Since I've been gone

(Can anyone read this post title without singing that Kelly Clarkson song? Can you still, now that I've brought it up? You're welcome.)

An astute anonymous commenter noticed that my "starting over" attempt has pathetically fizzled.

Yeah... About that.

Honestly? I couldn't figure out what to write. Not like that used to stop me.

But: lazy. Also: perfectionist.

So rather than writing something lame (again) just to kickstart the process, I... slumped. Further.

Oops.

Not like I haven't been up to anything exciting in the past couple years.

I got married. (Didjahear?)



My husband got a green card.

I don't have links or a peppy picture at hand to prove that. But he did.

Actually, that was pretty interesting. Not really because of what went on during our application, which was astonishingly easy -- or maybe not so astonishing since one of the "questions" during our "grilling" to determine whether we were a for-real couple or just a for visa-one was "which consular officer was a guest at your wedding?" (My husband: "that one. Hi!" )

Of course, grade grubber that I am, I totally interpret our easy road to legal American residency as an objective assessment of the awesomeness of our union.

Theo + Naomi: A+++

If this were an AP exam, we would get a 5.

Gold star!

Anyway, my favorite part of the process was where we got to listen in to everybody ELSE's fascinating roads to legal American residency. Or, you know, to somewhere else.

People, not everyone used the study guide.

Like the one group of children trying to rejoin their father who was a naturalized U.S. citizen. Except he was not the father listed on their birth certificates.

Family representative: Oh, they changed their names.

Consular Officer: Huh?

FR: No, the father changed his name.

CO: What?

FR: Everyone's name changed.

CO: I think we're going to need a DNA test.

Or the lovely woman from Mauritania, a legal U.S. resident, who wanted to bring her new-ish husband back with her to the states.

CO: When did you get married?

Wife: 2006

CO: But it says here you got divorced in 2008.

Wife: That was my first husband.

CO: But how could you get married again if you weren't divorced yet?

Wife: It was in the village.

CO: Also, it says you were in the U.S. from 1994 on. Did you ever come back to visit?

Wife: In 2007.

CO: But you said you got married in 2006. Did you go back for the wedding?

Wife: Nope.

CO: We're going to need some further documentation.

It's probably totally illegal to write about other people's visa issues on the internet, but if it is, the embassy should stop using microphones to be heard through the glass.

And actually, I could totally believe that, in both those cases, everyone was being totally honest about their relationships and the timeline of events.

Like the names on the birth certificate. In Senegal, at least up until a few years ago, if you were held back in school or lost your ID card or hoped to become a professional athlete or weren't growing fast enough (okay, not sure about that one), they'd just write you a new birth certificate, with a new birthday -- and, I could totally believe, different parentage, if you felt like it.

Or the wedding, in the village, with the still-legally-married, not-present bride. In many traditional weddings, at least in West Africa, neither the bride nor the groom needs to be there.

My (female, non-Senegalese, non-Muslim) friend once stood in for the groom in a Senegalese Muslim wedding, because he was a well-known musician and didn't want to face the demanding public. Mostly because in a Senegalese wedding, the groom, as "host," is supposed to show -- and spread -- his prosperity with all the guests. So it's totally legit for guests to demand money from the newlyweds. And most people can get away with small change, but this musician was successful enough that everyone knew he had real money. Also, there's no such thing as an invitation-only wedding. Which is why, although Theo WAS present during our vows, I only caught glimpses of him during our party-in-the-village. He filled his pockets with small change and bills and then when it started to run out quickly... he hid.

And in Senegal, the legal wedding and the religious/traditional part are separate, so plenty of people have a mosque or church wedding and don't bother with the legal paperwork. No one would care if you weren't actually, you know, technically, like, legally, divorced from your last husband. (Or if you had checked the "monogamy" box on the marriage certificate but later decided you did actually want a second wife. And yes, my favorite part of my marriage license is the part where it says: "The Spouse has opted for monogamy." Because the other choice was polygamy, and that's totally legal, common, and accepted in Senegal. Because everyone's entitled to the marriage-style of their choice. As long as they're not homosexual, apparently, but that's a rant for a different blog. Or at least a different digression.)

So fortunately (or not, depending on your commitment to the narrative arc) our visa application was approved, which means we weren't around find out if this crowd got their visas or not.

