If I am ever interviewing you for a job, and I ask you what your weakness is as a manager, please don't give any of the following answers:
1. I am a perfectionist
2. I take too much work on myself
3. I will work too many overtime hours
You are lying and I will not hire you.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Finally, someone to look up to
For all those who say "why on earth do you live in the heck-holes when you clearly have no soul and are only making yourself hot and miserable" I offer the following story:
I met a woman today who is currently living in Africa. However, in her youth she worked for nine years as an NGO worker in, wait for it, Barbados. Yes, that's right, Barbados. In the first part of her posting, she met a man, another American, they married, purchased a 300 year old planatation home with, I like to think, wide open views of the sea, huge, creaky verandas and a hammock on every corner. For NINE YEARS they had a boat they would sail around the smaller islands on the weekends and sundowners could be enjoyed, not with the roar of the generator, but the sound, again I like to think, of windchimes. And by day, she still fought poverty or injustice or ringworm or whatever the cause du'jour was then!
Why is she not still there, you ask, sitting in her reclining deck chair reading the lasted UNAIDS report on behavior change? Ahh, she made a fatal error, one I would NEVER be so silly as to make. She started worrying about her career. Thinking she would be pigeon-holed as the Barbados woman and never really reach the lofty heights of endless meetings and procurement bureaucracy that she could if she were out in the larger world.
So they left.
See, I would never do that. I say, right now, if I get posted to Barbados, get a husband, a 300 year old plantation home and a hammock with windchimes, you will have to cut my arms off to drag me away, so tightly will I be gripping the pillar outside my turqouise front door.
I met a woman today who is currently living in Africa. However, in her youth she worked for nine years as an NGO worker in, wait for it, Barbados. Yes, that's right, Barbados. In the first part of her posting, she met a man, another American, they married, purchased a 300 year old planatation home with, I like to think, wide open views of the sea, huge, creaky verandas and a hammock on every corner. For NINE YEARS they had a boat they would sail around the smaller islands on the weekends and sundowners could be enjoyed, not with the roar of the generator, but the sound, again I like to think, of windchimes. And by day, she still fought poverty or injustice or ringworm or whatever the cause du'jour was then!
Why is she not still there, you ask, sitting in her reclining deck chair reading the lasted UNAIDS report on behavior change? Ahh, she made a fatal error, one I would NEVER be so silly as to make. She started worrying about her career. Thinking she would be pigeon-holed as the Barbados woman and never really reach the lofty heights of endless meetings and procurement bureaucracy that she could if she were out in the larger world.
So they left.
See, I would never do that. I say, right now, if I get posted to Barbados, get a husband, a 300 year old plantation home and a hammock with windchimes, you will have to cut my arms off to drag me away, so tightly will I be gripping the pillar outside my turqouise front door.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Immigration nation
Work has become this huge woolly mammoth beast taking over my life, hence the radio silence. Sorry about that. I find myself this afternoon suddenly deeply uninterested in work and deeply interested in planning my possible upcoming vacation to Thailand, instead, which is nice.
Had a bit of a drama, today. I went to go drop off one of my staff at the airport, and American girl, who is heading out to Uganda for some things. I was about halfway back to the office when I get a call from her "Uh, yeah, they say I'm here illegally, I don't have a permit, I'm not registered."
Huh. That can't be a good thing.
I told her I'd get back to the office and discuss with our admin guy, which I did. He got this slightly worried look in his eyes and asked me if she had come through Juba initially. No, she hadn't. Cue long conversation about not being registered and big fines and problems problems problems. I asked, jokingly, "Well, they're not going to arrest her, right?" Admin looks at me all serious and says, "Let's go and we'll see if we can discuss this with them."
Sooooooooo didn't want to deal with the paperwork of an arrested staff.
When we got there, she had more or less talked and flirted our way out of it and we just had to pay some money. Which was fine. But I love the fact that you can go from real and legitimate concern that someone is about to be arrested and spittle flying angry immigration officers to no worries and in flight peanuts all with the bat of a eyelash.
Had a bit of a drama, today. I went to go drop off one of my staff at the airport, and American girl, who is heading out to Uganda for some things. I was about halfway back to the office when I get a call from her "Uh, yeah, they say I'm here illegally, I don't have a permit, I'm not registered."
Huh. That can't be a good thing.
