White Privilege

A wonderful article that was just sent to me from an even more wonderful collective of people.

Here Tim Wise, Author of "White Like Me" writes about White Privilege in the current presidential election.

Please Vote. And think about who your voting for. Encourage your friends to vote. We can do this.

This is Your Nation on White Privilege

by Tim Wise
http://www.zcommunications.org/zspace/viewCommentary/3618/1

September, 14 2008

For those who still can't grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are
constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this
list will help.

White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol
Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your
family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or
your parents, because "every family has challenges," even as black and
Latino families with similar "challenges" are regularly typified as
irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

White privilege is when you can call yourself a "fuckin' redneck," like
Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with
you, you'll "kick their fuckin' ass," and talk about how you like to "shoot
shit" for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and
a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years
like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then
returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no
one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a
person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and
probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative
action.

White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller
than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about
the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan,
makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don't all piss on
themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state
Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you're "untested."
White privilege is being able to say that you support the words "under God"
in the pledge of allegiance because "if it was good enough for the founding
fathers, it's good enough for me," and not be immediately disqualified from
holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s
and the "under God" part wasn't added until the 1950s--while believing that
reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know,
the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school
requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy
liberals.

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people
immediately scared of you. White privilege is being able to have a husband
who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to
secede from the Union, and whose motto was "Alaska first," and no one
questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and
your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with
her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she's being
disrespectful.

White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the
work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to
vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child
labor--and people think you're being pithy and tough, but if you merely
question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no
foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you're somehow
being mean, or even sexist.

White privilege is being able to convince white women who don't even agree
with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate
anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired
confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a
"second look."

White privilege is being able to fire people who didn't support your
political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a
typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely
knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means
you must be corrupt.

White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose
pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George
W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian
nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological
principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict
in the Middle East is God's punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and
everyone can still think you're just a good church-going Christian, but if
you're black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin
Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often
the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism
and its effect on black people, you're an extremist who probably hates
America.

White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a
reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a
"trick question," while being black and merely refusing to give one-word
answers to the queries of Bill O'Reilly means you're dodging the question,
or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has
anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black
and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a "light"
burden.

And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow
someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90
percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are
losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly
isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren't sure about
that whole "change" thing. Ya know, it's just too vague and ill-defined,
unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and
certain.

White privilege is, in short, the problem.

Tim Wise is the author of White Like Me (Soft Skull, 2005, revised 2008), and of Speaking Treason Fluently, publishing this month, also by Soft Skull. For review copies or interview requests, please reply to publicity@softskull.com

Im finally on Flickr!

hey friends!

im finally on Flickr and uploading photos from my year's travels onto it. here's a sneak peak:







Keeping checking it out as more and more photos and locations will be added to it.

A brief glimps into 2 brothers' adventures in Morocco.

We missed the bus this morning, waking up at 6h15 rather than 5h30. Alarm clocks can ring as loud as they want but, after a constant stream of 3-4 hour nights, they tend to fall on deaf ears. Knowing that I have a hard time doing anything in the mornings, I should have known better. We ran for the 6h30 bus but missed it anyways. It turns out that this was the bus that didn’t abide by the rule of “Moroccan time” (anywhere from 15 minutes- 1 hour late) but actually came 15 minutes early and continued on after a brief stop of only a few minutes. We never had a chance. It was 7h00 and we sat on the dusty steps in front of the bus stop. The small village was already awake and most shops were open, Grande Taxi drivers walked up and down the street calling out their destinations trying to fill their old Mercedes’ with 6 people before starting their journey. Even at that hour the street was a cacophony of sounds. Donkeys pulled heavy loads destined for the day’s market and their brays were accompanied by the shouts by their drivers calling to each other while crossing the streets. Sidewalk café’s were already filling up and boisterous conversations drifted through the streets. Car horns blasted to announce themselves in the mostly human and animal traffic on the streets. Buses approaching the station let out 2 or 3 blasts of the horn to herald their approach. There was a well aged man standing in front of the bus stop with his ear cocked towards the direction of the busses and upon hearing the call of the busses, he start to shout out the destination of the approaching bus. The calls of the Grande Taxi drivers carried over all of this, with the drivers shouting “Khenifra! Khenifra! Khenifra!” or “Fez! Fez! Fez1” or any combination of sourounding village names which were norhing more than gibberish to my unaccustomed ears.
We crossed the street to have some breakfast, stoping at a street vendor to buy some flat and dense corn-bread like cake to eat with our morning tea. We sat at the café watching the comings and goings of the street in the small Moroccan village. 2 mint teas and one café alongée later, the bus arrived and my eyelids were a little less heavy.

We crammed into the bus, preparing for our 7 hour journey. Thankfully we found seats in the back (we had to move a trash can and some baggage) and we squeezed into our seats and closed our eyes. We hadn’t had too much luck with sleeping on long Moroccan bus rides so we were already travel weary. The bus sputtered and took off with the door still open and the ticket collector still with one foot on the dirt road outside. Within minutes we were lurching through the hillsides of middle morocco. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the window, the changes in the landscape were drastic and awe inspiring. The village buildings we were in gave way to magnificent red clay mountains dotted with dusty green shrubs and small clay and tin roof huts. Young boys and old men herded goats and sheep through the hills never straying too far from their huts where lazy smoke curled up through makeshift chimneys announcing the warm meals that awaited them. The crowded bus bounce through potholes and I started to wonder if the driver was actually trying to careen through the man sized holes in the road that caused passengers and overhead luggage to be haphazardly tossed into the air. I was tired but I couldn’t bring myself to give into my heavy eyelids because I didn’t want to miss anything that flew past the window. Sky reaching red clay mountains slowly melted into a flat patchwork of yellow wheat and green field farm lands. Houses were sturdier and sat squarely in the middle of their fields. Farmers seemed to have already been in the fields for hours, hand harvesting the fields or pulling water from the small stone wells that sat between the farms. Sheeps and goats were kept in small pens here and next to the pens were the tired pickup trucks that the animals were hearded into to be sold at the market in the village. All at once the rolling farm lands were gone and I was looking out to a cluster of buildings that made another village. The bus stopped and our dust trail momentarily covered our window. More passengers boarded the bus to stand in the aisle between the seats. Some of the more experience had brought their own plastic stools. The driver turned up the qur’anic verses on the stereo as if to muster gods graces and with a collectively murmmered “Bismillah”we were off again. The womyn sitting next to me had a child in her lap and she was saying the prayers along with the cassette tape. The buildings dissapeard and I was looking out at a deep gorge filled with water at the bottom. A stream of donkeys carted rock in and out of the path reaching into the depth of the quarry. In the distance I could see men on horses and donkeys kicking up small dust clouds as they crisscrossed the trails of the red mountainous backdrop.

Assad handed me head phones and started switching through classics of Johnny Cash, Sinatra and modern jazz artists. We were driving through dessert now and huts became more sparse and far more crude in construction. This was the land of nomads. Mountains still held up the horizon and I was having flashbacks to perilous bus rides through Tibet. The bus took a hard turn and everyone was thrown to the left side of the bus. Before we could right outselves, the driver found another pothole and threw us into it, tossing us all back into the air. Somehow we landed back into our seats and I started wondering if this was only a precursser to the camel safari into the sahara that we were embarking on that night.