I think what we need is a Maury Povich-style, "You are...........

[longer dramatic pause]

[commercial break]

NOT THE FATHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

to bring us the conclusion. I'll have my people call his people.

And there you go. I wrote a post. It's like a real blog! Stay tuned for all the other things I've been up to besides becoming coupled.... I swear there's something. I'm a little grossed out by myself right now.

Starting. Again.

There's nothing harder than getting started.

Except maybe starting over.

I know all the steps. I know how much I liked it before. And every day another day goes by and I don't.

I've lost all my readers, anyway.

I'm completely out of shape.

Watching TV is always fun.

I'm in a rut, y'all.

I didn't expect this to happen. Actually, I was working hard making sure that whatever else I achieved (or didn't) that I would feel like I was *living* every moment. That I used every moment I had, and wasn't just treading water.

Almost exactly a year ago, I was in a bush taxi in Cape Verde careening around hairpin turns with a driver who was, by all available evidence, either completely drunk or else equipped with a death wish.

I've never been so convinced I was going to die. (Except maybe the time I was driving on mountain passes in a dark forest in pre-dawn Guinea in a bush taxi with no headlights.)

I was utterly panicked. My heart was pounding, I was desperately clutching the seat in front of me, slamming my feet on imaginary breaks, and dreading every uphill because they were followed by downhills, during which the driver accelerated on straightaways and didn't seem to find the breaks even for 270 degree switchbacks.

Until I stopped. Because I took a couple deep breaths. And I thought about my worst case scenario. We could die. The knocked-out guard rails on some of the deadlier turns proved that car crashes do happen, even in idyllic Cape Verde.

So... I didn't want to die. There are still plenty of things I want to do in my life.

But if that was going to happen, I couldn't stop it. And if I died, well, I was okay with that. Because I was utterly, completely happy. I was sitting next to the love of my life, a month past our wedding, having just had a lovely vacation, birthday, honeymoon. I had followed my dreams and was living in West Africa, earning my living as a professional journalist with articles that had been printed in things I actually read, on purpose, and not just because my name was in there. I ran two marathons. I had been to dozens of countries. I had met and befriended wonderful people.

And I knew that I had taken every opportunity I saw, and couldn't think of anything wasted or regretted.

So I grabbed Theo's hand, closed my eyes (and opened them again when I realized that made me carsick), and went for the ride.

I didn't die. Thank god.

But now a year has passed and if I were in that car today, I don't think I could find that same zen.

I hate freelancing.

I am not running.

I feel like I spend far too much of my time alone, on my couch, working (or pretending to) and wishing I was somewhere else. And when I have the choice to be somewhere else? It all sounds too stressful or tiring or, well, too much like not sitting on my couch.

I have watched all of Hulu.

I have read the entire internet. Twice.

I'm still married to the entirely wonderful and extraordinarily gorgeous Theo. And he's happy to see me even when I've only managed to get out of my pajamas a few minutes before he swings through the door from work at 10 pm. (I don't always tell him though.)

But happily married is not a whole life. (Groundbreaking, I know. I'm ready to join the feminists of the 1960s.)

So I'm working on it. I need to stop spectating and start doing.

That's a lot of words to say hi. I'm back. I missed you.

Marie-Suzanne Schools Mont Rolland

We had our doubts. At 4:30, when only a handful of people had shown up for the workshop which had been advertised to start at 3, and all of those people were Marie-Suzanne's cousins, siblings, aunts, and parents, we got worried.

But there's on time and then there's Senegalese time. By 5 pm, the second speaker had finally shown up, and as they began, teens from the village continued arriving. By the end, a standing room-only crowd scrambled to get their hands on the free condoms, female condoms, and cool necklaces designed to help women keep track of their cycles.


(Go here to see more photos from the day.)

Rappers performed songs written especially for the workshop (and one of which will appear on the rapper's next album) and village kids danced and sang for the crowd.

From my perspective, I was disappointed with the focus on abstinence from the speakers. Plus, the organization that donated condoms only sent one box of about 50-60. They told Theo (who handed them out) they didn't want to encourage young people to have sex (Gah.) It seems to me, with all the young girls getting pregnant, that ship has sailed.

But it opened the discussion, and inspired Marie-Suzanne, who is planning to organize round two for next year's festival.

