync you will end up buying more drinks than him.
63. If you're going to hit on a member of the bar staff, make sure you tip well before and after, regardless of her response.
64. The people with the most money are rarely the best tippers.
65. Before you die, single-handedly make one decent martini.
66. Asking a bartender what beers are on tap when the handles are right in front of you is the equivalent of saying, “I'm an idiot.”
67. Never ask a bartender “what's good tonight?” They do not fly in the scotch fresh from the coast every morning.
68. If there is a line for drinks, get your goddamn drink and step the hell away from the bar.
69. If there is ever any confusion, the fuller beer is yours.
70. The patrons at your local bar are your extended family, your fathers and mothers, your brothers and sisters. Except you get to sleep with these sisters. And if you're really drunk, the mothers.
71. It's acceptable, traditional in fact, to disappear during a night of hard drinking. You will appear mysterious and your friends will understand. If they even notice.
72. Never argue your tab at the end of the night. Remember, you're hammered and they’re sober. It's akin to a precocious five-year-old arguing the super-string theory with a physicist. 99.9% of the time you're wrong and either way you're going to come off as a jackass.
73. If you bring booze to a party, you must drink it or leave it.
74. If you hesitate more than three seconds after the bartender looks at you, you do not deserve a drink.
75. Beer makes you mellow, champagne makes you silly, wine makes you dramatic, tequila makes you felonious.
76. The greatest thing a drunkard can do is buy a round of drinks for a packed bar.
77. Never preface a conversation with a bartender with “I know this is going to be a hassle, but . . .”
78. When you’re in a bar and drunk, your boss is just another guy begging for a fat lip. Unless he’s buying.
79. If you are 86’d, do not return for at least three months. To come back sooner makes it appear no other bar wants you.
80. Anyone with three or more drinks in his hands has the right of way.
81. If you’re going to drink on the job, drink vodka. It’s the no-tell liquor.
82. There’s nothing wrong with drinking before noon. Especially if you’re supposed to be at work.
83. The bar clock moves twice as fast from midnight to last call.
84. A flask engraved with a personal message is one of the best gifts you can ever give. And make sure there’s something in it.
85. On the intimacy scale, sharing a quiet drink is between a handshake and a kiss.
86. You will forget every one of these rules by your fifth drink.
The 86 Rules of Drinking
1. If you owe someone money, always pay them back in a bar. Preferably during happy hour.
2. Always toast before doing a shot.
3. Whoever buys the shot gets the first chance to offer a toast.
4. Change your toast at least once a month.
5. Buying someone a drink is five times better than a handshake.
6. Buying a strange woman a drink is still cool. Buying all her drinks is dumb.
7. Never borrow more than one cigarette from the same person in one night.
8. When the bartender is slammed, resist the powerful urge to order a slightly-dirty, very-dry, in-and-out, super-chilled half-and-half martini with a lemon twist. Limit orders to beer, straight shots and two-part cocktails.
9. Get the bartender's attention with eye contact and a smile.
10. Do not make eye contact with the bartender if you do not want a drink.
11. Unacceptable things to say after doing a shot: Great, now I’m going to get drunk. I hate shots. It’s coming back up.
12. Never, ever tell a bartender he made your drink too strong.
13. If he makes it too weak, order a double next time. He'll get the message.
14. If you offer to buy a woman a drink and she refuses, she does not like you.
15. If you offer to buy a woman a drink and she accepts, she still might not like you.
16. If she buys you a drink, she likes you.
17. If someone offers to buy you a drink, do not upgrade your liquor preference.
18. Always have a corkscrew in your house.
19. If you don't have a corkscrew, push the cork down into the bottle with a pen.
20. Drink one girly drink in public and you will forever be known as the guy who drinks girly drinks.
21. Our parents were better drinkers than we are.
22. Never talk to someone in the restroom unless you're doing the same thing—urinating, waiting in line or washing your hands.
23. Girls hang out, apply make-up, and have long talks in the bathroom. Men do not.
24. After your sixth drink, do not look at yourself in the mirror. It will shake your confidence.
25. It is only permissible to shout 'woo-hoo!' if you are doing a shot with four or more people.
26. If there is a d.j., you can request a song only once per night. If he doesn't play it within half an hour, do not approach him again. If he does play it, do not approach him again.
27. Learn how to make a rose out of a bar napkin. You'll be surprised how well it works.
28. If you can't afford to tip, you can't afford to drink in a bar. Go to the liquor store.
29. If you owe someone twenty dollars or less, you may pay them back in beer.
30. Never complain about the quality or brand of a free drink.
31. If you have been roommates with someone more than six months, you may drink all their beer, even if it's hidden, as long as you leave them one.
32. You can have a shot of their hard liquor only if the cap has been cracked and the bottle goes for less than $25.
33. The only thing that tastes better than free liquor is stolen liquor.
34. If you bring Old Milwaukee to a party, you must drink at least two cans before you start drinking the imported beer in the fridge.
35. Learn to appreciate hangovers. If it was all good times every jackass would be doing it.
36. If you ever feel depressed, get out a bartender’s guide and browse through all the drinks you’ve never tried.
37. Try one new drink each week.
38. If you are the bar's sole customer, you are obliged to make small talk with the bartender until he stops acknowledging you. Then you're off the hook. The same goes for him.
39. Never tip with coins that have touched you. If your change is $1.50, you can tell the barmaid to keep the change, but once she has handed it to you, you cannot give it back. To a bartender or cocktail waitress, small change has no value.
40. If you have ever told a bartender, “Hey, it all spends the same,” then you are a cheap ass.
41. Anyone on stage or behind a bar is fifty percent better looking.
42. You can tell how hard a drinker someone is by how close they keep their drink to their mouth.
43. A bar is a college, not a nursery. If you spill a beer, clean it up. If you break a glass, wait for a staff member to clean it up, then blame it on someone else.
44. Being drunk is feeling sophisticated without being able to say it.
45. It's okay to drink alone.
46. After three drinks, you will forget a woman's name two seconds after she tells you. The rest of the night you will call her “baby” or “darling”.
47. Nothing screams 'nancy boy' louder than swirling an oversized brandy snifter.
48. Men don't drink from straws. Unless you're doing a Mind or Face Eraser.
49. If you do a shot, finish it. If you don't plan to finish it, don't accept it.
50. Never brood in a dance bar. Never dance in a dive bar.
51. Never play more than three songs by the same artist in a row.
52. Your songs will come on as you're leaving the bar.
53. Never yell out jukebox selections to someone you don't know.
54. Never lie in a bar. You may, however, grossly exaggerate and lean.
55. If you think you might be slurring a little, then you are slurring a lot. If you think you are slurring a lot, then you are not speaking English.
56. Screaming, “Someone buy me a drink!” has never worked.
57. For every drink, there is a five percent better chance you will get in a fight. There is also a three percent better chance you will lose the fight.
58. Fighting an extremely drunk person when you are sober is hilarious.
59. If you are broke and a friend is “sporting you”, you must laugh at all his jokes and play wingman when he makes his move.
60. If you are broke and a friend is “making sport of you”, you may steal any drink he leaves unattended.
61. Never rest your head on a table or bar top. It is the equivalent of voluntarily putting your head on a chopping block.
62. If you are trading rounds with a friend and he asks if you're ready for another, always say yes. Once you fall out of sync you will end up buying more drinks than him.
63. If you're going to hit on a member of the bar staff, make sure you tip well before and after, regardless of her response.
64. The people with the most money are rarely the best tippers.
65. Before you die, single-handedly make one decent martini.
66. Asking a bartender what beers are on tap when the handles are right in front of you is the equivalent of saying, “I'm an idiot.”
67. Never ask a bartender “what's good tonight?” They do not fly in the scotch fresh from the coast every morning.
68. If there is a line for drinks, get your goddamn drink and step the hell away from the bar.
69. If there is ever any confusion, the fuller beer is yours.
70. The patrons at your local bar are your extended family, your fathers and mothers, your brothers and sisters. Except you get to sleep with these sisters. And if you're really drunk, the mothers.
71. It's acceptable, traditional in fact, to disappear during a night of hard drinking. You will appear mysterious and your friends will understand. If they even notice.
72. Never argue your tab at the end of the night. Remember, you're hammered and they’re sober. It's akin to a precocious five-year-old arguing the super-string theory with a physicist. 99.9% of the time you're wrong and either way you're going to come off as a jackass.
73. If you bring booze to a party, you must drink it or leave it.
74. If you hesitate more than three seconds after the bartender looks at you, you do not deserve a drink.
75. Beer makes you mellow, champagne makes you silly, wine makes you dramatic, tequila makes you felonious.
76. The greatest thing a drunkard can do is buy a round of drinks for a packed bar.
77. Never preface a conversation with a bartender with “I know this is going to be a hassle, but . . .”
78. When you’re in a bar and drunk, your boss is just another guy begging for a fat lip. Unless he’s buying.
79. If you are 86’d, do not return for at least three months. To come back sooner makes it appear no other bar wants you.
80. Anyone with three or more drinks in his hands has the right of way.
81. If you’re going to drink on the job, drink vodka. It’s the no-tell liquor.
82. There’s nothing wrong with drinking before noon. Especially if you’re supposed to be at work.
83. The bar clock moves twice as fast from midnight to last call.
84. A flask engraved with a personal message is one of the best gifts you can ever give. And make sure there’s something in it.