To enter Morocco, we’d found our way onto a ferry that crossed the straight of Gibraltar from Algeciras, Spain directly to Tangier. We had avoided Tangier and hoped straight into a taxi to take us to the light blue mountain city of Chefchaouen. We relaxed within the cities blue washed walls for a week, rather the 2 days we’d planned taking solace in the quick friendships we’d made and the relaxed mountain air of the city. Assad and I spent our first night playing music with moroccan’s from Rabat and Chefchaouen in the medina square late into the night. We learned Arabic songs and drum beats and started to dance as the group started to sing the ever popular Bollywood classics. In fact, most of our days were spent in the medina drinking mint teas and fresh squeezed orange juice watching the world go by. We hiked through the mountains and swam in a tropical oasis hidden at the base of a dry and dusty canyon. Most of our nights were spent relaxing on the rooftop of our pension where we’d layed out our sleeping bags on dusty mattresses to sleep under the mountain stars and save money. Every night someone started playing music on their second hand guitars and eventually the Spaniards would start up with flamenco classic or Spanish versions of backpacking favorites like Bob Marley and Manu Chao. Our third day, we spent hours with Mohammad, the self proclaimed “Hat Man,” sitting in his closet of a shop marveling at the piles of knitted goods that seem to fill every inch of the tiny shop. There was no lighting inside save a small candle that he eventually lit on the only free inch of his table. The whole place couldn’t have been any bigger than the smallest of walk-in closets that are so popular in suburban American homes. There was little to no air circulation and the whole place smelled of sweat and wool. Every few minutes Mohammad would dip his head down to take a drag from his Kif pipe before setting back to crocheting the brown hat he had in his lap or telling us about how we were all brothers of the moon, sun and stars. There was a permanent smile on his face and he started to laugh when we took over his shop and started pulling unsuspecting tourists inside telling them that it was us who had knit the bottomless piles of mountain wool hats and scarves and that we would give them a “special good price, only today.” We stuck around Chaouen with our friends for the first night of the Alegria Music Festival to watch a Flamenco performance and a giant concert of Gnawa and traditional Riff mountain music.

We left the calm of Chaouen on a miserably hot 3 hour bus ride into Fez. We had assigned seats which ended up being at the back of the bus perched on top of what we later learned was the engine. We sat back there sweating more than we would in any of the hamams we later visited. Exhausted we arrived in Fez where we were slapped in the face by the rush of tourists, taxi drivers and “faux guides” trying to steer us around the old medina for an unmentioned price. Hustlers tried to take us into their “brothers” shops or into their hotels. Finally we found a pension and bargained our way into being able to share a room with some of the new friends that we’d made on the bus. Fez was a mad rush and even though we’d arrived on Friday, the muslim holy day of rest and prayer, the crowds were still a bit overwhelming after the relative tranquility of Chaouen. We started to treat it all as a game and found joy in inventing country names as hustlers shouted “India?! Pakistan?! India? Pakistan? Pakistan!!! India!!!” at Assad and I. We settled with telling people we were either from Narnia or Mordor and eventually told people we were from Kenya, which was closer to the truth than our previous answers. Street hustlers became nothing more than a gauntlet to weave our way through and bargaining was now the only language we spoke. We tried to find some of the fresh squeezed orange juice that we’d fallen in love and when we thought we’d found it, we gulped down the refreshing drink only to discover small worms in the pulp at the bottom of our glass. A wonderful experience ☺ We were more than ready to retreat to the terrace of our hotel. The next day, the souks were all open and we launched ourselves headlong into the mix. Doing a tour of the leather tanneries and wandering through the different markets in and out of the medieval medina walls.

It was after Fez that we met up with our Couchsurfer Jaouad in his village to join him on the trip to the dessert that we’re driving to right now. He took us to a very local Hammam where we sat on tiled floors with a handful of old Moroccan men and washed ourselves with steaming hot water and that we ladled out of buckets. It was a very unexpected and new experience. There was noone there to give out the traditionally Hammam dead-skin pealing scrub so we will go try another one when we reach Marrakech.

Morocco is what I’ve been looking forward to all summer and thankfully it’s been an amazing experience for both Assad and I.


Update:

After writing this blog Assad and I headed to the Sahara for a camel safari and camping. I fell asleep under the stars with my mouth open. I woke up with a mouthful of sand. Lesson learned. We woke up to see the sun rise over the dunes that surrounded our campground. It was completely silent and beautifully serene. Down below I could hear my camel fart. The whole time we were together, my camel had horrible stinking diarrhea. Very endearing.

From the desert we headed to the breathtaking Todrah Gorges. I couldn’t crane my neck enough to see the tops of the majestic rockwalls of the gorge. We spent the night on the terrace of the hotel we were staying at. We were surrounded by grape vines and a rushing river down below.

From the gorge we went to Marakech, finally escaping our couchsurfer who turned out to be scamming us, and spent a very busy night in marakech. We did go to a wonderful Hamam and got scrubbed clean. Probably cleaner than we’re going to be in a long time. We left Marakech and headed back to the calm of Aix-en-Provence.

Morocco was a whirl-wind trip. I can’t wait to go back there and spend weeks just traveling through the small villages. You can’t help but fall in love with the place.

Pistachios

Pistachios are delicious. I have been craving them for days and have finally got a bag of them. They're just so good!

Although Arizona claims to be the world capitol of Pistachios, Iran exports 50,000 tons more than the US each year. Take that Arizona.

The word "pistachio" is actually a Persian word.


Thank you wikipedia.

Saqib the French Waiter: Student by day, French Waiter by night

Thats right, I've been working as a waiter at a fancy french restaurant called "Le Bistro Latin." During the day I go to classes at the language institute and in the evenings, I stroll through tables carrying dishes of delicious french cuisine, talking to customers and learning about french culture. I wear all black, comb my hair and (i thought this part would be impossible) remain clean shaven for weeks at a time! I've been working there 5 nights a week, for nearly 2 months now and I really enjoy it.

upstairs

Downstairs

The restaurant is small, 20 tables spread across 2 floors, with just 2 of us working as serveurs (waiters). Monday through Wednesday it can be a bit quiet (thankfully) but thursdays through the weekend are usually completely packed. Each table is filled by people from around the world, speaking a myriad of languages all coming to eat at the place their guidebooks laude as being "one of the best restaurants in the South of France." Candles placed around the restaurant and soft lights on the tables give the place a cozy and relaxing glow. In the background I'm usually playing mixes of Miles Davis, Coltrane, Nina Simone, Herbie Hancock, Ray Charles or other favorites. There is always a wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen where the Chef (who is part of the hip couple that own/run the restaurant) creates traditional and modern provencal French dishes. Each dish is a work of art in itself with the Chef paying just as much attention to the presentation of the dish as he does to it's taste. Also in the cuisine (kitchen) is a 17 year old who is apprenticing as a Sous Chef (what an awesome job to have at 17!)

