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I have been in Arusha now for four days and I have been very careful not to write on this blog yet. For the sake of my own sanity I needed to let the dust (and my emotions) settle before I tried to think about what I have done so far.
My first day here was not so great, to be very honest. As you know, my travel plans got messed up in a way that only the airline industry can master. While I had been thrilled to know that I was only two jet rides away from my destination, I soon found out that my rescheduled itinerary included an additional stop. To this day, I am not sure what country I was in. I can confidently say I was in Africa, but that is it. The added inconvenience was unfortunate, but, as some of you may know, the more pressing issue emerged when I saw the TINY prop plane that was to deliver me to my final destination. This was such a pleasure for someone who is 1) terrified of heights, 2) anxious when flying, and 3) rather claustrophobic. The little tin can they shoved us into did not even have a real seat for the single flight attendant serving the flight, he had to pull this little bench out of the wall and sit on what appeared to be the airline equivalent of a pocket door with a tiny murphy bed attached to it, just large enough for him to prop one half of his rear end on during takeoff and landing. He stood the rest of the time. I am not sure if he was doing it to be more comfortable or so he could be the first person to jump out of that deathtrap when it began to plummet from the sky.
As must seem obvious now, I did not die on that plane, but I am pretty sure that a piece of my soul did. I bargained with every deity and chanted what I considered a close approximation of a Buddhist prayer in my head, and it seems to have paid off. I will have to remember that trick next winter come finals time.
Getting to Arusha was breathtaking. The airport sits between Mount Meru, Africa’s 5th tallest mountain, and Mount Kiliminjaro. There are lush fields and flowers surrounding the airport and the air is cool and clear (just at the airport, the air in Arusha itself is cool and full of dust and smog, it is just like LA but with fewer fake boobs). My excitement must have been obvious and I am sure I looked like a typical tourist with the “I am finally in Africa” look on my face that I was seeing on the faces of other obvious tourists.
After being shuttled inside, my shot record was checked and I was cleared to enter the country… after I made it through customs and immigration. The customs portion was laughable and I did not even talk to a customs official, but I did have a rather exciting encounter with the Immigration Officer at the airport. We will call him Officer Big Mean Jerk (keeping it PG for the kiddies). I am a nerd, so I knew how much my visa was supposed to cost, $100 American. However, when I got to the front of the line, somehow the price was “two or three hundred.” Now, I am no genius, but typically I think government fees are set, not with a suggested donation range, but at a specific price. Not only that, but I am positive that not even 48 hours before, I had double checked the fees and PRINTED OUT THE FORM! When I told Officer BMJ that the fees were too high, he got very angry and said, “I am the immigration officer; I say the fee is two or three hundred.” For a minute or so I tried to be nice and calm (very hard for me, but he had a Big Mean Gun, so I figured it would be best not to piss him off) while explaining to this man that I knew that the fee was $100. Finally, in what I would like to call my finest moment, but was probably just the result of lack of sleep and homesickness, I told him with tears flowing down my face that I could not afford that much and that I was only here to try to do good work and if he would not let me pay I would have to move into the airport until I could find a flight home. I am sure he just wanted to get me the heck out of there, so he accepted my $100 and sent me on my way. Score one for my lawyerly negotiating skills.
Miracle of miracles, both of my bags arrived at the airport, and aside from the TSA notice that they had looked inside of one of them, they both were in fine shape. I headed out into the bright sunlight and was quickly ushered into a taxi to take me the 50ish kilometers to Arusha. I knew at the time I was paying too much for the ride, but by then I figured I was working with found money that would have gone to Officer BMJ, so I just went with it. Let me just say this now, the drivers here, the pedestrians here, the motorcyclists here, the bicyclists here, the little push cart guys here, and even the freaking livestock here, all have a death wish. Driving in Arusha (or passengering, as I do) is a terrifying experience. There seem to be no real rules of the road. Generally people drive on the opposite side from where we drive at home, but that is not a hard and fast rule. I have not seen one yet, but by the time I leave this place, if I have not witnessed a fatal car accident, it will be something of a miracle. For the record, my husband is no longer the worst driver in the world, perhaps only in VA.
Putting aside the distraction of my life flashing before my eyes, the drive into the city was amazing. There were kids herding goats, cows, and donkeys down the side of the road. There were farms growing corn and other unidentifiable crops. There were women with baskets on their heads and babies strapped to their backs. This was the Africa I had imagined and it is as beautiful as I always dreamed. The area here is sort of the African foothills, so no vast dry plains or dense jungle, just lush green landscape gently stretching off into the distance.