85. On the intimacy scale, sharing a quiet drink is between a handshake and a kiss.
86. You will forget every one of these rules by your fifth drink.
Monday, June 18, 2007
l love my town
archives.seattletimes.nwsource.com/cgi-bin/texis.cgi/web/vortex/display
What a blast!!! The weather pretty much sucked....but the event was certainly aided by my boy Josh Brown, the Red Catfish-Friendly Superstar. The best part was an inflatable punching weeble wobble of Bush, which every kid merrily took swings at.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Little boys, toys and kiddie snores
Oh, Kenya, yay. I breathe a sigh of contentment and relief as we land, yet dreading the waiting time it will take to get through customs and to my dad and Aidan. Fortunately, I've forgotten that, flying business class, I'm one of the first ones off the plane, and therefore, one of the first to the passport and visa booths. My luggage, serendipitously, also happens to be one of the first on the carousel, so I'm through customs in no time.
I go through to the waiting area, and there they are. My brother is the best thing I've seen in I don't know how long, but he's so excited I can only hug him briefly before he giggles and pulls away. We're a sight, he and I…shyly glancing at each other, and grinning wide. I stick my tongue out and poke him in the ribs, and he ducks his head, does a little hop, and laughs a little boy laugh that warms my heart. I'm talking to Dad and feel a little hand take a hold of mine. I squeeze, and he squeezes back and giggles again. Dad says that, after watching all these black women walking into the arrival area before me, Aidan asked if I was white. Hilarious, but also an indication of his mental state.
Aidan was born premature, like me, and only one ounce heavier than I was, at 4 lbs, 2 ounces. Like me, he was born with a severely lazy left eye. Like me, there was speculation that he would also be born with some disabilities. My original diagnosis of hydrocephalus and potential retardation was retracted by doctors, though the former was actually correct, and rediscovered at 25. Unlike me, however, there is some truth to the assessment that Aidan's mental and physical development would be stunted. He has been diagnosed with an extremely rare genetic disorder called Dubowitz Syndrome. There are only two hundred cases worldwide, and the symptoms and side effects are so numerous that they're overwhelming. According to doctors, he seems to be on the milder end of the scale, and before coming to Kenya, I was under the impression that at seven, mentally, he's closer to five or six. In reality, he's more like three or four. He doesn't quite understand what a sister means, other than that I'm family, and as a result, I could be blue for all he knows. He tells Dad later that he's glad I'm white like him.
Aidan's still using a car seat, both for safety, but also because he's small for his age, and can't see as much through the car window otherwise. Halfway through the trip home, I lay my head on Aidan's shoulder and put my hand on his knee. He puts one hand over mine, and with the other, he strokes my cheek. He's such a Cancer. This is more and more evident as the trip goes on. He starts talking a little here and there, and it takes me a minute to understand him; I forgot he sounds just like a little Kenyan. He hands me his water bottle and asks me to drive with him, says the bottle is my gear shift. We 'brrrr' and 'putputbrrrr' for the rest of the ride home.
First thing he says when we get my luggage into the house is "What you got faw me?" This reminds me of the numerous trips my parents would return from, and while I was happy to see them come home, it was always torture waiting for them to pull out whatever gifts they'd gotten me on their travels. I take great pleasure in pulling out toys, clothes, and movies for Aidan. Like a typical youngster, he tries on a couple of things, plays a bit, and quickly bores of everything. But that's okay; it's bedtime anyway. Dad has a song that he used to sing to me when I was little, and it is now the only song he sings to Aidan to put him to sleep. I still remember it, so we sit in Aidan's room and sing it to him together. Aidan and I hold hands the whole time. After a while, I stop singing, because my contribution is keeping him distracted and awake, and shortly thereafter, he falls asleep. He has a cold, so he snores. It's so damn cute I can barely contain myself. I go to bed a very happy woman.
I go through to the waiting area, and there they are. My brother is the best thing I've seen in I don't know how long, but he's so excited I can only hug him briefly before he giggles and pulls away. We're a sight, he and I…shyly glancing at each other, and grinning wide. I stick my tongue out and poke him in the ribs, and he ducks his head, does a little hop, and laughs a little boy laugh that warms my heart. I'm talking to Dad and feel a little hand take a hold of mine. I squeeze, and he squeezes back and giggles again. Dad says that, after watching all these black women walking into the arrival area before me, Aidan asked if I was white. Hilarious, but also an indication of his mental state.
Aidan was born premature, like me, and only one ounce heavier than I was, at 4 lbs, 2 ounces. Like me, he was born with a severely lazy left eye. Like me, there was speculation that he would also be born with some disabilities. My original diagnosis of hydrocephalus and potential retardation was retracted by doctors, though the former was actually correct, and rediscovered at 25. Unlike me, however, there is some truth to the assessment that Aidan's mental and physical development would be stunted. He has been diagnosed with an extremely rare genetic disorder called Dubowitz Syndrome. There are only two hundred cases worldwide, and the symptoms and side effects are so numerous that they're overwhelming. According to doctors, he seems to be on the milder end of the scale, and before coming to Kenya, I was under the impression that at seven, mentally, he's closer to five or six. In reality, he's more like three or four. He doesn't quite understand what a sister means, other than that I'm family, and as a result, I could be blue for all he knows. He tells Dad later that he's glad I'm white like him.
Aidan's still using a car seat, both for safety, but also because he's small for his age, and can't see as much through the car window otherwise. Halfway through the trip home, I lay my head on Aidan's shoulder and put my hand on his knee. He puts one hand over mine, and with the other, he strokes my cheek. He's such a Cancer. This is more and more evident as the trip goes on. He starts talking a little here and there, and it takes me a minute to understand him; I forgot he sounds just like a little Kenyan. He hands me his water bottle and asks me to drive with him, says the bottle is my gear shift. We 'brrrr' and 'putputbrrrr' for the rest of the ride home.
First thing he says when we get my luggage into the house is "What you got faw me?" This reminds me of the numerous trips my parents would return from, and while I was happy to see them come home, it was always torture waiting for them to pull out whatever gifts they'd gotten me on their travels. I take great pleasure in pulling out toys, clothes, and movies for Aidan. Like a typical youngster, he tries on a couple of things, plays a bit, and quickly bores of everything. But that's okay; it's bedtime anyway. Dad has a song that he used to sing to me when I was little, and it is now the only song he sings to Aidan to put him to sleep. I still remember it, so we sit in Aidan's room and sing it to him together. Aidan and I hold hands the whole time. After a while, I stop singing, because my contribution is keeping him distracted and awake, and shortly thereafter, he falls asleep. He has a cold, so he snores. It's so damn cute I can barely contain myself. I go to bed a very happy woman.
This country, my home.
There's something about the smell of Kenya – dusty, woodsy from the piles of leaves and shrubbery clippings people burn on the side of the road, an ever-present undercurrent of heavy vehicle emissions – that I just love. Even the occasional whiff of raw sewage, unpleasant though it may be, brings so many memories to mind. I roll the window down further to take it all in, and Dad asks me to roll it back up some, and also asks me to make sure my door is locked. He then tells me the story of a Kenyan friend of his, a regional director for CARE, who was recently driving home from evening church and bible study with his wife. They were in a convoy of other churchgoers for safety purposes, but somehow, managed to get carjacked. Even though he gave the men all of their valuables and car, he was shot in the chest, and died on arrival to the hospital. He left his wife and three daughters behind. That same day, four white women, driving to Nairobi from Mombasa, were stopped and robbed, and two of them were shot and killed in broad daylight before they even exited the car. Two days later, a prominent scientist and his son were carjacked, and because the scientist didn't exit the car fast enough due to a physical disability, he was also shot and killed. This is the first indication that I am in a Kenya that I no longer know.
When I first moved here in '86, the main crime that happened was petty street theft – pickpocketing, purse-stealing and the like – home robberies (almost always when the homeowners weren't present), and carjackings, in which the only thing anyone lost was their car and any valuables they had on their person. Even if they gave the robbers a hard time in the latter instance, a black eye or occasional broken bone was the worst injury they might have sustained. Hell, my first year and a half, at the age of ten, I lived in a major slum smack in the middle of some of the worst poverty of Nairobi, and still walked to and from school with no incident. Only once was I harassed by someone in the area who didn't know who we were, and immediately, a few members of the community stepped forward to protect me and inform the offender that I lived there and was not to be messed with.
In today's Kenya, even under a president who's an angel compared to the dictator that preceded him, the poverty level grows, and with it, the crime. Whole matatus (Kenyan buses) are now held up and jacked, and gods forbid anyone recognizes, or is recognized by, one of the robbers; that's pretty much a death warrant. Another friend of my dad's was recently on a bus that was held up by a man he knew, a man whose duka (a street kiosk selling milk, bread, cigarettes, general necessities) had recently been knocked down by the government. Forced into immediate poverty with children to feed, he turned to stealing, and by some miracle, didn't recognize my dad's friend, who surely would've been killed otherwise.
In yesterday's Kenya, a mzungu (white person) was rarely killed, often because they were either likely to be missionaries and it would have been an ultimate sin for even the lowliest robber to kill a messenger of God (so to speak), aid workers there to improve the quality of life and therefore good, or expats with the Embassy, in which hell would have been raised. In today's Kenya, we stand out because people assume we're rich. They aren't aware aid workers earn tiny stipends. White people represent money; the Brits were rich, so must we be. We are more of a target, which increases the likelihood we'll be killed, or at the very least, raped. To be clear, this is not to say it's any less common here than it would be in the States. If we are raped, our chances of contracting HIV are high. But being a black Kenyan makes no difference either. Crime here no longer distinguishes between color or status, and it doesn't creep around at night when the likelihood of getting caught is lower. Any time, any day, any place, anyone is a potential victim.