Guillaume et moi.

The other serveur: Guillaume, a 2o-something graphic artist, who has been slowly teaching me everything i need to know about French cuisinary culture and correcting my grammar when i make mistakes. On the slow nights, we get into long discussions on topics ranging from art styles to racism in France. He's patient when i get lost speaking french and our conversations are usually half filled with us asking the definitions and translations of certain words in our respective languages. Between the waves of clients, we often will draw behind the bar, filling up sketch pads with our doodles.

The patrons (owners of the restaurant): They took it over a couple years ago after working there for quite a few years. The husband is the chef and the wife (also a chef) manages the front of the house and also is a serveur on the weekends when it gets really rushed. They're fairly young, speak fluent english (they did their studies in the UK, where they met) and are hip. The husband wears Chucks and the wife wears Birkenstocks. Looking through their cd collection and picking something to play is one of my favorite things to do between clients. They kite surf and take boxing lessons. They took me wine tasting at a local vineyard (who's wines we serve) to try their new wines. They're definitely strict, but only when they need to be and they don't go overboard. They definitely keep me on my feet.

Le Chef!

sauces being made

delicious desserts!- Entremet Chocolats from one of the best chocolatiers in France.

The clients: 60% french, 40% tourists/travellers. The majority of the clients are regulars and those that aren't will atleast visit a handful of times. Most of the tourists read about the restaurant in their travel guides and come in for a taste of traditonal french cuisine. It's the tourists that i like the most as clients because they are eager to share their travel stories with me while i take their orders and they leave tips. French people don't leave tips. it's not part of the culture. Sometimes they'll leave a euro or two but that's more a gesture than anything else. I love watching the couples from around the world that eat at the restaurant. The italian and french couples are the most romantic. They lean close over the tables talking in a way that their words will only reach the ears of their lover across from them. They hold each other's hands near the candle on top of the table and rarely pull their eyes away from each other. They kiss across the tables romantically and i always feel like im interrupting (i usually am, it's impossible not to be) when i try to give them their menus or dishes. Old couples eat at the restaurant and they speak less, usually because they don't need to say much to each other. They usually have the most expensive fixed menu and will sit with their wine enjoying each other's company. A few days ago an older french couple came in that was celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary. They must have been in their late 50's and they were writing love notes to each other on the napkins and kissing each other over the candle just like their younger counterparts. It was really nice. When the husband left for the bathroom, the wife leaned to me while i cleared the plates and said "Doesnt he look handsome? i love it when he wears that hat." Other interesting clients have included boxing champs, barons/baronesses, old Portuguese poets, and militant Israelies (with heavy NY accents).

The food is the part i love most about the restaurant. The carte (menu) is made up of 3 fixed menues, each with 3 or four courses. Each fixed menu is crafted by the chef so that each course compliments the course before and after it. Each course is relatively small (compared to American standards), but once people make it through their marathon meals to the dessert they are rarely hungry. The cuisine leaves you satisfied and not overly stuffed like american food sometimes does. The chef is a real artist in the kitchen, and each dish is whimsically decorated with a variety of vegetables and tapenades to compliment the dish. The desserts are magnificent. They range from Lavender and Green tea infused Creme Brulee to Molten Chocolate cake baked with a caramel in the center. Everything served in the restaurant is local. Our goat cheese comes from one of Aix's premier fromagieres (cheese producer). It is delivered each week by the producer, Guy Blanc, who is one of the few people seen around Aix with a pony tail and flannel shirts. He always has an old leather messenger bag on him and a couple earings in each ear. Our bread is made by the chef each morning and the type of bread changes each day to compliment the new dishes. All produce is bought direct from local farmers and meat is bought direct from local butchers. The wines are all from local vineyards, chosen by the owners to compliment the dishes. The Chef has been giving me cooking lessons, teaching me recipes and explaining to me the many different dishes he cooks. Lately i've been coming up with recipes of my own and sharing them with him and the sous chef.

Some of the local reds we serve

I've learned that one of the main differences between French dining and american dining is that in the US when we eat out, what happens on our table is completely under our control, because we are the clients. In french dining, almost everything that happens on the table (ie- the food served, the order which it is all eaten, the tastes experienced by the client, etc.) is controlled by the serveurs and, more importantly, the Chef. The Chef puts a lot of time and effort into creating each dining experience for the clients and the clients are completely glad to sit back and experience that which the Chef creates for them.

Working nearly every night has been tiring (especially with classes) but at the same time it's given me something constructive to do with my time here. Once again, i feel productive and am actually actively learning. I am forced to speak French for hours each night while i am completely immersed in one of the most wonderful pinnacles of France's culture: it's cuisine.

Bienvenue a Beirut- L'aventures de mon Apartement.

8h30: I was asleep on the sofa burried deep in sheets and even deeper in sleep. I was naked, warm and lost in dreams. My eyes are jerked open by a pounding at the door and some shouting in French. Im still asleep and it's too early to understand whats being said. I pull the blankets further over my head. The pounding continues and so does the french. My head hurts. I slowly stand up and shout "attends! j'arrive!" i grab the nearest clothes to me: pajama pants, a dress shirt, a grey knit cap. My face feels crusty, there is probably drool dried on it. Im still half asleep. I splash water on my face and open the door. There are 2 men standing there in coveralls and holding a jackhammer between them.

This is the story of my apartment.

at 8h45 im still trying to wake up fully and have already spoke in french for 10 mins or so (a difficult feat in itself at any hour, let alone an hour before noon). The repairmen tell me that they will be doing repairs on the building for the next 3 days. there won't be any water during the day. while one of the coverall (or raveware, depending on the setting) clad repairemen is explaining this to me, the other has started making marks on my tile floor and is readying the jackhammer. Apparently they're going to be working until thursday night. It's tuesday morning. My explanation is cut short by the violent pounding of the jackhammer against the tile floor and an explosion of dust and tile shrapnel in the air. jars start falling off my spice rack and break on the floor, adding clouds of flour and cumin to the general chaos in my apartment. The man leaning over the jackhammer doesnt notice the breaking jars and i get hit in the face by a piece of tile that rockets off the floor. Apparently there was a notice that was supposed to tell me about all this happening.


by now im awake, covered in dust and garding my face from further shrapnel attacks. i leave the apartment. I reread the notice posted in the hallway, it says that there will be work happening in a few of the apartments and that those apartments won't have water during the day. It says that the work is only going to last until wed. It doesnt say anything about dust and jackhammering, it doesnt say anything about thursday night.

The blurriness is from the dust in the air.

This work is for the whole building and im the lucky apartment owner who gets to have it all happen in his apartment. Im always the "lucky" apartment owner it seems. Here is a list of problems i have had with my apartment since moving in:

-Every month or so the septic system backs up for a couple days and im unable to use any water in the apartment. Being the i am on the ground floor, everytime somebody above me uses any water (showering, flushing toilet, washing dishes etc.) my toilet, sinks and shower gurgle angrily and eventually water starts coming out of the drains. Its not just water though- its toilet water. toilet water carrying with it everything that goes into toilets. This generally fills up the shower and toilet, a few times it overflows and seeps into the living room and into the kitchen sink. Apparently this happens due to a tartar buildup in the pipes. Every time this happens i call the landlord who calls a repairman who comes and tells me he has fixed the problem....until the poo demon returns with a vengeance the following month.