After all the travel and all the stress, I am finally settled into my little (temporary) apartment. I realized before I got here that I had never lived alone and thought about getting a place alone for the summer, but I am so glad I changed my mind. My first weekend here was very sad and lonely and I am now counting the days until Julia (my roommate) gets here. I need people around me, which I never thought I would say. Apparently I like to be alone, but only in the sense that I want to be able to choose to be alone in my room for a while and then open the door to my noisy kids and grumpy husband. I would have never guessed this and I am so glad to have learned it so quickly and to also be able to rectify the situation so quickly.
The entire reason I came here, the entire reason I chose the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) over other great opportunities for this summer, is because I have always thought of myself as a field attorney. I wanted to go into the places where people needed help and serve populations that were not underserved, but completely ignored. Having a family I knew this would mean one of two things: 1) I would either have to be away from them for long periods of time, or 2) I would have to move them into unstable areas to keep them close. The second option was never really an option for me. Putting myself into a situation that could be dangerous is one thing, but putting the kids into the same sort of danger is unacceptable. In fact, during the planning of this trip Codey and I talked about trying to have him come here for the last week and fly back with me, but decided against it. For my part, I was terrified of the idea of him coming here and getting hurt. For someone who is pretty non-maternal, I was very scared by the idea of my family taking any sort of risk. The first option, being away from the family, always seemed like it would just be the necessary tradeoff for doing great, important work at my dream job.
After less than a week I know that neither of these is really an option for me. I don’t want to miss any more time with them than I already am. I am thrilled to be here this summer and I would have always felt held back if I would have stayed home this year and worked at a local job, but this is really it for me. Instead of forcing me to stay home and making me resent the family, Codey was brave enough to tell me to come to Arusha to follow my dream. Now I am sitting in Africa doing exactly what I have always wanted to do and all I can do is remind myself that this is only temporary and in a few months I will be back where I really belong.
Work, so far, is meh. You know, not bad and not good. I realize that is because I got here a week earlier than they expected me (even though I had arranged ahead of time to come early), so now I don’t have a project to start. Instead of doing exciting legal work, I am proofreading what is essentially a combo of the ICTR’s version of The Federal Rules of Civil Procedure and The Federal Rules of Evidence. Don’t know what that means? You are clearly not a law student. That means it is boring, coupled with dull, and mixed with just a splash of kill-me-now. It is a 200+ page document, riddled with errors, which I need to not only proofread but Bluebook. Don’t know what Bluebooking is? Clearly you are not a law student and have made much better choices in your life. Basically I sit all day reading the scholarly equivalent of dry toast topped with shredded wheat (yes, it is that dull). The good news is that on Monday I will get my real assignment and FINALLY be doing legal work that I am actually interested in.
People here are…different. The girls at work, the other interns in my section, are very nice and have been welcoming and helpful. The bosses at work seem great so far as well. My first night at work my boss saw me standing out waiting for a taxi home and offered to drive me himself. We took a scenic tour around Arusha attempting to avoid the traffic and I was treated to an impromptu off-road trip in a UN SUV. (It actually made me quite homesick for Jeeping with Codey and the kids). The locals, however, are taking some getting used to. They generally don’t smile at you when they see you on the street, but they are more than willing to stare at you. I am getting better at ignoring it, but there is a definite cultural divide. As a mommy who has spent years trying to teach her kids not to stare, it is all I can do not to go up to people and tell them that staring is impolite. Woe is me. I am very much enjoying the fact that I am often pretty here, generally to women, but whatever, pretty is pretty. I got catcalled by a woman on the back of a motorcycle this morning and yesterday the young woman who cleans up the apartment blushed and mumbled, “So beautiful,” as she scurried away from me. Since I am past the age (and weight) that garners hoots and hollers back home, I will take what I can get!
This seems like a very long post, but it catches you up on most of the high (and low) points so far. I hate to say it, but the old adage, absence makes the heart grow fonder, keeps running through my mind. I miss my family, I miss school, I miss my life (and I have not even been gone a week). But, if we round up and say I have been gone a week, and then use Aiden’s fraction trick and pretend this is all just part of a big pie, 1/11 of the pie pieces is already gone. And let’s be honest, ten pieces of pie don’t go very far around me, so pretty soon there will be no pie left and I will be home, hopefully much wiser and less restless. Now, I am off to find out where I can buy pie in Arusha, damned metaphors.
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Linda Fraser
non-member comment
Hang in there, Lisa. I'm sure it's not easy to be a tall, blonde woman in Africa. Sort of like me being a giant woman in Japan. Fortunately, the Japanese are very respectful and don't stare (at least when you're looking). You'll get used to it all and will enjoy the experience, I'm sure. Take care. Linda