This is partly the result of Kenya growing richer. There are signs of Westernization creeping in; fancier malls and shopping centers, American and English brand names, more than two choices of anything at the grocery store, higher numbers of SUVs, BMWs, and Mercedes, cyber cafes and wireless internet, fast food restaurant chains hailing from South Africa – some of which carry the funniest names, most notably the Creamy Inn. Photos to follow. This is a mixed blessing for the Kenyans; they are starting to feel more connected to the world, more modern. Gradually, healthcare and technology is improving, and especially with Internet access, even those closer to the poorer side are able to network and create a space for themselves that previously didn't exist. The women are developing voices for themselves they were previously unable/afraid to use, and the people themselves are starting to voice their opinions about the way things are going, something that was potentially punishable by death under the previous leader, depending on who you were. Some of these, in my opinion, are absolutely necessary to the growth of a nation.
However, some of the uglier sides of Westernization are beginning to rear their heads. Tribalism, always an issue, is now worsened by the formation of gangs of young men who believe that their decision to segregate themselves is safer than their choice to unite. At the same time, large numbers of young Kenyans are throwing the baby out with the bathwater in lieu of being modern, and are completely abandoning their tribal traditions, so finally, it is less the values the gangs to defend, rather than simply the tribal name. These same young men aren't listening to the philosophical and loving message of real hiphop; they are embracing the disrespect of culture, women and themselves that ghetto rap espouses. Both men and women are dismissing their own fellow Kenyans as potential mates, mistakenly believing that Americans, Brits, or Europeans are somehow better. People are spending money they simply don't have on Western baubles and passing fashions, most of which are exorbitantly expensive because they are imported. And as it has always been, even in the Kenya of yesterday, corruption grows, and with it, the rich become richer, and the poor more desperate.
This living, breathing contradiction in society is one I struggle with on a deep level. As one born an American and acutely aware of both the great Western benefits and severe limitations, yet as one who will always consider herself a Kenyan by basic virtue of living as one in the slums of Nairobi, I am torn. I cannot deny that Kenya and its people need to feel they make some sort of difference, and this is why I admire that many among its younger generations (beginning with my own – the first generation to be raised in an independent Kenya) are eager to educate themselves in England or America, where they can bring much needed and far more precise skills home. I cannot be anything but happy that, as a result of the bad that is going on, more and more Kenyans are focusing their vocations in the realms of health, housing, HIV/AIDS, politics, international relations, and childcare. I cannot dismiss that young gang members see their own struggles in the American inner city music they listen to, and this is why they identify with it. I cannot pretend that a nation trying to make a place for itself in the world isn't inevitably going to fall prey to its flashy promise, and to some extent, begin to view its own culture as inferior.
But what I LOVE about the Kenya of my day was its simplicity, its ability to thrive and find happiness in the most adverse conditions, its faith in family, friendship, and God to sustain. I love the barter and trade that kept its street business thriving, and the hard work that went into handmade souvenirs, sculptures, and art. I love the easy laughter, and the acceptance that will prompt a Kenyan to readily adopt you as one. I love the children, with their bright smiles and beautiful brown eyes, and how, after sharing a few kind words and silly gestures, they are likely to slide up next to you and take your hand in a gesture of trust that takes your heart hostage and melts it on the spot. I love the occasional Maasai walking through town with a couple of cows in tow. In recent years, this was more common, and unfortunately so, because it meant the cattle were starving due to the drought, and the city was the only place they could find food. Fortunately, on this visit, the second long rainy season of El Nino is arriving, and the place is far more lush and green than it was when I was last here. When the rains hit, droves of flying termites (I don't know if they're actually termites or not, but that's what my dad calls them, but they're huge and bothersome, and that's all I know) will come out, and if you're around certain of the Kenyans, it's likely you'll see them catch some, and fry em up in a pan and make a snack of them. What can ya say, they're protein. ;)
I also love the courtesy and hospitality of the people here. These are major values, and you see them everywhere. On most signs posted around announcing various things, the heading is likely to begin with "Polite Notice: Please do or don't do this….". In a Kenyan home, it's extremely rare that you do not immediately remove your shoes when you enter, a custom I intend to reinstate in my own home at some point after my return. After arriving there, you will be fed bread, butter, jam and chai. When dinner rolls around, it will be at LEAST a three course meal, and they WILL make you eat more after you announce how full you are, and I don't care how full you are, you WILL eat more.
At a coffeehouse recently, I was sitting outside when it began pouring. Though the umbrella covering us was more than large enough to keep us dry, our absolutely adorable waiter came out with an umbrella and offered to escort us inside. I hope this kind of humanity and general courtesy never die, and it always reminds me of how much more I could be doing to pay it forward. I love this fucking country. Hell, I even love the bigass potholes in the roads, the gnarly traffic and maniacal driving stunts, and the red dirt that settles in your clothes and just DARES you to try and wash it out. I love the sunburn you get cuz you forgot that, even on cloudy days, you're over a mile above sea level and WILL get roasted. I forget that one every time. I look like a freakin tomato.
This place kicks ass.
When I first moved here in '86, the main crime that happened was petty street theft – pickpocketing, purse-stealing and the like – home robberies (almost always when the homeowners weren't present), and carjackings, in which the only thing anyone lost was their car and any valuables they had on their person. Even if they gave the robbers a hard time in the latter instance, a black eye or occasional broken bone was the worst injury they might have sustained. Hell, my first year and a half, at the age of ten, I lived in a major slum smack in the middle of some of the worst poverty of Nairobi, and still walked to and from school with no incident. Only once was I harassed by someone in the area who didn't know who we were, and immediately, a few members of the community stepped forward to protect me and inform the offender that I lived there and was not to be messed with.
In today's Kenya, even under a president who's an angel compared to the dictator that preceded him, the poverty level grows, and with it, the crime. Whole matatus (Kenyan buses) are now held up and jacked, and gods forbid anyone recognizes, or is recognized by, one of the robbers; that's pretty much a death warrant. Another friend of my dad's was recently on a bus that was held up by a man he knew, a man whose duka (a street kiosk selling milk, bread, cigarettes, general necessities) had recently been knocked down by the government. Forced into immediate poverty with children to feed, he turned to stealing, and by some miracle, didn't recognize my dad's friend, who surely would've been killed otherwise.
In yesterday's Kenya, a mzungu (white person) was rarely killed, often because they were either likely to be missionaries and it would have been an ultimate sin for even the lowliest robber to kill a messenger of God (so to speak), aid workers there to improve the quality of life and therefore good, or expats with the Embassy, in which hell would have been raised. In today's Kenya, we stand out because people assume we're rich. They aren't aware aid workers earn tiny stipends. White people represent money; the Brits were rich, so must we be. We are more of a target, which increases the likelihood we'll be killed, or at the very least, raped. To be clear, this is not to say it's any less common here than it would be in the States. If we are raped, our chances of contracting HIV are high. But being a black Kenyan makes no difference either. Crime here no longer distinguishes between color or status, and it doesn't creep around at night when the likelihood of getting caught is lower. Any time, any day, any place, anyone is a potential victim.
This is partly the result of Kenya growing richer. There are signs of Westernization creeping in; fancier malls and shopping centers, American and English brand names, more than two choices of anything at the grocery store, higher numbers of SUVs, BMWs, and Mercedes, cyber cafes and wireless internet, fast food restaurant chains hailing from South Africa – some of which carry the funniest names, most notably the Creamy Inn. Photos to follow. This is a mixed blessing for the Kenyans; they are starting to feel more connected to the world, more modern. Gradually, healthcare and technology is improving, and especially with Internet access, even those closer to the poorer side are able to network and create a space for themselves that previously didn't exist. The women are developing voices for themselves they were previously unable/afraid to use, and the people themselves are starting to voice their opinions about the way things are going, something that was potentially punishable by death under the previous leader, depending on who you were. Some of these, in my opinion, are absolutely necessary to the growth of a nation.
However, some of the uglier sides of Westernization are beginning to rear their heads. Tribalism, always an issue, is now worsened by the formation of gangs of young men who believe that their decision to segregate themselves is safer than their choice to unite. At the same time, large numbers of young Kenyans are throwing the baby out with the bathwater in lieu of being modern, and are completely abandoning their tribal traditions, so finally, it is less the values the gangs to defend, rather than simply the tribal name. These same young men aren't listening to the philosophical and loving message of real hiphop; they are embracing the disrespect of culture, women and themselves that ghetto rap espouses. Both men and women are dismissing their own fellow Kenyans as potential mates, mistakenly believing that Americans, Brits, or Europeans are somehow better. People are spending money they simply don't have on Western baubles and passing fashions, most of which are exorbitantly expensive because they are imported. And as it has always been, even in the Kenya of yesterday, corruption grows, and with it, the rich become richer, and the poor more desperate.