-Lately i've been enjoying an infestation of small flying insects. Not flies nor mosquitos but more annoying than both. These don't bite nor fly very fast. But they do breed quickly and die in crowds around the kitchen. There large numbers and preference of commiting what i can only assume to be large cult like suicides in my kitchen and living room is what is most annoying. They die and create a squishy mess. in exploring their deplorable habits i found out that they werent being attracted by rotting fruit (as fruit flies would be) but instead were flying in and out of the vents in the walls of the building. Apparently my appartment kitchen is the best place to die en masse in the whole building

-2 times this year i had to deal with the sudden and unanounced arrival of a roomate. This roomate was already living in another part of the building and both times we met for the first time when i was returning home from a trip. I would usually find that the roomate had already made himself at home and had rummaged through everything in my kitchen, helping himself to what he pleased. Eventually i duct taped him out of the apartment and i can only assume that he returned to the basement of the building where him and the other mice have been living. At night if im real quite i can hear them scratching in the walls. Being that they're french mice, they are too evolved to fall for the mouse trap which so easily kills american mice.

-one day when returning late at night from a trip, my key wouldnt turn the lock and i found that my lock had seized up while i was gone and had broke. I spent the night at a neighbors and the next evening had to watch a "locksmith" drill through the lock and charge me 90 euros for his labor. He then wanted another 240 euros (a little more than 75,600 US dollars with the current exchange rate) to put on a new lock. He told me this after he'd already drilled through the old lock and showed me how the lock should have been replaced years ago as the insides were already broken. i called the agency who represents my landlord and yelled at them. They sent someone to install a new lock. He installed it upside down.

-In the middle of cooking for a potluck, the hotplates that serve as my stove broke suddenly and short-circuited the apartment. I went the rest of the day and that night without electricity. I had nothing to take to the potluck. It took more than a week to get somebody to bring over a new plac (stove top). The one they installed was too big and now my fridge doesn't fit properly underneath it.

-there as been a rolling set of electricity outages and short circuiting throught the year in my apartment. I keep a ready supply of candles.

-there is splotchy black and brown mold thats taking over the bathroom and area under the sink in the kitchen. Its not as bad as the mold that has been growing in my neighbors apartment. Their mold ate a hole through the wall and is fuzzy.

-chunks of the wall fall out when ever there are any vibrations (ie- loud noises in the street, a door slamming in a near by apartment, etc.) A picture frame once fell from the wall while i was sleeping. I was startled awake by the noise of it clattering against the floor, i was kept awake by the large chunk of plaster that subsequently fell of the low ceiling and broke into tiny pieces when it hit my head. These problems with the wall keep my floor in a perpetually dusty state near the walls.

-when the apartment was "renovated" the set of large single pane windows was never replaced or fixed. The glass is encased by old wood and neither of the windows close tightly because the wood has long since warped and the layers of paint used to cover the gaps, hinder more than help. The problem was solved by installing 2 space heaters under the windows, unfortunately, only one of them work. Any heat that i could get from that space heater is usually lost to the cold air that blows in through the perpetually almost-closed windows.

Look at all the dust on the bed. It's EVERYWHERE!!

12h00- returning from work i walked into the building at the time the workmen said they'd be done. They werent and instead one of them met me at the door to the building. We walked the few steps to my apartment door where he said "Bienvenue au Beirut" before opening my door.
Atleast he has a sense of humor. The inside of my apartment is a chalky white from a thick layer of dust covering everything. My apartment is split in two by a giant crevice running across the floor. The gapping scar in the middle of the tiles is marked on each side by 2 large piles of broken cement, piping, and shattered tiles. I try to say something to the repairmen but instead start coughing from the dust. While i was staring at this from the doorway the other repairman had his head in the crevice and came out pointing another part of my apartment where he proclaims the next trench will be dug tomorrow. My apartment looks like an archaeological site in the Sahara and the dust is so think on the floor that i can clearly see the tracks of the soles of my shoes in the dust. Thursday night can't come fast enough.

Things I'm going do do before I die (Wanna join and/or help me?)

In no particular order, Here is a (growing list of things i'd like to do do before i die). Its subject to (and will) grow over time but it will not shrink:

Silly String wars at Nice's Carneval

In no particular order, Here is a (growing list of things i'd like to do do before i die). Its subject to (and will) grow over time but it will not shrink:

• Go Skydiving, Parasailing, Bungee Jumping, Hot Air Ballooning
• Go Scuba Diving in Turkey
• Go to a Cocktail Party where people are wearing tuxedo's and evening attire
• Sail down the Nile River and sleep on the banks
• Go underwater in a submarine
• Get my Pilot's license and fly across the country
• Ride in a helicopter
• Buy/fix up and outfit a Landrover Defender 110 and go on a a long safari across a country (a la Camel Trophy) with my father and brother
• Speak Fluently:
• Arabic, Swahili, Urdu, Chinese, Hindi, Spanish, and French
• Dive in the Great Barrier Reef
• Drive a motorcycle across Australia
• Work for/with an NGO in a Palestine/Afghani refugee camp
• Work with an NGO towards ending international Houselessness
• Work with Teach for America, Habitat for Humanity, or Americorp to teach in an underprivileged community in the U.S.
• Buy D-SLR and become a travel photographer
• Learn how to Sail and sail between countries
• Play chess often, have a chess set on my coffee table
• Build my own house at some point. It must be zero-waste
• Live in France
• Rock Climb regularly
• Travel to both poles
• Learn how to completely repair an old Landrover
• Learn how to drive stick
• Become a travel writer for a travel book
• Learn Sitar, Tabla, and acoustic guitar
• Work with an NGO in India (preferably in Kutch)
• See all the Old and New Wonders of the World
• Run for a public office (preferably in publicad
  
• Work for/with U.N.
• Spend multiple nights in a large yacht
• Learn how to knit
• Achieve the highest dive certification i can
• Get a tattoo
• Learn how to shave with a straight blade
• Be a teacher
• Work in/own a coffeeshop with a live jazz band, open mic night, and community library
  
• Run multiple marathons
• Swim with sharks...
• Dont get eaten during said dive
  
• Bike from Vancouver to South America along the coast
  
• do same trip on motorcycle?
• See the Olympics

Being Silly in Paris

• WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) in South America and India
• Live in India, Berlin, Amsterdam, San Francisco, the East Coast
  
• Learn how to develop my own photos
• Become a journalist (international)
• Get Published
• Write a book of some sort
• Get into a fist fight for a good reason.
• figure out what a good reason to get into a fist fight is
• Visit every state in the U.S.
• Ride the rails in the U.S.
• Hitchhike across a state or two
• Go to an Ice bar or Ice Hotel
• Learn how to Bartend
• Have a library room in my house with a ladder on wheels, big leather chairs & sofas, fumidor for cigars, brandy shelf and wine rack
• Collect and be educated on wine
• have wine cave
• Grow old with life long friends
• Be an old and Stylish!
• Have children (either by the old fashion way or adoption)
• adopt a child
  