Thanks again to everyone who contributed. Marie-Suzanne also sends her heartfelt thanks for your help.

You know you want to come on vacation with me...

... don't deny it.

Among my many, many (bad) reasons for not posting lately (or ever) is that I spent three weeks last month crossing the Sahara.

Theo and I flew to Casablanca and bit-by-bit, train by crowded (and sometimes less crowded) bush taxi, by bus, we made our way back to Dakar. Our own private Paris-Dakar Rally, if you will, with less speed and more cookies. Although maybe the people on the Rally like cookies. I do.

Anyway, we took a brief detour inland to the Atlas Mountains where we met up with the ever-fabulous Julia and her cool-chick friend Alden. On the way inland, we stopped in Ait Ben Haddou, home of a famous (or INfamous) Casbah, where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed (also Gladiator. Who knew?)

And there we did something NO ONE in the history of EVER has ever done.

Everything is Possible, Nothing is Simple

Sierra Leone has to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful places I've ever been. And one of the friendliest. People in Senegal are very friendly too, but sometimes it seems almost aggressive and maybe motivated by self-interest.

But Sierra Leone has a low key vibe that expresses itself in friendly helpfulness. Walking through the seemingly never-ending rain (Sierra Leone's rainy season is for real, not like Dakar's occasional drizzles) I can't count the number of times complete strangers shared their umbrellas with me.

And when I left my wallet in a taxi, I was utterly shocked, before I knew it was gone, to find the taxi driver honking in front of my hotel, waving it out the window for me. Considering he'd dropped me off at a nearby intersection and I'd never told him where I was staying, it was an especially impressive feat of good samaritanism.

Many of my fellow Dakar journalists began grumping about the flat, brown of our city, and how it compared to the lush, hilly city on the beach where we were staying.

And then we tried to leave.

For reasons no one has been able to explain to me, the airport in Freetown was built across a wide bay from the rest of the city. There are four ways to get there. A three-hour drive on bad roads, around the perimeter of the bay; an even longer, crowded, delayed ferry ride across the water; a short, but expensive, and not entirely safe helicopter ride; or a pretty expensive, not too long hovercraft ride.

We opted for the hovercraft.

But when three other journalists and I arrived 20 minutes before the airline had told us the hovercraft was scheduled to leave, we were greeted with unfortunate news: the hovercraft wasn't running that day. We learned later that the operators of the hovercraft decided to give their employees vacation during election weekend. Who cares about the people who might have to fly? They should have known to take the ferry.

But there's always a solution. Next to the hovercraft dock, there was a guy with a speedboat.

Well, more like a guy who works for a guy who owns a speedboat. But he said he could take us across, as long as we cleared it with his boss.

With the minutes ticking by, we were starting to feel stressed. The airline we were flying routinely overbooks their flight, and if you arrive late, you are guaranteed not to have a seat, even if you have reconfirmed. But things happen on their own time here, so when we called the speedboat owner, instead of discussing things on the phone, he just said he'd come on by.

"Where does he live?" we asked the speedboat driver of the speedboat owner.
"In town," he told us. 30 minutes away.

We tapped our toes and tried to seem patient.

Eventually Ivan showed up.

And so did Alan.

As two of my colleagues negotiated with Alan, a third colleague and I negotiated with Ivan, not realizing what the others were doing. Alan had a speedboat. Ivan had a giant boat. Both were willing to take us, but Alan said his boat was ready to go and Ivan said he needed to wait for his captain.

Speedboat it was.

Thirty minutes later, as we sat on the boat and drifted in the shallow waters near shore waiting for the speedboat driver to show up with gas, and all the speedboat crew had disappeared, we began to get angry.

And so we started shouting for the drive. Four white chick journalists stuck on a boat with nowhere to go and a plane to catch.

The upshot: we got to the airport, even though nobody showed up with gas (the nearest gas station didn't have any, from what we understood).

And we got on the plane, unlike twenty or so others who had to cross the bay back to Freetown and wait until Tuesday. Even though one of our crew was NOT ON THE LIST of reconfirmed passengers. In Freetown at least. She was on the list in Dakar.

It pays to be pushy. And everything is possible, even if it's not simple.

The airline manager refused to back down, even though his list was wrong and her ticket was right. But after two hours of arguing, he agreed to put her on "standby". With a grin on his face, he issued the very special, only because he was so nice, entirely irregular "standby" ticket. That looked exactly like our boarding passes. And worked exactly like our boarding passes.