This living, breathing contradiction in society is one I struggle with on a deep level. As one born an American and acutely aware of both the great Western benefits and severe limitations, yet as one who will always consider herself a Kenyan by basic virtue of living as one in the slums of Nairobi, I am torn. I cannot deny that Kenya and its people need to feel they make some sort of difference, and this is why I admire that many among its younger generations (beginning with my own – the first generation to be raised in an independent Kenya) are eager to educate themselves in England or America, where they can bring much needed and far more precise skills home. I cannot be anything but happy that, as a result of the bad that is going on, more and more Kenyans are focusing their vocations in the realms of health, housing, HIV/AIDS, politics, international relations, and childcare. I cannot dismiss that young gang members see their own struggles in the American inner city music they listen to, and this is why they identify with it. I cannot pretend that a nation trying to make a place for itself in the world isn't inevitably going to fall prey to its flashy promise, and to some extent, begin to view its own culture as inferior.
But what I LOVE about the Kenya of my day was its simplicity, its ability to thrive and find happiness in the most adverse conditions, its faith in family, friendship, and God to sustain. I love the barter and trade that kept its street business thriving, and the hard work that went into handmade souvenirs, sculptures, and art. I love the easy laughter, and the acceptance that will prompt a Kenyan to readily adopt you as one. I love the children, with their bright smiles and beautiful brown eyes, and how, after sharing a few kind words and silly gestures, they are likely to slide up next to you and take your hand in a gesture of trust that takes your heart hostage and melts it on the spot. I love the occasional Maasai walking through town with a couple of cows in tow. In recent years, this was more common, and unfortunately so, because it meant the cattle were starving due to the drought, and the city was the only place they could find food. Fortunately, on this visit, the second long rainy season of El Nino is arriving, and the place is far more lush and green than it was when I was last here. When the rains hit, droves of flying termites (I don't know if they're actually termites or not, but that's what my dad calls them, but they're huge and bothersome, and that's all I know) will come out, and if you're around certain of the Kenyans, it's likely you'll see them catch some, and fry em up in a pan and make a snack of them. What can ya say, they're protein. ;)
I also love the courtesy and hospitality of the people here. These are major values, and you see them everywhere. On most signs posted around announcing various things, the heading is likely to begin with "Polite Notice: Please do or don't do this….". In a Kenyan home, it's extremely rare that you do not immediately remove your shoes when you enter, a custom I intend to reinstate in my own home at some point after my return. After arriving there, you will be fed bread, butter, jam and chai. When dinner rolls around, it will be at LEAST a three course meal, and they WILL make you eat more after you announce how full you are, and I don't care how full you are, you WILL eat more.
At a coffeehouse recently, I was sitting outside when it began pouring. Though the umbrella covering us was more than large enough to keep us dry, our absolutely adorable waiter came out with an umbrella and offered to escort us inside. I hope this kind of humanity and general courtesy never die, and it always reminds me of how much more I could be doing to pay it forward. I love this fucking country. Hell, I even love the bigass potholes in the roads, the gnarly traffic and maniacal driving stunts, and the red dirt that settles in your clothes and just DARES you to try and wash it out. I love the sunburn you get cuz you forgot that, even on cloudy days, you're over a mile above sea level and WILL get roasted. I forget that one every time. I look like a freakin tomato.
This place kicks ass.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Things that trip me out about Kenya or that l just love in general....
1. They have Big Brother Africa, Deal or No Deal, and American Idol West Africa. I mean, aside from the fact that there's satellite stations broadcasting all SORTS of shows that are regularly aired in the States (including shows that flopped after the first pilot there, but managed to gain a real audience here, and therefore have continued), it blows my mind that these particular shows have their own whole cast and crew here. The benefits of Big Brother and Deal (shows I never had any interest in) is that the last one standing gets a great deal of money, and in Africa, it's more than enough to both put you AND your children through school, but often to help care for your family as well. Where it's still sizable in the States, it's monumental here. Idol West Africa is extremely important to the up and coming musician. In the States, where it's not only common but incredibly easy to get lost in the throes of new artists and wannabes - whether you won Idol or not - here, you WILL be famous, no doubts. Western music may be ultra popular here, but African musicians have a deeply loyal following that far surpasses the Clayken teenyboppers. The money and opportunity a show like this brings carries a much deeper significance than it does for any American kid, no matter what tax bracket they hail from. It's just how it is.
2. Kenyan Karaoke is a RIOT! It's totally different; first of all, 80% of all the singers, if not more, are really, REALLY fucking good. But on the screen where your lyrics prompt is, the images that come up have NOTHING whatsoever to do with the song - or an unintentional tongue in cheek and highly hilarious sideshow. You could be singing Push It by Salt-n-Pepa, and at the same time watching children frolicking with their dogs, or men at a park playing chess. You never know what you'll get with the karaoke here.
3. There's a deeply ingrained protection and care for children and elders here. If you are riding a crowded matatu, and a woman and her child get on, it's inevitable that someone will pick up the child and put them in their lap. It doesn't matter if they know the mother or not, that's just how it goes, and it creates a trustworthiness and lack of fear in children that's a beautiful thing to watch. If an elderly person gets on, it's common for someone to offer their seat. Sometimes they won't (and sometimes they can't due to how packed it is), but they'll take whatever the senior might happen to be carrying and hold it for them.
I just recently read of a campaign based on a six year old Children's Act in which parents who don't make their children go to elementary school are punishable by up to a year in prison. Even orphans and abandoned children are encouraged to register through churches and community organizations as a matter of law. Since so many unfortunate children end up on the streets due to neglect, ill or dead parents (HIV/AIDS, diphtheria, meningitis, bilharzia, malaria, the list is long) and often end up in petty crime, this is an effort to help them find some purpose and meaning. The classes may be overcrowded and the teachers too few, but it's far better than the alternative.
4. The typos or unintended implications of names or phrases are often hilarious. You see them everywhere - in the paper, on billboards, restarant names. Back when we used to live here, there was a burger place downtown called Waterburger. You KNEW it had to have been inspired by Whattaburger, but to avoid lawsuit and still keep it as close to the original as it would go (or possibly because if you say Whattaburger in Kenyan English, it would translate to most as 'waterburger'), that's what they went with. There's a Creamy Inn here, which is actually a restaurant (there are a lot of "Inns" that aren't actually Inns, but South African fast food chains), but if it were in the context of a hotel, and even outside of it, it's too funny. I'll be taking a photo of that one. There also used to be a large burger chain called Wimpy. I think it's been bought out, but if not, I'm takin photos of that too. A recent headline: "Drivers want share of rally sponsorship kitty". While "kitty" in this sense means a certain prize money fund, I don't think I need to elaborate on how amusing this one is in regards to general American"kitty" associations. A friend of mine here recently wore pigtails and all of her students and fellow residents kept calling them 'pussy tails'. She couldn't really explain to the kids why she found it so funny, but the adults immediately dropped the 'pussy' from their vernacular after hearing the translation.
5. There's a word in a report my mom edited once for our friend Joyce Nyakeya, "anyhowly". I don't remember what particular context it was used in, but let's say it was a sentence addressing the shoddiness of a program she was observing, and the feedback reports were 'written anyhowly'. Joyce is a college graduate, and so Mom was surprised when she ran across this word, but she shrugged it off and left it out. When Joyce read back over it, she asked what happened to 'anyhowly', to which Mom replied that it wasn't a word, to which Joyce indignantly replied that it was a perfectly functional one. I think this word should have been part of the English language; it certainly cuts "any which way" down to only one word, and I'm determined to use it from here on out.
6. Kenyans not only occasionally make up words, it's almost impossible to take them literally in regards to time or distance. We all went down to the coast of Mombasa one Christmas, and needed some supplies. We were told that the nearest shopping center was "not fah", and so decided to walk. After about an hour and approximately four miles later, we asked someone else. "Oh, not fah!", they replied. When we questioned just precisely *how* far, we were told, "Oh, it's just thea, just close", so we kept walking. We finally found the center, an hour and another four miles or so later, badly sunburned and dying of thirst. It's safe to assume that, in a country where a large number of the people travel by foot, 'not fah' means it's probably at least two miles away.
Time is much more lackadaisical here. If they say they'll be there at one, expect them at four. There's no timetable whatsoever for buses or matatus, so if you want to get somewhere at a particular time, you make sure you're there early enough to make room for heavy traffic and rush hour, as well as the fairly common breakdown on the side of the road. I took a taxi from a friend's house to mine today, and was told by the driver that he'd be there in "some minutes". He showed up 45 minutes later, but you couldn't deny that it was, quite actually, *some* minutes.
7. During the light(er) traffic hours, there are two or three lanes on each side of a major road. During high traffic, it turns into about five, and rarely are they actually parallel. They are diagonal and sideways, and gods forbid if you get stuck on the inside lane of a roundabout - you could be there forever. Even if you're in the "right" lane, and say, going straight from a roundabout, it's inevitable several cars will cut in front of you from your left and go straight across to your right. You are guaranteed to narrowly miss either hitting a car, or being hit by one, at least once a day. In other words, people drive any-fuckin-howly they want, and your main goal should always be avoiding collision.
I'm sure there's more...will post them when I come up with 'em.
2. Kenyan Karaoke is a RIOT! It's totally different; first of all, 80% of all the singers, if not more, are really, REALLY fucking good. But on the screen where your lyrics prompt is, the images that come up have NOTHING whatsoever to do with the song - or an unintentional tongue in cheek and highly hilarious sideshow. You could be singing Push It by Salt-n-Pepa, and at the same time watching children frolicking with their dogs, or men at a park playing chess. You never know what you'll get with the karaoke here.