• Have my parents live with/near me. Take care of them
• buy/build my parents a house- make sure they are always comfortable
• Be at least Half the father to my children that my father is to me
  
• Live near/with Assad. Roomates!!!
• Be a vegetarian for at least a year
• Be an amazing cook! (with my own cookbook)
• Own a nice watch, pass it on to my children
• Read and Finish all Abrahamic religious texts. (Qur'an, Bible, Torah)
• Pray 5 times a day
• Go to Chiappas, learn from/live/create change/knowledge share with the Zapatistas
• Write the "Social Justice Cookbook"
• Do interfaith organizing
• Have a bespoke suit/shoes
• See Iguazu Falls
• camping/backpacking trip
  
• Invest in Stock Market
• Go spelunking
• Scuba in Belize
• Drive on the Autobahn
• Watch an opera in Italy
• Ride the Orient Express
• Visit an uninhabited island
• Swim in all 5 oceans
• Take parents on Vacation
• Ride "Crime and Punishment" and finish it!
• Go festival hoping in Mongolia and Tibet
• Summit mountain in Himalayas
• Celibrate Mardi Gras in New Orleans
• Carneval in Brazil!
• Run Bay to Breakers with friends and family :)
  
• Achieve everything on this list

going to Italy for lunch

I write this flying along the Mediterranean coast of Southern France on the TGV. Its nearly 18h00 (6pm) on the opening weekend of Nice’s Carneval. My seat faces the opposite direction we are traveling, leaving me to look back towards my latest adventures while the red rock and villa strewn coast line of the deep blue Mediterranean zips past me in reverse. The setting sun dances colors off the craggy red rocks and white sand beaches, while an all to eager moon already sits full on its fast climb high into the sky. The sky is a clear blue with a few strings of purple clouds stretched across the sky. The pale blue of the sky is a nice backdrop for the shadows on the moon’s face and the orange purples hanging low above the horizon. Rarely does the TGV stop and it’s incredibly smooth slowing and accelerating is barely noticeable.


This morning I woke in the mountains behind Nice at my cousin’s house. He was jetting off to Switzerland for work and I was thinking that I wanted pasta for lunch. So, I decided to head to Italy, the home of pasta. The Italian border is mere minutes from Nice on an old commuter train so I boarded it and set off on my Pasta-driven quest. My realization of barely knowing the language wasn’t brought to my attention until I started up a conversation with some other Americans who came from Seattle and were traveling along the Italian coast for 2 weeks. They saw me speak French and asked if I knew Italian. My Italian, I told them, is limited to the names of pasta dishes and a few designers. We talked standing in the space between 2 crowded cars as the old train rocked back and forth on its way across the French-Italian border. A quick 20 minutes later, I arrived at Ventimiglia, a small Italian border town on a beautifully rocky coast. I had been told to check out the indoor market, so after depositing my backpack in a very suspect lock room, I left the station and made my first step out under the beautiful Italian sun en route to the market. Weaving my way between stalls of bulging red strawberries, barrels of aromatic spices and tables of freshly made flour-covered pasta I heard laughter and snippets of conversations in both French and Italian. The market was crowded with as many French people as Italians (the French frequent the markets of Italy to take advantage of the significantly less expensive produce) and I loved it. Leaving the market I head for the beach. There was commotion ahead of me and I saw a very new helicopter take off as a very old fire engine drove off along side it. It is this mix of old and new that I have found so appealing about Europe’s Mediterranean coast.

The beach was covered in small rocks long smoothed flat by the lapping waves of the ocean. The Mediterranean is not an ocean that is prone to noticeable tides so it was clear how far up the beach the small waves came. As I walked along the beach, picking up flat stones to skip in the surf, I would often stop to admire small pieces of green, pink and yellow sea glass rubbed smooth just like the flat stones that they rested with. Not hungry yet and with nothing on my mind, I skipped stones for nearly an hour as I watched sea birds fly low above the water stopping to rest on small rocks jutting out of the water. Every so often an old couple would walk past stopping to say hi to me. The men would be in tweed coats and hats while the womyn would have large sun glasses with billowy fur (or faux-fur, I couldn’t tell the difference) coats tightened around them against the cool sea breeze. I, meanwhile, was sweating under my sweater and loosely tied scarf. I left the water’s edge to continue on my walk on the passegiata (walk way) along the beach. The sun had yet to reach it’s noonday peak and the passegiata was largely filled with old couples. Old men sat talking on benches or leaning against the railing, smiling at me as I past (we were all dressed largely the same, one of them commented on my black newsboy hat, but as he was saying more than the names of Italian menu items, I didn’t really understand his complement completely). Groups of bright spandex clad cyclists would zip past on the street shouting Italian words of encouragement (I think) to each other. I aimlessly walked for quite a while, peeping at the menus of the various restaurants that dotted the beach. The restaurants were just starting to open for the day but as I wasn’t hungry yet, none of them looked too appealing. I eventually turned back on the passegiata to head back to the center of town (I had gone far into the residential area), fishermen were now pulling their boats in for the day and I watched them unload their catches from their small bright wooden boats. I watched 2 men pull fish out of their small red wooden boat and carry it up to a small cart on the street where a crowd had already formed. The fish were still alive as the man at the cart sold them to the people waiting. I kept walking to a destination I didn’t have and soon my feet carried me cross a bridge into an older part of town built around a small hill with an old church perched on top. I trekked to the top, at some point gathering a crazy old womyn who clucked and mooed as she tailed me up the slope. I would stop to take photos of the vue and she would stop a few feet behind me continuing with her farmyard reenactments. She eventually tired of me and my photo taking, and with a final “cluck,” she turned to walk down a steep side street. I walked past the church over the hill of the old town and found myself above another part of the beach. By now a hunger was starting to growl in my stomach and I could see 2 beach front restaurants down below. I followed the street around the hill to the beach waiting down below. The first restaurant that I had spotted from the hilltop town had a gorgeous white terrace outside that rested right above the beach. People were dressed very well and all smiling amidst their conversations. They were old French people and old Italians. I knew that the restaurant would be high for my tight student budget but as I had finally found the destination of my day’s wanderings I sat down and ordered a fresh seafood plate, gelato, bread, wine and a plate of parmesan dusted gnocchi in red sauce. Sitting on the sparkling white terrace under the afternoon Italian sun, I looked out across the Mediterranean’s soft waves and settled in to enjoy my delicious lunch in Italy.

Saqib Goes Home To Kenya, His Mother Land :)

I am writing this at my grandparents farm in Mtwapa, Mombasa surrounded by family and being eaten by mosquitos. I’ve been living on fresh fruits, meats, boxes of mithai (Indian sweets) and most of all, fresh mangoes and madafu (coconut). It’s sunny, warm and the mangrove in the front yard is just as magnificent as it ever was. I can’t believe it’s been over 6 years since the last time I was in Kenya. I’ve missed this life so much!