It's important to know when you've won a battle, and sometimes that requires letting the other person claim victory.

And so I'm back in Dakar.

After that ordeal, I may revise my plans to head straight back to Freetown for a vacation on the city's fantastic beaches. And I may hold off on pitching a travel story on why everyone should visit Sierra Leone (there's no war anymore, I swear!)

Besides, after what I discovered in my purse this morning, I'm not sure I could show my face in town again.

It seems I have stolen the cell phone of the speedboat driver.

Sierra Leone is one of the world's poorest countries. And I stole someone's phone.

I thought it was Selah's one of my friends on the boat. I asked her. She said yes. I threw it in my bag so she wouldn't forget it, and it was still there this morning.

But I saw her using her phone last night, and it was in her purse.

I'm not sure, but this might be one of the stupidest and meanest things I've ever done.

I'm working on a plan to send it back to him, with my apologies. Anyone know how reliable mail is between Senegal and Sierra Leone?

Err... Hi?

So I doubt anybody is still reading (because who would? I never post), but I figured I'd check in. Because I want to ask for something. (Figures.)

I actually started writing a post about a month ago. I got as far as saying, "I suck for not posting, but apologizing is uninteresting to read about, so here's a funny story:"

And then... It turned out I didn't HAVE a funny story.

Life here has become sadly (or comfortingly?) routine.

Although the next week I went on a reporting trip to Burkina Faso, where my new friend/colleague took me to get grilled chicken, promising me that the chicken would still be alive when we got there.

I told him he was kidding.

He said, "Okay."

He wasn't kidding.

So sometimes life can still surprise me.

But in the meantime, I'm writing to see if you all want to help my friend Marie-Suzanne do something really cool.

(FYI, if this looks familiar, I asked star bloggers A. Maria and Jeanne to post about this as well, since I don't really think anybody still comes to my blog...)

Anyway, I'll let Marie-Suzanne tell you about the project in her own words (which I translated from French):

My name is Marie-Suzanne Seck. I live in Mont Rolland, a village in the Thies region. I am twenty years old.

I have found that the girls in my village are not very aware of AIDS and early pregnancy. I want to do a workshop for this in August, because all the young people are there for a festival. I am writing to ask for help.

In my village, I know 15-year-old girls who have gotten pregnant. At fifteen, you have many boyfriends and you do not know which one got you pregnant. If you say to one that it was him, he will say it wasn’t me. If you say to another, he’ll say it wasn’t me. And then you will be obligated to raise the baby on your own. Sometimes the family understands, sometimes they don’t.

As for AIDS, I had the idea because we did an anti-AIDS workshop one time in Mont Rolland for that, and I thought to myself that we should organize many to help young people and speak to them about illnesses.

For the activities, I would like, first of all, that the young people discuss together. Afterwards, I want to have two skits, one for AIDS, one for youth pregancy. After that, we will pose questions, and if someone gets it right, we will give them a present (for example, a condom, or a ticket for a dance night that we are organizing that night). We will also have some singers. I have asked a friend to write two songs : one for AIDS, one for youth pregnancy.

The evening, I want to have a dance party for the young people to encourage them to come. It will be free for everyone who came for the day’s activities. If someone else would like to come, they will have to pay 500 CFA (about $1).

I have already reserved the hall and I have started to organize the details. But I don’t have enough money to do it all. I have compiled a budget, and in all, the workshop and party will cost about $200. I hope that you could help.

Thanks for your understanding.

We wrote that letter to send to local NGOs to ask for funding and help. One of them is going to provide logistical support and free condoms, but they aren't able to help financially.

But I think this is a fantastic project, so I thought I'd ask my friends in the computer for some help. If you would be willing to chip in $5 or $10, it would go a long way towards helping Marie-Suzanne reach her goal.

If you're interested, you can send money to me (naomims at the email run by g0ogle, and damn you spammers) through paypal.

And in the meantime... What's new?

Last

As in, there were no people running behind me. As in first, only the inverse.

But also, 2:23.

And (give or take), among top 10 female finishers. (As of Wednesday morning, I was the 9th woman to sign up. "20 kilometers is a little long for women," the secretary told me. I didn't remind her that it was 21.1)

What's in a number.