3. There's a deeply ingrained protection and care for children and elders here. If you are riding a crowded matatu, and a woman and her child get on, it's inevitable that someone will pick up the child and put them in their lap. It doesn't matter if they know the mother or not, that's just how it goes, and it creates a trustworthiness and lack of fear in children that's a beautiful thing to watch. If an elderly person gets on, it's common for someone to offer their seat. Sometimes they won't (and sometimes they can't due to how packed it is), but they'll take whatever the senior might happen to be carrying and hold it for them.
I just recently read of a campaign based on a six year old Children's Act in which parents who don't make their children go to elementary school are punishable by up to a year in prison. Even orphans and abandoned children are encouraged to register through churches and community organizations as a matter of law. Since so many unfortunate children end up on the streets due to neglect, ill or dead parents (HIV/AIDS, diphtheria, meningitis, bilharzia, malaria, the list is long) and often end up in petty crime, this is an effort to help them find some purpose and meaning. The classes may be overcrowded and the teachers too few, but it's far better than the alternative.
4. The typos or unintended implications of names or phrases are often hilarious. You see them everywhere - in the paper, on billboards, restarant names. Back when we used to live here, there was a burger place downtown called Waterburger. You KNEW it had to have been inspired by Whattaburger, but to avoid lawsuit and still keep it as close to the original as it would go (or possibly because if you say Whattaburger in Kenyan English, it would translate to most as 'waterburger'), that's what they went with. There's a Creamy Inn here, which is actually a restaurant (there are a lot of "Inns" that aren't actually Inns, but South African fast food chains), but if it were in the context of a hotel, and even outside of it, it's too funny. I'll be taking a photo of that one. There also used to be a large burger chain called Wimpy. I think it's been bought out, but if not, I'm takin photos of that too. A recent headline: "Drivers want share of rally sponsorship kitty". While "kitty" in this sense means a certain prize money fund, I don't think I need to elaborate on how amusing this one is in regards to general American"kitty" associations. A friend of mine here recently wore pigtails and all of her students and fellow residents kept calling them 'pussy tails'. She couldn't really explain to the kids why she found it so funny, but the adults immediately dropped the 'pussy' from their vernacular after hearing the translation.
5. There's a word in a report my mom edited once for our friend Joyce Nyakeya, "anyhowly". I don't remember what particular context it was used in, but let's say it was a sentence addressing the shoddiness of a program she was observing, and the feedback reports were 'written anyhowly'. Joyce is a college graduate, and so Mom was surprised when she ran across this word, but she shrugged it off and left it out. When Joyce read back over it, she asked what happened to 'anyhowly', to which Mom replied that it wasn't a word, to which Joyce indignantly replied that it was a perfectly functional one. I think this word should have been part of the English language; it certainly cuts "any which way" down to only one word, and I'm determined to use it from here on out.
6. Kenyans not only occasionally make up words, it's almost impossible to take them literally in regards to time or distance. We all went down to the coast of Mombasa one Christmas, and needed some supplies. We were told that the nearest shopping center was "not fah", and so decided to walk. After about an hour and approximately four miles later, we asked someone else. "Oh, not fah!", they replied. When we questioned just precisely *how* far, we were told, "Oh, it's just thea, just close", so we kept walking. We finally found the center, an hour and another four miles or so later, badly sunburned and dying of thirst. It's safe to assume that, in a country where a large number of the people travel by foot, 'not fah' means it's probably at least two miles away.
Time is much more lackadaisical here. If they say they'll be there at one, expect them at four. There's no timetable whatsoever for buses or matatus, so if you want to get somewhere at a particular time, you make sure you're there early enough to make room for heavy traffic and rush hour, as well as the fairly common breakdown on the side of the road. I took a taxi from a friend's house to mine today, and was told by the driver that he'd be there in "some minutes". He showed up 45 minutes later, but you couldn't deny that it was, quite actually, *some* minutes.
7. During the light(er) traffic hours, there are two or three lanes on each side of a major road. During high traffic, it turns into about five, and rarely are they actually parallel. They are diagonal and sideways, and gods forbid if you get stuck on the inside lane of a roundabout - you could be there forever. Even if you're in the "right" lane, and say, going straight from a roundabout, it's inevitable several cars will cut in front of you from your left and go straight across to your right. You are guaranteed to narrowly miss either hitting a car, or being hit by one, at least once a day. In other words, people drive any-fuckin-howly they want, and your main goal should always be avoiding collision.
I'm sure there's more...will post them when I come up with 'em.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Windows errors in haiku
Too funny.
Three things are certain:
Death, taxes, and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.
Everything is gone;
Your life's work has been destroyed.
Squeeze trigger (yes/no)?
Windows NT crashed.
I am the Blue Screen of Death.
No one hears your screams.
Seeing my great fault
Through darkening blue windows
I begin again
The code was willing,
It considered your request,
But the chips were weak.
Printer not ready.
Could be a fatal error.
Have a pen handy?
A file that big?
It might be very useful.
But now it is gone.
Errors have occurred.
We won't tell you where or why.
Lazy programmers.
Server's poor response
Not quick enough for browser.
Timed out, plum blossom.
Chaos reigns within.
Reflect, repent, and reboot.
Order shall return.
Login incorrect.
Only perfect spellers may
enter this system.
This site has been moved.
We'd tell you where, but then we'd
have to delete you.
Wind catches lily
Scatt'ring petals to the wind:
Segmentation fault
ABORTED effort:
Close all that you have.
You ask way too much.
First snow, then silence.
This thousand dollar screen dies
so beautifully.
With searching comes loss
and the presence of absence:
"My Novel" not found.
The Tao that is seen
Is not the true Tao, until
You bring fresh toner.
The Web site you seek
cannot be located but
endless others exist
Stay the patient course
Of little worth is your ire
The network is down
A crash reduces
your expensive computer
to a simple stone.
There is a chasm
of carbon and silicon
the software can't bridge
Yesterday it worked
Today it is not working
Windows is like that
To have no errors
Would be life without meaning
No struggle, no joy
You step in the stream,
but the water has moved on.
This page is not here.
No keyboard present
Hit F1 to continue
Zen engineering?
Hal, open the file
Hal, open the damn file, Hal
open the, please Hal
Out of memory.
We wish to hold the whole sky,
But we never will.
Having been erased,
The document you're seeking
Must now be retyped.
The ten thousand things
How long do any persist?
Netscape, too, has gone.
Rather than a beep
Or a rude error message,
These words: "File not found."
Serious error.
All shortcuts have disappeared
Screen. Mind. Both are blank.
Three things are certain:
Death, taxes, and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.
Everything is gone;
Your life's work has been destroyed.
Squeeze trigger (yes/no)?
Windows NT crashed.
I am the Blue Screen of Death.
No one hears your screams.
Seeing my great fault
Through darkening blue windows
I begin again
The code was willing,
It considered your request,
But the chips were weak.
Printer not ready.
Could be a fatal error.
Have a pen handy?
A file that big?
It might be very useful.
But now it is gone.
Errors have occurred.
We won't tell you where or why.
Lazy programmers.
Server's poor response
Not quick enough for browser.
Timed out, plum blossom.
Chaos reigns within.
Reflect, repent, and reboot.
Order shall return.
Login incorrect.
Only perfect spellers may
enter this system.
This site has been moved.
We'd tell you where, but then we'd
have to delete you.
Wind catches lily
Scatt'ring petals to the wind:
Segmentation fault
ABORTED effort:
Close all that you have.
You ask way too much.
First snow, then silence.
This thousand dollar screen dies
so beautifully.
With searching comes loss
and the presence of absence:
"My Novel" not found.
The Tao that is seen
Is not the true Tao, until
You bring fresh toner.
The Web site you seek
cannot be located but
endless others exist
Stay the patient course
Of little worth is your ire
The network is down
A crash reduces
your expensive computer
to a simple stone.
There is a chasm
of carbon and silicon
the software can't bridge
Yesterday it worked
Today it is not working
Windows is like that
To have no errors
Would be life without meaning
No struggle, no joy
You step in the stream,
but the water has moved on.
This page is not here.
No keyboard present
Hit F1 to continue
Zen engineering?
Hal, open the file
Hal, open the damn file, Hal
open the, please Hal
Out of memory.
We wish to hold the whole sky,
But we never will.
Having been erased,
The document you're seeking
Must now be retyped.
The ten thousand things
How long do any persist?
Netscape, too, has gone.
Rather than a beep
Or a rude error message,
These words: "File not found."
Serious error.
All shortcuts have disappeared
Screen. Mind. Both are blank.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Amsterdam ll
Well, the Amsterdam trip wasn’t quite all I wanted it to be…there were several costs/expenditures that were a little more than I had planned for, and when I left needed to give my business partner $125 that I had expected to have with me. It was a necessary expense for website/phone upkeep, and definitely worthwhile, but it did unfortunately limit my excursions a bit, mostly to places that were within walking distance of the Red Light.