Flight in:

Oh, the glory that is charter flights! This flight could have been the poster child for stereotypical bad flying experiences! I was sitting in the 4 across middle row of the airplane, shoulder to shoulder with my uncle and the English guy on my left. I tried to put my elbows down but couldn’t get them past the arm rest that were sufferingly close to my sides. In front of me was a small child who would stand up in his seat at whim and stare at me. Throughout the night he would stare and stare. And stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare…………..well, you get the idea. It was fun and first, I made faces at him, thinking that he would smile….but he didn’t. He was stone faced the whole time and that scared me. I soon ran out of faces to make and he still hadn’t cracked a smile. It was unnerving! Not too long into the flight, I realized that my iPod battery was dead and I would have to entertain myself for the duration of the flight’s 9 hours. Everyone was asleep around me and I wanted to join the club. I tried to settle down into the slot of the seat I was in and made a stab at sleep…but I was thwarted by one of the most stereotypical miserable flight experiences of all- the passenger with the crazy snore. I’m sure many of you are familiar with this passenger but this was my first experience with him. The cabin was dark and there were the obligatory chorus of mild snoring and heavy breathing but all of it was trumped by the man sitting in the row in front of me and his unholy collection of gapless snores. It was comical at first, much like the starting child, but after 15 mins of it, I was giving him the best evil eye I could, imagining his head bursting and a calm silence falling over the cabin letting all of us red-eyed travelers lull into a deep sleep. There was cheering at first, but then everyone happily went to sleep. His head didn’t explode and I never got to sleep. Instead, I angrily listened to his snoring all night long, wishing misfortune (or overhead luggage) to fall on him silencing his snores. I wandered the cabin for a while and eventually found myself drinking glass after glass of water in the crew’s quarters in the back of the plane. Standing there staring out the window I had the treat of experiencing another great airplane conversation. A portly white well-to-do looking man was animatedly talking to the flight stewards telling them about how he probably thwarted a terrorist plot at the airport at wanted to know if they had heard anything about it. Keep in mind, I was blatantly staring at this man the whole time he was talking, not hiding the fact at all that I was listening to this conversation. He told the stewardess that while he was waiting for is flight there was a man anxiously pacing up and down the isle of the boarding gate muttering to himself. The English man made a point to describe the appearance of the pacing man, prefacing it by saying “I don’t want to offend anyone but the guy was clearly of Arabic or some other Muslim looking decent and was probably doing some sort of prayer.” Needless to say, the English man, being the patriot and terrorist-spotting expert that he was (im surprised this man wasn’t an American, he would make such a great one!), called the security guards at the airport and had the man taken away from the boarding gate on the premise that this “Arab looking man” was making the other passengers nervous. The flight attendants were very proud of him and kept saying what an admirable thing it was that he’d did and how most people wouldn’t have the courage. I wish I’d had the courage to slap all 3 of them, but I guess not all of us can have the bravery that this fat white English guy has. I left them and went back to my seat to be greeted by the kid staring at me (he apparently couldn’t sleep either), the man snoring, being elbowed by the sleeping English traveler guy on my left and my dead iPod.

We got into Mombassa, flying from the extreme cold of the U.K. to the blanching heat of Mombassa. My cousins started turning red from the heat as soon as they got off the plane. We waited in a long line to pay our visa fees and finally made it out of the airport to be greeted by another cousin and the family car, waiting to take us to the farm after so many years ☺

My first day back in Kenya:

My family! I am back on the family farm in Mtwapa and am once again with my mom, my cousins, my grandparents and the absolutely beautiful farm. The shamba (“farm” in Kiswahili) is just like I remember it. Green, filled with family, mangoes and coconuts. What more could I want? I can’t even begin to describe how wonderful it has been to be with my family again and we are all looking forward to my cousin’s wedding coming up at the end of the week.
Also,
It’s hot! Really really hot! I was looking forward to make it out of Aix’s winter cold (why is the south of France cold?! And why wasn’t I told about this cold before signing up for the program?) and into the island tropical warmth of Mombassa but this is too much! I’m sweating from parts of my body that shouldn’t be sweating and I crave for cold water. Unfortunately none of us are patient enough to wait for the water to get all the way cold.
We went into the town market today to pick up some things for the wedding feast. Covered in sweat, we wove our way through the streets of the market picking up fruits and being conned into buying Achari (a pickled mango sweet of sorts). I let myself be convinced by my mother to get a haircut after I got my straight blade shave (don’t tell anyone but the straight blade shave was one of the things I was looking forward to most about Kenya). Long story short, the shave was a painful disaster with the barber repeatedly complaining to me how my thick facial hair was ruining his blades, me ending up with a haircut that bothers me every time I look in the mirror and me losing a lot of trust in my mother. Moral of the story: When mom says get a haircut, don’t. That night, we went to Lighthouse (the hot spot at night for people to hang out and show off their new clothes) where we had bags of fresh Mogo Crisps (Cassava chips) and grilled sweet potato with chili and lime on top…SO DELICIOUS!!! If you know what I am writing about, you’ll know what a big deal it was to eat it at the lighthouse. If you don’t know what im talking about, buy the next ticket you can find to Mombasa and get yourself some hot fresh mogo!

Day 2:

We woke up late today and after an amazing breakfast (my grandmother cooked, enough said) then made our way back to Old Town mombasa to do some more shopping. My cousin Nadia is a bargainer and haggler unlike any other and she lead us all around the market, from one stall to another, to pick up things for her wedding and various gifts for folks back home in the U.S. Later that day, we bought chickens from another part of the farm so we could have barbecue that night. There is nothing better than having fresh meat ☺ We also bought goats in preparation for Eid the next day. When we went to the goat herder to pick the ones we wanted, a bunch of the goats (all male goats btw) started to madly have sex with each other. Either Mombasa has a higher than average gay goat community or the goats knew the end was near and had let go of their socially imposed restraints (can animals be gay? I wonder…)

That night we all sat and cooked some Nyama (“barbecue”) on the side of the house. We were out there talking late into the night, all very excited to be back together again after so long. Late that night, 2 of my cousins introduced me to Mombasa’s awesome beach night life.

I am enjoying myself so much on the farm! Its so relaxing ☺ Also, I’ve been sneaking Pedas (Indian sweets) from the fridge, I hope nobody notices how quickly the desserts are disappearing.

Day 3:

Today we celebrated Eid-ul-Adha and went to the early morning prayers at the small mosque on the farm. We came home to a delicious traditional Eid breakfast (im not going to describe the magic of this breakfast, but know that it was more than amazing). After breakfast, we slaughtered the goats (in accordance with Eid tradition) and had them for a nice lunch biryani (a decadent and work intensive rice and meat dish). We all felt very lazy today and throughout the day we took naps and ate desserts when we thought nobody else was watching (maybe that last bit was just me….once again, I hope nobody notices the fast diminishing dessert collection in the fridge). I went for a walk on the farm on my own to take some photos and ended up back at the farm’s school that I had been to with my family the last time I was in Mombasa. Even though the students were on vacation, I was able to walk around the school and got a chance to wander in and out of the classrooms having reality check after reality check about the immense privilege that I have been raised in/with. The classrooms have no windows or doors and desks are made out of rough scrap wood and shared by 2-3 students. The blackboard is peeling black paint on the wall and is covered by Swahili verbs and their English counterparts. After returning home, we went to see some other relatives and wish them Eid Mumbarak. It really is wonderful to be seeing my family again.