****

It's actually really hard being last. I knew I was running the right pace for me, and I knew that in another race there would have been plenty of other people around me.

I knew I couldn't run any faster, but that if I kept going, I'd finish.

But there was a tiny voice screaming inside my head: last? LAST? Run faster, you idiot.

Then I ran past a man collapsed on the side of the road. Less than five kilometers in.

Be the tortoise. Love the tortoise.

Theo met me at 7.5-kilometers on my bike, with a backpack full of provisions. I didn't expect to see him so early. I did expect him to say hello, and then jet off to a later part of the course.

But did I mention I was last? All alone? So when he just kept riding next to me, you'll forgive me for not complaining. I felt slightly ridiculous to have my own personal support crew, except also? It was awesome. And he was fantastic. He handed me my iPod (which I'd left at home, and which he'd gone back, on the bike, to get for me), and just hung out, being there.

Around 10 kilometers in, a guy in front of me pulled a blue t-shirt on over his lime-green-race-issued tank top and walked off the course.

And a few kilometers later, we saw another guy walking. "You can totally catch up to him," Theo said. "Not gonna be last," my inner voice cheered.

He ran for a bit when we caught up to him (Theo, far too nice for my own good, kept encouraging him to keep going. My inner voice: Idiot! We can beat him!). But eventually he also dropped out.

And so for the next 8 kilometers or so, I ran a few feet in front of the sag wagon, with ever supportive, but brutally honest Senegalese people cheering me on. "You're last but it's okay!"

So I kept going. And when I started to flag, Kari and Rick, my new roommates, appeared out of the blue with oranges.

Finally, with only a few kilometers left, I saw another man straggling. But I was starting to hurt too, and twice I almost caught up to him, only to have to start walking because of cramps (in my left ankle, of all places).

But, and here's where I admit that I was lying in the opening to this post, with less than a kilometer left, I caught up to him. We ran together for a little bit but somehow I found a final kick and I totally smoked him.

But I'm still claiming my title. Last for 20 km out of 21 is close enough.

(P.S. I have the best friends. Julia was there at the start, including buying a last minute bottle of cold water, after the start was delayed more than half an hour. And Naw was waiting at the finish line to cheer me on as well. Yet more people to add to the long list of people who have been incredibly generous with their time and support in my various attempts at athleticism. Thank you!)

(Also P.P.S. After rumors that the entire Reuters bureau, a fun bunch of guys, were going to run the race, only one showed up. We warmed up together, but he soon took off in front of me, and ran a fantastic first half-marathon. He finished in 1:59! Pretty impressive, no?)

Dead man walking

Here's what I was going to write, half an hour ago.

"Y'all, I'm NERVOUS.

For real, butterflies in my stomach, frenetic nervous energy, when will this be OVER already NERVOUS.

Last night, I was talking to two friends about all the various voodoo and alchemy I have planned for this afternoon. The important things, like what snacks I was packing for mile 8 and what breakfast I had planned.

And I played it off like I was only acting this way because I'm so undertrained, that since I couldn't count on fitness to carry me across 13 miles, I'd have to count on gummy worms.

But y'all know: I'm neurotic.

So don't tell me that pretzels are not the difference between utter failure (hot sun=sweat=dehydration=cramps) and a triumphant finish line photo (pretzels=salt=balanced electrolytes), unless it's because you're telling me that because in fact potato chips are the answer.

Oh god. Potato chips ARE the answer.

I'm doomed.

And if Senegal were just a NORMAL country, with a normal race-time start, I'd be done by now, instead of sitting around my house wondering how Theo is going to manage to keep cold my sports drink and if he'll ever manage to find me, considering the race route appears to be a squiggly line on plain white paper.

And also why they are making me wear a lime green singlet? Are they kidding? Does everyone else know that it doesn't matter, and I'll be the only fool in chartreuse?"

Except I wasn't going to write that because I was feeling just a *tiny bit* ridiculous, and lots of people I know in Dakar read this blog, and they might not realize yet just how ridiculous I am.

So instead, I trolled around on the internet, reading my favorite running blogs, and I came across this post.

And... I dunno. Somehow it just reminded me why I started all of this, way back when, and how glad I am that I did.

It's not going to undo the weeks of skipped runs, but well... I'll still be out there running today.

That's all. And that's enough.