I was able to see the Anne Frank house, which was really my first stop on the map, and one I would’ve hated to miss. When I was living in Brussels and about eight or nine, we traveled with several other families from the ICA (Institute of Cultural Affairs) house around Europe. We hit Switzerland, France, Germany, Spain, the Netherlands, and a couple of other places. While I vaguely remember the Louvre and all the various castles and pretty sights, the two places we visited that grabbed hold of my spirit and wouldn’t let go were the Anne Frank House and the small concentration camp we visited, . I’ve always been sensitive to energy in general (the double Pisces in me helps), and in both places, it was thick and riveting. The Anne Frank house affected me on such a deep level that not only do I remember it vividly, I still have the original diary we bought there, gingerly taped together and missing a couple of pages here and there. It freaked me out that there was this whole little quiet, terrified world behind that bookcase, and it tripped me out even further that that space was there BEFORE they moved in. I always wondered what it was doing there and what it had been used for previous to harboring the Franks and the others that lived with them. I think I also deeply identified with this girl because she was a child, forced into womanhood years before she was one, leaving behind this legacy that was simply her diary, one of the few friends with which she could share this incredible burden. It affected me just as deeply this time around, and again, I found myself broken down to my most humble components, both by the residual energy of the place, as well as the story itself.
I also saw the Dali museum (insert heavenly chorus here). Dali has always been a huge favorite of mine, and it was almost godly (hence the chorus) to see these pieces in real life. I wasn’t able to see any other art museums, unfortunately, and it would figure that with all my fuckin planning, the one thing I failed to pack was my camera, so there are unfortunately no photos of this trip. But as has already been decided, my girl Leslie and I will be going together, so hopefully then, I’ll be a little more prepared, and will have the time to really see the city in all its splendor. Anyone who wants to make a posse of it, put your name on the list and start saving now!
As previously mentioned, I had to tour the Red Light and do a sex show. Since it was on the very bottom of my list of things to do, I really didn’t do much research on it…then again, what kind of research WOULD you do? It’s pretty self-explanatory, right? Well, we got there, and for the first few songs, we had a couple of the most creative, playful, and enthusiastic strippers I’ve ever seen, and folks, I’ve seen quite a few. It was interesting; these girls really, genuinely enjoyed themselves. It wasn’t the seedy, guilt ridden, perfunctory atmosphere you find in most US clubs. These women were simply empowered and loved what they were doing, and that, in and of itself, made it pretty damn enjoyable. Next – and here’s the part that flew right over my head regarding what to expect – was a couple who actually HAD sex. Now, you’ve seen it once, you’ve done it a few times, so you know the drill. But not only was I surprised by the fact that there was actual sex and fellatio involved, not to mention unprotected, it was the smoothest, most orchestrated sex I’ve ever witnessed. They moved effortlessly and fluidly (no pun intended, it’s just the best descriptive, really) from one position to the next, and they did so in perfect rhythm to the music, making it that much more precisely choreographed and fascinating. This wasn’t the dirty, raw fucking you see in bad porn, but curiously, was at the same time so detached that it was sort of baffling. The only thing I can imagine is that these two sat down with nothing short of storyboards and at least ten hours to practice and get it just right. I don’t know how else to describe it, but it was a bit mind-blowing, to say the least.
The icing on that particular cake, however, was the reactions of the audience, something I relished just as much as the show itself. Remember all those partying frat kids and sorority girls I mentioned earlier? Oh, what amusement!! The men’s jaws dropped to the floor and stayed there long enough for a little drool to escape, and the women immediately found spots either on the floor or the ceiling that suddenly seemed to hold a great deal of interest. After about ten minutes past the foreplay and into the intercourse itself, you could see all the girls nudging their men, clearly urging them to leave, and I’m not kidding when I say half the men took absolutely no notice whatsoever, further angering the girls, some of whom simply got up and walked out. This finally got the attention of their men, who managed to look genuinely wounded that their women were so offended and finally, but VERY reluctantly, got up and followed them out. Then there was me, grinning like a kid with a new toy and going, “Wooooowwwww, cooooooooool, dude!”, but unfortunately, much like the other women, Lorna and Anthea finally had their awkward fill and asked if we could take off and move on with the night. Much like the other men, I was reluctant to do so, but I’d seen enough to write THIS much about it, so I was happy. Lorna and Anthea both said it was part of Amsterdam they’d wanted to experience, and despite the discomfort it brought them, expressed they were glad they’d seen it. It is certainly an experience that brings your inhibitions, conditioning, and prejudices - no matter how mild - crashing to the forefront, and at least in the case of these two, I believe that it made them think in a manner that most of the other women probably didn’t. By the end of my time with Lorna and Anthea, I would have totally asked them to be my BFF if they didn’t live in London. They, along with Patrick, certainly made the trip 150% more enjoyable than it might have otherwise been.
My visit to Amsterdam was entirely too short, but no less worth it. On to Kenya!!
I was able to see the Anne Frank house, which was really my first stop on the map, and one I would’ve hated to miss. When I was living in Brussels and about eight or nine, we traveled with several other families from the ICA (Institute of Cultural Affairs) house around Europe. We hit Switzerland, France, Germany, Spain, the Netherlands, and a couple of other places. While I vaguely remember the Louvre and all the various castles and pretty sights, the two places we visited that grabbed hold of my spirit and wouldn’t let go were the Anne Frank House and the small concentration camp we visited, . I’ve always been sensitive to energy in general (the double Pisces in me helps), and in both places, it was thick and riveting. The Anne Frank house affected me on such a deep level that not only do I remember it vividly, I still have the original diary we bought there, gingerly taped together and missing a couple of pages here and there. It freaked me out that there was this whole little quiet, terrified world behind that bookcase, and it tripped me out even further that that space was there BEFORE they moved in. I always wondered what it was doing there and what it had been used for previous to harboring the Franks and the others that lived with them. I think I also deeply identified with this girl because she was a child, forced into womanhood years before she was one, leaving behind this legacy that was simply her diary, one of the few friends with which she could share this incredible burden. It affected me just as deeply this time around, and again, I found myself broken down to my most humble components, both by the residual energy of the place, as well as the story itself.
I also saw the Dali museum (insert heavenly chorus here). Dali has always been a huge favorite of mine, and it was almost godly (hence the chorus) to see these pieces in real life. I wasn’t able to see any other art museums, unfortunately, and it would figure that with all my fuckin planning, the one thing I failed to pack was my camera, so there are unfortunately no photos of this trip. But as has already been decided, my girl Leslie and I will be going together, so hopefully then, I’ll be a little more prepared, and will have the time to really see the city in all its splendor. Anyone who wants to make a posse of it, put your name on the list and start saving now!
As previously mentioned, I had to tour the Red Light and do a sex show. Since it was on the very bottom of my list of things to do, I really didn’t do much research on it…then again, what kind of research WOULD you do? It’s pretty self-explanatory, right? Well, we got there, and for the first few songs, we had a couple of the most creative, playful, and enthusiastic strippers I’ve ever seen, and folks, I’ve seen quite a few. It was interesting; these girls really, genuinely enjoyed themselves. It wasn’t the seedy, guilt ridden, perfunctory atmosphere you find in most US clubs. These women were simply empowered and loved what they were doing, and that, in and of itself, made it pretty damn enjoyable. Next – and here’s the part that flew right over my head regarding what to expect – was a couple who actually HAD sex. Now, you’ve seen it once, you’ve done it a few times, so you know the drill. But not only was I surprised by the fact that there was actual sex and fellatio involved, not to mention unprotected, it was the smoothest, most orchestrated sex I’ve ever witnessed. They moved effortlessly and fluidly (no pun intended, it’s just the best descriptive, really) from one position to the next, and they did so in perfect rhythm to the music, making it that much more precisely choreographed and fascinating. This wasn’t the dirty, raw fucking you see in bad porn, but curiously, was at the same time so detached that it was sort of baffling. The only thing I can imagine is that these two sat down with nothing short of storyboards and at least ten hours to practice and get it just right. I don’t know how else to describe it, but it was a bit mind-blowing, to say the least.
The icing on that particular cake, however, was the reactions of the audience, something I relished just as much as the show itself. Remember all those partying frat kids and sorority girls I mentioned earlier? Oh, what amusement!! The men’s jaws dropped to the floor and stayed there long enough for a little drool to escape, and the women immediately found spots either on the floor or the ceiling that suddenly seemed to hold a great deal of interest. After about ten minutes past the foreplay and into the intercourse itself, you could see all the girls nudging their men, clearly urging them to leave, and I’m not kidding when I say half the men took absolutely no notice whatsoever, further angering the girls, some of whom simply got up and walked out. This finally got the attention of their men, who managed to look genuinely wounded that their women were so offended and finally, but VERY reluctantly, got up and followed them out. Then there was me, grinning like a kid with a new toy and going, “Wooooowwwww, cooooooooool, dude!”, but unfortunately, much like the other women, Lorna and Anthea finally had their awkward fill and asked if we could take off and move on with the night. Much like the other men, I was reluctant to do so, but I’d seen enough to write THIS much about it, so I was happy. Lorna and Anthea both said it was part of Amsterdam they’d wanted to experience, and despite the discomfort it brought them, expressed they were glad they’d seen it. It is certainly an experience that brings your inhibitions, conditioning, and prejudices - no matter how mild - crashing to the forefront, and at least in the case of these two, I believe that it made them think in a manner that most of the other women probably didn’t. By the end of my time with Lorna and Anthea, I would have totally asked them to be my BFF if they didn’t live in London. They, along with Patrick, certainly made the trip 150% more enjoyable than it might have otherwise been.
My visit to Amsterdam was entirely too short, but no less worth it. On to Kenya!!
Amsterdam, baby
So l took off yesterday for Kenya, had a GREAT layover in Atlanta, where l got to see two of my favorite Atliens, Ernest and Joel. More detailed blog on that to come. l finally got to Amsterdam, not a bad flight, especially since l flew business and had my pick of whatever movies and TV shows...and LEG ROOM HALLELUJAH!! :) Anyway, got to Amsterdam, immediately met some hilarious Liverpool boys in town for a game (can ANYONE understand these folks?? l was amazed l could follow even half of what they were saying, lol), who were kind enough to show me the way to my hostel. Got to the hostel, where they informed me l was not in the computer, and l proceeded to have a very quiet and complete freakout. l got the impression based on reviews of how some of the Americans here had been treated that to freak out publicly would have resulted in some unfriendly customer service, not that l'm a bitch anyway, but it seemed safer to be patient and see how it worked out. Fortunately that paid off, and it turned out that my dad, who booked the reservations, had booked me in yesterday instead of today, so l had to pay for another day, but l came prepared with a little extra cash so no biggie, and l think the fact that l DIDN'T freak out was why the lady chose to give me a ten percent discount on the final day, which saved me about four euros. l have a sneaky feeling that the Americans who DID post bitchy reviews were actually just bitchy themselves and earned the unpleasant treatment they got here, and frankly, having seen some of the appalling behavior of American tourists over the years (and keep in mind that l'm in the Red Light District, making way for lots of young drunken frat boys), l don't find myself all that surprised. Patience and friendliness in a foreign country does pay off, not to mention it's basic common courtesy...and at this juncture in present history, l'd like to represent America in a pleasant way.
At any rate, l'm here, yay! And you know, originally, l planned on coming here and partying some, but l'm just not sure that's something l want to do now. l really want to relish this experience, to soak it up, and to remember every detail of who l meet, where l go, what l see. After having to pay for an extra day, l may have less money to see all the museums and little things l wanted to do, but that's okay. l think l'll take this time just to experience the people and the atmosphere and simply make plans to come back when l'm able to really make it worthwhile. l remember loving Amsterdam as a kid, and l know that l'll be back here. Besides, there's a bunch of free shit l can do, so it's all good. Anyway, l don't know that l'll write more while l'm here, l may record it in my journal and then transfer it all here, but so far, l'm safe and the first half of my trip has been successful and l'm excited to go do my own thing and really appreciate a new and different culture for a few days.
Ah, finally. The Amsterdam part of the trip. I’m sitting on one of the many canals outside my hostel, the Bulldog. There are at least five Bulldogs here, most of them on the same strip...something that caused some consternation when trying to find THE Bulldog I was looking to check into. Not a problem, however, since THE Bulldog I was looking for had “hotel” underneath it, and all the rest were cafes and lounges. Suppose I could’ve figured that one out had I planned a bit better.
I decided to smoke a joint...I couldn’t help it. It was more the opportunity to do so out in the open than an issue of high quality, so I bought a prerolled spliff, rolled with tobacco, and that thing is HUGE. It’ll probably last me my full trip here. Took about three hits, put it out, and I’m feeling just fine. It’s a BEAUTIFUL day outside, I mean, 74, blue skies, lots of sun, gorgeous. A day this nice, at this time of the year, is a bit unprecedented; I know this based on weather reports I checked out, and also the reaction of the locals here, who expressed some dissatisfaction about having to work when it looks like this outside.
I’m tripping out a bit...I’m working on light sleep, I’m jetlagged, I’m buzzed, I’m still hyped over seeing two of my favorite people from Atlanta, and then there’s just the vast change in setting, culture, country. I was a bit deliberate about this little visit, though it was largely luck due to the airline I was flying and ticketing options. Aside from my trip to Seattle for a rite of passage camp at fourteen and moving to Seattle at twenty five, this is the first time I’ve been somewhere new on my own, and this is the first trip to a new culture as an adult. I feel free in a whole new way, and one I can’t entirely describe.
Everyone here’s dressed to the nines, among the tourists plastered from head to toe in Amsterdam gear. The peoplewatching is *spectacular*. Everyone walking by is hot, and I mean, really, REALLY hot, and incredibly diverse. It’s not that I don’t love Seattle, but I’ve been here two hours and I could easily live here, and love it. There’s a LOT of trash here, but I’ve not left the area yet, so it could be different elsewhere in Amsterdam. The area I currently happen to be in is the Red Light District, which, well, it *would* be trashy now, wouldn’t it. It’s sort of fun, though, being surrounded by dildos.
I’m pretty tired. It’s eleven in the morning, but I’m not allowed to check in until three, because they’re cleaning the rooms. I have no complaints about my room and bathroom (which I’m sharing with eight or ten other people) being so fresh and so clean when I get in there, and fortunately have been able to stow my VERY large suitcase in the storage room, but I’m still lugging around my backpack and small carryon suitcase, which means I’m not going very far. I really want to, I’m ready to explore...but that’s okay. This is a good time to just chill and absorb, and frankly, after hauling my luggage the six blocks to the hostel, I’m worn the fuck out and don’t have much energy at the moment to do anything but sit. All total, I’m hauling about eighty pounds, maybe a bit more. Since there are a few things Dad can’t get in Kenya without handing over his firstborn, my suitcase is packed FULL. As far as clothes, got some for me, five to seven pairs of jeans for Dad, about twenty or twenty five pieces of clothing for Aidan since he’s growing out of his old ones, and about 20 large bottles of Excedrin, five large of Tums, and (this gave me a bit of a Dad’s-impending-fragility pause) two large of senior multivitamins. I’m so relieved I made it here without my bag being opened and rifled, worried they would think I was carrying drugs, but I’ve left all the security tabs on, so I guess it was fine.
Yay! All done putting my stuff in the room, time to explore. I’ve met three people from London, Anthea, Patrick, and Lorna. Patrick is 22 years of as Irish as they come, and he’s adorable. Anthea and Lorna are absolutely hilarious, full of dry wit. I’ve been cracking up for the last two hours with these chicks, and the most recent hilarity is when Lorna asked Anthea where her ciggies were, to which she replied, “Lahst toim oi sawr em, luv, they were in moi hole.” Priceless. The bartender’s name is David, who moved here from Scotland with little money, and no job or home, and within two weeks, had a job and room at the hostel. He says this is the story with half of the out-of-towners-turned-locals here that he knows. If I really wanted to move here, this is the kind of place where I could make it happen without much effort.
This town kicks ass. It’s a bit Alice-in-Wonderlandish. Every coffeeshop or bar or restaurant has all this crazy art and deco on the walls, wacky interior design, and often, loud but REALLY good electronica. As I sit here, the coffee shop across the street is playing some incredible deep house, there’s a receptionist from my hostel getting down on the sidewalk outside, and I’m facing a grafitti piece of a cartoon globe with a ribbon in front of it that says “Enjoy the world”. A car just went by with two kids getting down to the funky music and a Pooh Bear decal on the back window. The little raver girl in me has died and gone to heaven.
The people are pretty fucking cool too. At one point, I was walking around and stopped in a coffeeshop near the hostel to check it out and say hi. When I left, I got a coffee to go, handed her a twenty euro bill, and didn’t realize until I walked out that I was short ten euro. I was with Anthea, Lorna and Patrick, and was debating whether or not to go in and ask about it, as I was worried I’d be perceived the wrong way. Lorna encouraged me to just go back in, so I did. The minute the chick behind the counter saw me, she walked to the register, pulled out a ten, and handed it to me with a profuse apology and a smile. I hadn’t thought she’d done it deliberately, and it was really refreshing to experience that. It’s clear the locals here tire easily of the obnoxious, raucous frat boys and sorority girls that frequent the Red Light, and it would certainly be easy to short them a few euro here and there if one wanted to. It’s nice to know that, after a nice conversation with this woman, she considered me cool enough that I wasn’t there to raise a scene, and that she was honest enough to return my money. That says a great deal.
The people here don’t take shit. Don’t get me wrong; they’re REALLY nice; they simply don’t cater to assholes. I had a conversation with one of the hostel employees, and here’s how she put it. “In other countries,” she said, “they have to be nice in order to get paid, even if their customers are dicks. Here, it’s not our job to teach our tourists to learn the language or be courteous, or to take their shit when they’re not. We require mutual kindness and respect here, and we don’t get penalized if we’re forced to tell a customer to fuck off when they’re making our lives hard.” Word.
I think it helps that, even though it’s clear I’m a tourist with my maps and whatnot, I don’t really look or act like one. I wouldn’t, given my own experiences with tourists in the countries I lived in, and it doesn’t hurt that I’m pretty likeable. Part of the issue locals here have with tourists is that since Amsterdam is THE place for pot smokers and general perverts worldwide to come - the Marijuana Mecca, if you will - it means the vibe is guaranteed to be chill in regards to certain individuals and groups, and completely insufferable with others. Regarding the latter, travelers here tend to either be whiny, over privileged families with three screaming kids and a major chip on their shoulders, or the aforementioned frat boys and Girls-gone-Wild types that are simply here to get high, drunk, and watch sex shows. Those kinds fuck it up for the rest of us, because despite the openness of the place, the rules and regulations that DO exist are very specific. For example, there are freestanding patios and tables here that don’t necessarily belong to an establishment. There’s NO drinking whatsoever if you are sitting at these, a rule that clearly gets broken regularly, as was evidenced by the four soccer hooligans I saw getting a ticket for their pints a few hours ago. There are also establishments that choose not to allow pot or cigarette smoking in their establishments, which means you MUST ask before indulging in either. The problem with irresponsible smokers and drinkers (generally, any situation involving either substance) is that people get dumb and don’t think, and get themselves in trouble. Not to mention that, even though the coffeeshops are generally where you purchase pot if you want to smoke, there’s a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule in regards to divulging WHERE you got it when asked. These are not difficult rules to follow, but as I said, they’re broken regularly, and I can’t say I blame the locals for their low tolerance level in regards to those who break them.