I told her I'd get back to the office and discuss with our admin guy, which I did. He got this slightly worried look in his eyes and asked me if she had come through Juba initially. No, she hadn't. Cue long conversation about not being registered and big fines and problems problems problems. I asked, jokingly, "Well, they're not going to arrest her, right?" Admin looks at me all serious and says, "Let's go and we'll see if we can discuss this with them."
Sooooooooo didn't want to deal with the paperwork of an arrested staff.
When we got there, she had more or less talked and flirted our way out of it and we just had to pay some money. Which was fine. But I love the fact that you can go from real and legitimate concern that someone is about to be arrested and spittle flying angry immigration officers to no worries and in flight peanuts all with the bat of a eyelash.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Signing up for Krav Magra ASAP
I swear, I wil NEVER learn. Karma has once again reached up and bit me in the rear, this time for mocking the crazy ex-combatants among us.
On Sunday, I was in the market, getting some supplies to make a dinner for the Area Coordinator out here who is having a rough time and, I thought, needed a pick me up (not that my cooking qualifies as a pick me up in any true sense of the word, but beggars can't be choosers).
I'm just walking away from the square, thrilled at having found a pineapple and singing Sweet Home Alabama in my head (it was a gorgeous day, the kind that makes me burst in to internal song) when I was suddenly tackled from behind. I kept my myself upright, more or less, but I was in a vice grip by the foulest smelling person I have ever smelled.
Now, most other places, I might assume it was a friend, someone I knew trying to startle me, but all my friends in KK are out of town for the moment so there was literally nobody who would do this to me. I elbowed hard back and twisted my body as sharply as I could, all while yelling firmly "Let go of me" and spin around to see the crazy guy from Kinyabi, the one with the cardboard clothes and the very fancy floral scarf around his neck.
As I turned, he grabbed on to my wrists, stopping me from being able to move my hands and started screaming at me. Most of it was incoherent, but, from what I could gather, he was angry that I hadn't given him money when he asked for it on Wednesday. I was firmly telling him to let go of me and trying to pull away, while he was screaming and pulling me in closer to him.
Now, you might ask, wasn't I in a public area when this was happening. Shouldn't some gallant, chivalrous person have come to my rescue, poor, delicate, feminine flower that I am? Yeah. You would think. And you would be wrong. Nobody helped me, just sat, drinking their local brewed alcohol and watched me engage in hand to hand combat on the street.
Eventually, I broke my arms free and I told him "Excuse me, I have to leave, you stay here" and turned and walked away. Part of my didn't want to turn my back to him again. But I refused to walk backward down the street. When a girl has just been grappling with the man made of dirt in full view of all of Kajo Keji, she needs to preserve dignity where she can.
Teach me for mocking the less fortunate!
On Sunday, I was in the market, getting some supplies to make a dinner for the Area Coordinator out here who is having a rough time and, I thought, needed a pick me up (not that my cooking qualifies as a pick me up in any true sense of the word, but beggars can't be choosers).
I'm just walking away from the square, thrilled at having found a pineapple and singing Sweet Home Alabama in my head (it was a gorgeous day, the kind that makes me burst in to internal song) when I was suddenly tackled from behind. I kept my myself upright, more or less, but I was in a vice grip by the foulest smelling person I have ever smelled.
Now, most other places, I might assume it was a friend, someone I knew trying to startle me, but all my friends in KK are out of town for the moment so there was literally nobody who would do this to me. I elbowed hard back and twisted my body as sharply as I could, all while yelling firmly "Let go of me" and spin around to see the crazy guy from Kinyabi, the one with the cardboard clothes and the very fancy floral scarf around his neck.
As I turned, he grabbed on to my wrists, stopping me from being able to move my hands and started screaming at me. Most of it was incoherent, but, from what I could gather, he was angry that I hadn't given him money when he asked for it on Wednesday. I was firmly telling him to let go of me and trying to pull away, while he was screaming and pulling me in closer to him.
Now, you might ask, wasn't I in a public area when this was happening. Shouldn't some gallant, chivalrous person have come to my rescue, poor, delicate, feminine flower that I am? Yeah. You would think. And you would be wrong. Nobody helped me, just sat, drinking their local brewed alcohol and watched me engage in hand to hand combat on the street.
Eventually, I broke my arms free and I told him "Excuse me, I have to leave, you stay here" and turned and walked away. Part of my didn't want to turn my back to him again. But I refused to walk backward down the street. When a girl has just been grappling with the man made of dirt in full view of all of Kajo Keji, she needs to preserve dignity where she can.