Day 4:

After waking up at an unreasonable time (anything before 10 is unreasonable), my mom and I got a lift in the sole family car (a white station wagon which we can fit a seemingly infinite number of people in) to the nearby White Sands beach. We walked through the hotel straight to the beach and started to walk down the beach. The sand was perfectly white and under the cloudless sky, the water a warm blue. The beach was dotted with “beach boys” pitching things like Glass bottom boat rides, Camel rides, keychains, paintings, coconuts, chili mangoes, and everything in between to the tourists who were wandering on the beach. It was clear that we (I) stuck out like a sore thumb because the beach boys passed my mom up and would keep trying to sell me their various wares. Once we told people we were just on a walk, they left us alone. Finally we ended up staring at rows of paintings planted in the sand. As we walked in and out of the rows, the beach boy selling them would bring more and more paintings out like the ones we would stop to look at. My mother and I were talking in English, and then changed to French when we realized the beach boys were listening and understanding everything we were saying. Unfortunately the beach boys also understood the French, so we switched to kutchi. My mom was talking in Swahili to the man and told him that I was a guest who she was taking out on a tour. She told him that I was a client who was only able to spend so much as I was a student on a tight budget. They were surprised to hear that my mom was from Mtwapa and as they entered the complicated haggling process, this information and a native fluency in Swahili definitely came in handy to my mom. They haggled in Swahili with the occasional English words and I followed along as best I could. The beach boys kept demanding the outrageous tourist price given to the wealthy Europeans who stayed in the resorts along the beach and we kept walking away until our price was finally met and we bought the painting. While this haggling was going on, another beach boy pulled me aside and offered to trade me something for my pen and after that asked me if I wanted to buy anything from his “special sale” which was a rolled up cloth sack laying behind one of the larger paintings. He told me that he would sell it to me without my guide (aka my mom) knowing and that he had everything I wanted. I declined and tried to get him to make the same pitch to my mom. We walked down the beach and were offered these “special sales” many times, sometimes the beach boys asked me and sometimes they asked my mom (usually because I would point at her behind her back). The majority of the beach boys were very nice and we talked to many of them as we walked down the beach. We stopped for a coconut and while I drank the coconut milk from the hole cut in the coconut, a womyn asked if we wanted our hair braided. As tempting as it was to have matching hair braids with my mom, we passed it up because of the upcoming wedding. We eventually found some lounge chairs and ordered some fruit drinks. With colorful lizards running underneath the chairs and Chameleons on the palm trees on top of us we lay and watched dhow boats sail past in the low tide and the seldom camel led down the coast by a brightly dressed beach boy. We left the beach deciding against taking a taxi home and opted for the local public transportation instead, the matatu. For those of you who haven’t seen or witnessed for yourselves the wonders of the Matatu, let me describe it to you the best I can.
The Matatu is usually are old Nissan, Toyota and Mitsubishi minivans modified to hold 14 passengers (but usually hold way more). These vans are brightly painted with slogans like “Mr. Boombastic” Or “Manchester United 4 Life” scrawled across the sides with neon lights flashing to the beat of blaring reggae or hip hop music. There are fleets of these zooming across town with no care for traffic laws or the safety of their passengers. The owners make deals with the drivers demanding a set amount of profit each day for the owner and the rest for the driver and his helper. The helper hangs out the door of the matatu shouting its destination at the people it passes, collects money and tells the driver when to stop. This helper often only has one arm and one leg inside of this speeding van as the driver navigates around traffic, livestock, people, and the car eating pot holes that Kenya’s roads are all to well known for. Laws were passed recently to bring some law to the matatus but all this did was make all matatus have matching yellow stripes along the side and make the Helper not lean so far out of the matatu. Supposedly it was supposed to get drivers to only allow 14 people (who would presumably all be wearing seatbelts) into the matatu, but you still see upwards of 20 people crammed in, sitting on top of each other’s laps with their luggage in their own laps. We were lucky in that our matatu was not crowded like this and we had no problems with pick-pocketers. We got dropped of at the main road exit for the farm and walked for 2 miles to get back home.
That afternoon my cousin, Afshan, who is more like my close sister and friend because we were raised together, arrived from Elk Grove. I’ve missed her so much while in France and seeing her was a real treat. We stayed up late that night dancing and talking around a bonfire underneath the palm trees. As people started to go to sleep, another one of my cousins and I sat by the dying fire catching up and eating Miraa (aka Kaat- as its known in the U.S.). Every so often the night guard would walk by and we would shoot trees with his Masai bow and arrow. Miraa is a mild socially accepted amphetamine of sorts that is very popular in East Africa. One buys bunches of miraa plant stalks rolled up in newspaper and packs of “Big G” bubble gum. Bite of a piece of gum, and then peel off the outer layer of the Miraa stalks with your teeth, chewing them with the gum. I know it sounds complicated but its easy once you get the hang of it. People sit around for hours talking and chewing miraa. It’s a big part of the culture here. Miraa is a stimulant similar to caffeine and I am told that sometimes it also works as a natural Viagra.

Day 5:

Today was a mad rush of cleaning and cooking in preparation for Nadya’s Mehndi party in the afternoon. Farm workers wove palm fronds to make archways for guests to walk under, while I helped making palm tree bark into decorative boats to put on tables during the Nikha (actual wedding ceremony). The patio was decorated by Nadya and Afshan in preparation for the Mehndi party and the kitchen was full of people cooking for the Mehndi party and for the Nikha. At around 4 when we were expecting the guests to show up we heard drums and singing coming from down the dirt road and when we ran out to see what it was, we saw that it was the Imam from the farm’s mosque leading a group of children who were playing drums and singing various prayers. To my surprise, they turned into our farm and continued to the lawn where they sat on carpets that had previously been layed out. It turns out that they had been called to perform the Moulid (a muslim group prayer ceremony) to bless the wedding. At home in Elk Grove when we perform the moulid, we all sit down and repeat after a scratchy and worn out 40+ year old cassette tape recording of some moulid years ago that often breaks and has to be switched mid-prayer, in contrast, in mombasa when they have a moulid, they have matching outfits, a percussion section and they sing the prayers in harmony. At one point some of the children started to play flutes. It was beautiful and made me jealous.
In accordance with Indian Standard Time, the guests arrived 2 hours late. The mehndi artist was almost done covering Nadya’s legs, feet, arms, and hands with intricate Arabic mehndi wedding designs and the mehndi ceremony was ready to begin. The groom’s family presented the bride’s family with brightly decorated platters of mehndi, fruits, and sweets and eventually walked up to greet the bride. Eventually the womyn separated and danced in the room the bride was sitting while applying mehndi to each other. The men sat outside under the trees eating, talking and drinking tea. Eventually when many of the guests had left, the rest of us had dinner and kept talking outside under the trees and the full moon. I set up my cousin’s hookah and my cousins, uncles, some aunts and I sat around smoking and talking. My mother shook her head at me and told me my smoking wasn’t appropriate but she was trumped by my grandmother who gave me the go ahead. Needless to say, I love my grandmother. We sat outside talking late into the night, my uncles and grandfather telling me stories of their childhoods, past travels, and life growing up in Kenya.