That’s enough for now. I’m off to do a mandatory sex show and trip around the Red Light. I’m hoping tomorrow I’ll have the opportunity to hit the Anne Frank House and see the tulips, which are currently in full bloom, and according to everyone around here, both local and traveler alike, they’re stunning. Woohoo! Fri,
At any rate, l'm here, yay! And you know, originally, l planned on coming here and partying some, but l'm just not sure that's something l want to do now. l really want to relish this experience, to soak it up, and to remember every detail of who l meet, where l go, what l see. After having to pay for an extra day, l may have less money to see all the museums and little things l wanted to do, but that's okay. l think l'll take this time just to experience the people and the atmosphere and simply make plans to come back when l'm able to really make it worthwhile. l remember loving Amsterdam as a kid, and l know that l'll be back here. Besides, there's a bunch of free shit l can do, so it's all good. Anyway, l don't know that l'll write more while l'm here, l may record it in my journal and then transfer it all here, but so far, l'm safe and the first half of my trip has been successful and l'm excited to go do my own thing and really appreciate a new and different culture for a few days.
Ah, finally. The Amsterdam part of the trip. I’m sitting on one of the many canals outside my hostel, the Bulldog. There are at least five Bulldogs here, most of them on the same strip...something that caused some consternation when trying to find THE Bulldog I was looking to check into. Not a problem, however, since THE Bulldog I was looking for had “hotel” underneath it, and all the rest were cafes and lounges. Suppose I could’ve figured that one out had I planned a bit better.
I decided to smoke a joint...I couldn’t help it. It was more the opportunity to do so out in the open than an issue of high quality, so I bought a prerolled spliff, rolled with tobacco, and that thing is HUGE. It’ll probably last me my full trip here. Took about three hits, put it out, and I’m feeling just fine. It’s a BEAUTIFUL day outside, I mean, 74, blue skies, lots of sun, gorgeous. A day this nice, at this time of the year, is a bit unprecedented; I know this based on weather reports I checked out, and also the reaction of the locals here, who expressed some dissatisfaction about having to work when it looks like this outside.
I’m tripping out a bit...I’m working on light sleep, I’m jetlagged, I’m buzzed, I’m still hyped over seeing two of my favorite people from Atlanta, and then there’s just the vast change in setting, culture, country. I was a bit deliberate about this little visit, though it was largely luck due to the airline I was flying and ticketing options. Aside from my trip to Seattle for a rite of passage camp at fourteen and moving to Seattle at twenty five, this is the first time I’ve been somewhere new on my own, and this is the first trip to a new culture as an adult. I feel free in a whole new way, and one I can’t entirely describe.
Everyone here’s dressed to the nines, among the tourists plastered from head to toe in Amsterdam gear. The peoplewatching is *spectacular*. Everyone walking by is hot, and I mean, really, REALLY hot, and incredibly diverse. It’s not that I don’t love Seattle, but I’ve been here two hours and I could easily live here, and love it. There’s a LOT of trash here, but I’ve not left the area yet, so it could be different elsewhere in Amsterdam. The area I currently happen to be in is the Red Light District, which, well, it *would* be trashy now, wouldn’t it. It’s sort of fun, though, being surrounded by dildos.
I’m pretty tired. It’s eleven in the morning, but I’m not allowed to check in until three, because they’re cleaning the rooms. I have no complaints about my room and bathroom (which I’m sharing with eight or ten other people) being so fresh and so clean when I get in there, and fortunately have been able to stow my VERY large suitcase in the storage room, but I’m still lugging around my backpack and small carryon suitcase, which means I’m not going very far. I really want to, I’m ready to explore...but that’s okay. This is a good time to just chill and absorb, and frankly, after hauling my luggage the six blocks to the hostel, I’m worn the fuck out and don’t have much energy at the moment to do anything but sit. All total, I’m hauling about eighty pounds, maybe a bit more. Since there are a few things Dad can’t get in Kenya without handing over his firstborn, my suitcase is packed FULL. As far as clothes, got some for me, five to seven pairs of jeans for Dad, about twenty or twenty five pieces of clothing for Aidan since he’s growing out of his old ones, and about 20 large bottles of Excedrin, five large of Tums, and (this gave me a bit of a Dad’s-impending-fragility pause) two large of senior multivitamins. I’m so relieved I made it here without my bag being opened and rifled, worried they would think I was carrying drugs, but I’ve left all the security tabs on, so I guess it was fine.
Yay! All done putting my stuff in the room, time to explore. I’ve met three people from London, Anthea, Patrick, and Lorna. Patrick is 22 years of as Irish as they come, and he’s adorable. Anthea and Lorna are absolutely hilarious, full of dry wit. I’ve been cracking up for the last two hours with these chicks, and the most recent hilarity is when Lorna asked Anthea where her ciggies were, to which she replied, “Lahst toim oi sawr em, luv, they were in moi hole.” Priceless. The bartender’s name is David, who moved here from Scotland with little money, and no job or home, and within two weeks, had a job and room at the hostel. He says this is the story with half of the out-of-towners-turned-locals here that he knows. If I really wanted to move here, this is the kind of place where I could make it happen without much effort.
This town kicks ass. It’s a bit Alice-in-Wonderlandish. Every coffeeshop or bar or restaurant has all this crazy art and deco on the walls, wacky interior design, and often, loud but REALLY good electronica. As I sit here, the coffee shop across the street is playing some incredible deep house, there’s a receptionist from my hostel getting down on the sidewalk outside, and I’m facing a grafitti piece of a cartoon globe with a ribbon in front of it that says “Enjoy the world”. A car just went by with two kids getting down to the funky music and a Pooh Bear decal on the back window. The little raver girl in me has died and gone to heaven.
The people are pretty fucking cool too. At one point, I was walking around and stopped in a coffeeshop near the hostel to check it out and say hi. When I left, I got a coffee to go, handed her a twenty euro bill, and didn’t realize until I walked out that I was short ten euro. I was with Anthea, Lorna and Patrick, and was debating whether or not to go in and ask about it, as I was worried I’d be perceived the wrong way. Lorna encouraged me to just go back in, so I did. The minute the chick behind the counter saw me, she walked to the register, pulled out a ten, and handed it to me with a profuse apology and a smile. I hadn’t thought she’d done it deliberately, and it was really refreshing to experience that. It’s clear the locals here tire easily of the obnoxious, raucous frat boys and sorority girls that frequent the Red Light, and it would certainly be easy to short them a few euro here and there if one wanted to. It’s nice to know that, after a nice conversation with this woman, she considered me cool enough that I wasn’t there to raise a scene, and that she was honest enough to return my money. That says a great deal.
The people here don’t take shit. Don’t get me wrong; they’re REALLY nice; they simply don’t cater to assholes. I had a conversation with one of the hostel employees, and here’s how she put it. “In other countries,” she said, “they have to be nice in order to get paid, even if their customers are dicks. Here, it’s not our job to teach our tourists to learn the language or be courteous, or to take their shit when they’re not. We require mutual kindness and respect here, and we don’t get penalized if we’re forced to tell a customer to fuck off when they’re making our lives hard.” Word.
I think it helps that, even though it’s clear I’m a tourist with my maps and whatnot, I don’t really look or act like one. I wouldn’t, given my own experiences with tourists in the countries I lived in, and it doesn’t hurt that I’m pretty likeable. Part of the issue locals here have with tourists is that since Amsterdam is THE place for pot smokers and general perverts worldwide to come - the Marijuana Mecca, if you will - it means the vibe is guaranteed to be chill in regards to certain individuals and groups, and completely insufferable with others. Regarding the latter, travelers here tend to either be whiny, over privileged families with three screaming kids and a major chip on their shoulders, or the aforementioned frat boys and Girls-gone-Wild types that are simply here to get high, drunk, and watch sex shows. Those kinds fuck it up for the rest of us, because despite the openness of the place, the rules and regulations that DO exist are very specific. For example, there are freestanding patios and tables here that don’t necessarily belong to an establishment. There’s NO drinking whatsoever if you are sitting at these, a rule that clearly gets broken regularly, as was evidenced by the four soccer hooligans I saw getting a ticket for their pints a few hours ago. There are also establishments that choose not to allow pot or cigarette smoking in their establishments, which means you MUST ask before indulging in either. The problem with irresponsible smokers and drinkers (generally, any situation involving either substance) is that people get dumb and don’t think, and get themselves in trouble. Not to mention that, even though the coffeeshops are generally where you purchase pot if you want to smoke, there’s a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule in regards to divulging WHERE you got it when asked. These are not difficult rules to follow, but as I said, they’re broken regularly, and I can’t say I blame the locals for their low tolerance level in regards to those who break them.
That’s enough for now. I’m off to do a mandatory sex show and trip around the Red Light. I’m hoping tomorrow I’ll have the opportunity to hit the Anne Frank House and see the tulips, which are currently in full bloom, and according to everyone around here, both local and traveler alike, they’re stunning. Woohoo! Fri,
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