Teach me for mocking the less fortunate!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Maddness of mad people
Every village market square here needs to have a village crazy person as well, apparently. They are always youngish middle-aged men, always tolerated by everyone, always well fed and always, well, really really crazy.
The one in Kinyabi was wearing the filthiest shirt and trousers I have ever (EVER) seen, they didn't bend as he moved, so it was sort of like he was wearing cardboard. He clearly didn't have a barber or anything, so his hair was this sort of spastic, electrocuted jagged 'fro and he had a strange fullish beard that only came in in patches on his face. Best, though, was the (oddly clean) jaunty floral scarf he wore tied around his neck, with a pink plastic cup tied off the end of it. God knows why.
The Jalimo guy was even odder. HE had packed all of his clothing full of trash, stomach, rear end, arms, legs, so that he looked like a department store Santa Clause who was down on his luck, trailing little bits of Glucose Biscuit wrapper and, I swear to god, broken automotive parts out of his shirt and the tear in the crotch of his trousers. He was mostly friendly, asking me to sign his name, though there was one point when he got quite vexed that I didn't write his name correctly in the made-up language he was forever scribbling in his notebook (kind of like Korean-meets-Kilngon).
The Kiri guy was boring, just crazy and drunk, getting up and bowing at regular intervals and once doing a very impressive curtsy. Otherwise he just sat there and drooled. I give him 4 out of 10 for creative insanity in what is, admittedly, a very crowded field.
The most frightening one, though, had to be the Limi guy. We were dancing and singing (well, the ladies were dancing and singing, I was cheering and clapping) and Limi crazy guy comes running up with a hoe. He starts slamming down in the dirt, sharp bit down, right next to my be-flip-flopped feet. All around my toes the earth was being chopped and I'm sitting there thinking "Man, HOW am I gonna get a toe reattached in bloody Kajo Keji?"
This, obviously, begs the question, why all the crazy middle aged dudes? Turns out, they're all soldiers who took too many drugs in the war and their minds cracked. So now they smoke opium and hash all day, get drunk, and shove broken pistons down their trousers.
If that isn't an anti-drugs message, I don't know what is,
The one in Kinyabi was wearing the filthiest shirt and trousers I have ever (EVER) seen, they didn't bend as he moved, so it was sort of like he was wearing cardboard. He clearly didn't have a barber or anything, so his hair was this sort of spastic, electrocuted jagged 'fro and he had a strange fullish beard that only came in in patches on his face. Best, though, was the (oddly clean) jaunty floral scarf he wore tied around his neck, with a pink plastic cup tied off the end of it. God knows why.
The Jalimo guy was even odder. HE had packed all of his clothing full of trash, stomach, rear end, arms, legs, so that he looked like a department store Santa Clause who was down on his luck, trailing little bits of Glucose Biscuit wrapper and, I swear to god, broken automotive parts out of his shirt and the tear in the crotch of his trousers. He was mostly friendly, asking me to sign his name, though there was one point when he got quite vexed that I didn't write his name correctly in the made-up language he was forever scribbling in his notebook (kind of like Korean-meets-Kilngon).
The Kiri guy was boring, just crazy and drunk, getting up and bowing at regular intervals and once doing a very impressive curtsy. Otherwise he just sat there and drooled. I give him 4 out of 10 for creative insanity in what is, admittedly, a very crowded field.
The most frightening one, though, had to be the Limi guy. We were dancing and singing (well, the ladies were dancing and singing, I was cheering and clapping) and Limi crazy guy comes running up with a hoe. He starts slamming down in the dirt, sharp bit down, right next to my be-flip-flopped feet. All around my toes the earth was being chopped and I'm sitting there thinking "Man, HOW am I gonna get a toe reattached in bloody Kajo Keji?"
This, obviously, begs the question, why all the crazy middle aged dudes? Turns out, they're all soldiers who took too many drugs in the war and their minds cracked. So now they smoke opium and hash all day, get drunk, and shove broken pistons down their trousers.
If that isn't an anti-drugs message, I don't know what is,
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Glorification of poverty, I know, but still....
You know, in another life, I TOTALLY could've been, well, not a villager, but a market stall woman in some small market town in Africa. Seriously. When it is good, it is sooooooo good.
I'm doing focus group discussions in some of the smaller sites right now. Which meant this morning, I was sitting in the central square of Kinyiba, perched on a wooden bench, chatting with a bunch of elders who just rocked my world.
We were under the shade of the huge mango trees, there was a light breeze that cooled the air just enough as long as you weren't in the sun.
There was no ambient noise at all (none, these non-electrified, non-generator'd towns are startling, disturbingly quiet) except the sound of the little old man and little old lady sweeping the huge market square with branches tied together to make a broom.
Small children wearing no pants and tattered shirts would toddle up and jump in to the lap of whatever adult was nearest, usually offering up some slobbery bit of plastic as a gift in exchange.
I am totally aware that it is a constant struggle and very hot when its hot and very cold when it cold and miserably wet during the rains and backbreaking labor to get a cup of water and no indoor plumbing ever.
But MAN, when you're sitting in the shade, buffeted by the breeze and listening to the sounds of silence, it is a little bit like heaven.
I'm doing focus group discussions in some of the smaller sites right now. Which meant this morning, I was sitting in the central square of Kinyiba, perched on a wooden bench, chatting with a bunch of elders who just rocked my world.
We were under the shade of the huge mango trees, there was a light breeze that cooled the air just enough as long as you weren't in the sun.
There was no ambient noise at all (none, these non-electrified, non-generator'd towns are startling, disturbingly quiet) except the sound of the little old man and little old lady sweeping the huge market square with branches tied together to make a broom.
Small children wearing no pants and tattered shirts would toddle up and jump in to the lap of whatever adult was nearest, usually offering up some slobbery bit of plastic as a gift in exchange.
I am totally aware that it is a constant struggle and very hot when its hot and very cold when it cold and miserably wet during the rains and backbreaking labor to get a cup of water and no indoor plumbing ever.
But MAN, when you're sitting in the shade, buffeted by the breeze and listening to the sounds of silence, it is a little bit like heaven.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
When the lights go out in the city
It is 9.30 and I am sitting in the office in Kajo Keji trying to finish up some work. They have just shut down the generator (who knows why), so I am at a desk, on the porch wearing my headlamp with every bug in a 20 mile radius crashing in to my face since this is the only light source.
I'd go up to the guest house, but I have to negotiate the village paths and the river and I'm just not quite up for it yet.
Sigh.
I'd go up to the guest house, but I have to negotiate the village paths and the river and I'm just not quite up for it yet.
Sigh.
La la la la la
I have nothing particularly interesting or funny to tell. I'm swimming in reports, stuck in KK where life is bland and distracted by silly and stupid things which I can not control but which stop me from being productive.
All of which makes for bad stories for all y'all.
So, instead, how about some pictures of Kajo Keji, which is very very very pretty?
These are some of the lovely kids who greet me an enthusiastic "Good morning" on my way from the office.
And This, here, is the clearing near the County Health Office in downtown KK. You can really see how it is a thriving, writhing metropolis.
Water containers lined up to be pumped on the main drag in town. This is, somehow, the queue. Don't ask me how.
Last, but not least, the STUNNING vistas of Kajo Keji. Everyone who knows me knows I am a horrible, atrocious photographer, so this doesn't capture 1/10th of it. Believe me when I say, though, it is right pretty.
All of which makes for bad stories for all y'all.
So, instead, how about some pictures of Kajo Keji, which is very very very pretty?
These are some of the lovely kids who greet me an enthusiastic "Good morning" on my way from the office.
And This, here, is the clearing near the County Health Office in downtown KK. You can really see how it is a thriving, writhing metropolis.
Water containers lined up to be pumped on the main drag in town. This is, somehow, the queue. Don't ask me how.
Last, but not least, the STUNNING vistas of Kajo Keji. Everyone who knows me knows I am a horrible, atrocious photographer, so this doesn't capture 1/10th of it. Believe me when I say, though, it is right pretty.
Monday, July 14, 2008
When the bombs fall
This is an excerpt from a BBC article about an accidental attack on an Afghan wedding party where, essentially, two families were anihlated, earlier this month. I'm not linking the whole article because, well, I think the reporter is in a bit of shock after being the first on the scene post-attack and still seeing the god awfulness of it and he is unrealistic about the US forces. Mistakes do happen and they are tragic but it is war and the Taliban don't seem so concerned about preserving human life.
From nowhere a fast jet flew low and dropped a bomb right on top of the pass near a group of children who had impatiently rushed ahead and were resting, waiting for the women to catch up.
Lal Zareen was waiting expectantly for the guests to arrive when he heard the explosion and began to climb up the steep mountain track to the pass.
Shah Zareen was part of the group up on the path - he had narrowly escaped being caught in the first bomb and told the women to stay where they were as he rushed to help the children.
Shah Zareen picked up one of the injured, ran down to the village and on his way was calling his local member of parliament on a mobile phone to say they had been attacked.
But then he heard the second blast - the bomb had been dropped on top of the women and almost all of them had been killed.
Three girls escaped, among them the bride, but as they ran down the hillside a third bomb landed on top of them.
I mean, seriously. As I said, I'm not blaming the forces, they apparently had footage from earlier showing insurgents moving and on and on and on. The larger politics of it aren't really relevant for the moment. What is is this one guy, who's entire family has been killed except his 13 year old son, who ran IN to bombs to try and save his children and his friends children and who failed to protect everything that mattered to him. It really does break my heart.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Ego ergo I go
I have all of these "favorite things"/obsessions that I read regularly on the internet. Most are gossip sites (so that I can know the names of all the celebrity children the minute they leave the womb). Some are news sites. And some are just odd. Like this unbelievable obsession I have with a guy called Alex Balk who used to be at gawker.com and now works at radar.com.
Anyway, another obsession used to be this site about feminist things, oddly, since I'm not very feminist-minded usually. Anyway, they had a brouhaha last week, which I won't get in to, but, in a effort to NOT be working on my quarterly reports which are all due, I started reading about it.
It was all so self-serving. Blogs started linking blogs and commenters started attacking other commenters. And I realized, we're all crazy. None of this really matters. Why do I write about the silly things in my life? Because they happen in Sudan? Does that make them any more interesting? And why do I read, for example, a friend of mine's blog about life in a normal, mid-sized American city? Believe me, it isn't that interesting. Yet I check it every day and get quite put out if there isn't something new about, say, shopping at Target and the great sale on tea towels.
I get lots of feedback about this site, most of it positive, which I am really grateful for. And, oddly, more people than actually know me appear to read it, which is... well... terrifying, but none the less gratifying. I guess it is just the old Franny and Zooey loving, ego hating side of me kicking in and realizing I don't WANT to be like those crazed bloggers and commenters I've been reading all evening. So wrapped up in their own impending brilliance (yes, I realize that doesn't strictly make sense, but I think you know what I mean).
I guess the moral of all this is that I've gotten some negative feedback lately, too, that the blog is going too far in to personal things and not enough in to Sudan things. Part of that is because the longer you are in a country, the less you see the things worth talking about. And part of that is because my personal life is more interesting to me right now than my professional life and, therefore, is at the top of my brain.
Either way, I think perhaps I'm not comfortable with that, and I think we will try to get back to more... generalized conversations. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm writing about this change, I should just do it. Dear god. I must be stopped.
Anyway, another obsession used to be this site about feminist things, oddly, since I'm not very feminist-minded usually. Anyway, they had a brouhaha last week, which I won't get in to, but, in a effort to NOT be working on my quarterly reports which are all due, I started reading about it.
It was all so self-serving. Blogs started linking blogs and commenters started attacking other commenters. And I realized, we're all crazy. None of this really matters. Why do I write about the silly things in my life? Because they happen in Sudan? Does that make them any more interesting? And why do I read, for example, a friend of mine's blog about life in a normal, mid-sized American city? Believe me, it isn't that interesting. Yet I check it every day and get quite put out if there isn't something new about, say, shopping at Target and the great sale on tea towels.
I get lots of feedback about this site, most of it positive, which I am really grateful for. And, oddly, more people than actually know me appear to read it, which is... well... terrifying, but none the less gratifying. I guess it is just the old Franny and Zooey loving, ego hating side of me kicking in and realizing I don't WANT to be like those crazed bloggers and commenters I've been reading all evening. So wrapped up in their own impending brilliance (yes, I realize that doesn't strictly make sense, but I think you know what I mean).
I guess the moral of all this is that I've gotten some negative feedback lately, too, that the blog is going too far in to personal things and not enough in to Sudan things. Part of that is because the longer you are in a country, the less you see the things worth talking about. And part of that is because my personal life is more interesting to me right now than my professional life and, therefore, is at the top of my brain.
Either way, I think perhaps I'm not comfortable with that, and I think we will try to get back to more... generalized conversations. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm writing about this change, I should just do it. Dear god. I must be stopped.
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