Day 6:

Today was a relaxed day mostly filled with final preparations for the wedding, lazing around the farm and throwing a Frisbee around under the beautiful Mombasa sun. We set up tables, wove more palm frond arches, decorated the wedding platform, set up the sound system and emergency lights (for the strong possibility of a power outage during the wedding). My Uncle went to secure armed police officers to guard the guest parking lot because theft was another strong possibility during the wedding. More family came to visit and we eventually decided on going to our favorite Nyama Choma (barbecue kebabs of sorts) restaurant that night. Even though my grandmother was making Nyama at the farm it would have been shameful for me to leave Mombasa without making the obligatory visit to the Vipingo Nyama Choma Mshikaki Restaurant. Vipingo is a small shack of a restaurant about 20 minutes away from the farm. There is no sign pointing to it off the main road and has been run by the same greyed old man behind the counter for as long as my Uncle can remember going there. This place is by far one of my favorite restaurants in the world. Barbecued beef skewers are ordered here in the hundreds along with Blackcurrent Vimto’s (a soda drink I have only seen in Kenya) and Fanta’s. The restaurant was out of Vimto so the 6 of us ordered Fanta’s (the real kind, in the glass bottles. Not like the crap we get stateside) and 150 skewers. We had to eat lightly because we had promised to eat at the farm too and nobody was willing to pass up on grandmother’s cooking, even if only for a night. The Nyama was skewered on bicycle spokes and cooked on barbecues made of metal troughs filled with charcoal covered with wire grills. The barbecues reminded me a lot of the barbecues I had bought so many snacks from off the streets of rural China and Tibet. The flames were fanned by a man holding a piece of a cardboard box while another person constantly ran skewers from bbq to the various tables. Plates were put on tables with about 10 skewers on each one and barely lasted long enough for the server to walk away from the table. 3 plates were put on our table first with a plate of diced onions and tomatoes, 2 plates of chili sauce and a plate of toast. The meat was still sizzling and silence befell the table as the plates were cleared in a matter of seconds. The same scene replayed itself as more and more plates were brought to our table. Eventually we had finished our skewers and after the usual pressuring of which uncle was allowed to pay the bill (the uncle who won was the one who had previously made the owner promise to only take his money when it came time to settle the bill). Back at the farm we ate tropical fruit flavors of ice cream that I have only tasted in Kenya and lounged around with the family. Music was blasted with the sound system that had been set up for the wedding the next day and all of us danced and goofed off in the patio room late into the night.

Day 7: The Wedding Day and my last full day in Mombasa

More decorating, cooking, and other final preparations for the wedding. The palm tree boats were put on the tables garnished with flowers and lit candles, walkways were lined with bags filled with candles and the palm frond archways were decorated with Birds of Paradise flowers. The guests arrived in the afternoon and I was surrounded by family and friends that I hadn’t seen for years. It was wonderful!

The groom and his family showed up with all the proper ceremony and the nikkah (wedding ceremony) was ready to begin. With the crack of my mother’s whip I was stuck with the task of wedding photographer (thank you mom), and throughout the wedding I ran around taking photos and videos, often with a camcorder in one hand and camera in the other. The wedding ceremony was beautiful and although I don’t think anyone stole the groom’s shoes, my cousins and aunts did block him out of the room where he was supposed to take the bride’s veil off, demanding a monetary fee from him (I don’t know if they ever collected or if a fee was agreed on, they did let him into the room though). The groom’s brother was the emcee and he led the guests through cake cuttings, blessings by the elders and a short history of the bride and groom’s long history together. The elders were always guiding the emcee and the bridegroom around telling us all how the wedding traditions were supposed to be performed. Eventually the wedding came to a close and the bride tearfully left with the groom’s family. That night we danced more and my cousin’s and I went to a club with the groom’s brothers to celebrate the wedding and my last night in Kenya.

Day 8:

I woke up early and left for the airport with Afshan, my mother and the driver. Lugging another suitcase full of things that my mother had brought for me from the States and things that I had bought in Mombasa, I boarded the plane for Manchester. The charter flight was nowhere nearly as As I was flying in on xmas day, a relative had volunteered to pick me up from the airport (which was 2 hours from his house), take me to his house and drop me off the next day at another airport (1.5 hours from his house). He is an uncle of mine who is a friend of my dad’s and when I asked him why he was going through all the trouble for me he simply responded that I was family and that’s what family does for each other. I stayed the night at his amazing house in Leicester and the next day I boarded the plane for Amsterdam.




Overall this trip reinforced the importance that family and culture play in my life. Having limited contact with either since coming to France, being back on the farm surrounded by family from all over the world really showed me how much I missed it all. I realized that my family, no matter how distantly related, will always be there for me, willing to do whatever to help me on my way. And I will always be there for my family to do whatever needs to be done. It’s a nice feeling ☺

My trip to the Alps :)

I went to visit a friend in the Alps. I had met him through Couchsurfing (my preferred way of travel) when he offered me a ride to a concert in Marseille and a place to stay that night. He invited my friend and I to his cabin in the Alps and of course we jumped on the offer. The weekend was filled with hiking, photography and French!!! He picked us up at the train station and asked us "do you want to speak english or french?" That was the last of the english spoken that weekend. He took us hiking on the surrounding mountains, fed us amazing foods and took us to his friends wedding party. All in all it was a great weekend!

And now for some photos:





* Do you folks prefer the slideshows or the individual photos? Im not saying that i'll take your feedback into consideration but, who knows, maybe i will.

Spain! October 24th- November 4th

Long after the fact i am finally sitting down to write this blog. During my trip to Spain i visited Alcala de Heneres (a small city on the outskirts of Madrid where my friend was studying), Madrid, Valencia and finally Barcelona.
Highlights of the trip include:

• Seeing the season's last bullfight in Madrid
• Seeing the birthplace of Miguel de Cervantes, the author of Don Quixote
  
• ART GALLERIES!!!!!! Some of the best that I have ever seen. The Reina Sofia and the Museo Thyssen were truly amazing and I can't wait to go back to them. Salvador Dali is a god. A crazy, completely detached from reality, God.
• One word: Tapas.
  
• Going to Valencia on a whim and finding a place to couchsurf in a matter of hours
• The bus breaking down between Madrid and Valencia and me fearing that i would be stuck on a bus in a truck stop in Middle of Nowhere, Spain forever sitting next to a crazy German lady who screams in her sleep
  
• Wandering the cobbled streets of Valencia, meeting people and exploring the city
• Celebrating my Birthday in one of my favorite cities on earth, Barcelona.
• Seeing the architectural brilliance of Antoni Gaudi
• Listening to street performers in Gaudi's Park Güell
• Making new friends from all over the world
• Traveling alone, learning about myself while i learn about the cities that i am in.
  
• Partying. Partying. Partying. Partying.

And now a slideshow of photos from the trip: