Compound Sentences

For the last several months, I've been making the same joke about the oncoming international move: "Ha ha, I'm pretty sure I have no idea what I've gotten myself into!"  It might have been funny at some point, but I don't think there will be any huge outcry if I kill this particular thigh-slapper by dissecting what makes it (ostensibly) funny.

The root of the humor here, like 80% of the things I say, is self-deprecating.  If I had to pin down a thesis statement, it'd be something like: "Only a complete fool would move to a foreign country without knowing a great deal about that place.  Before you stands one such fool."  And as should be clear from the last few posts, there's a lot of truth to this statement: I did shockingly little research before this, my first time living in a developing country, my first international school post, my first visit to Africa.  As tends to happen, I found myself with very little time to do any reading about these subjects in the weeks leading to my departure...or more accurately, I had a lot of other things I just preferred to do instead of that research.  Karaoke may have been involved.

And cookies.

To put it bluntly, I don't think that decision says a lot of good things about me.  I know that there's only so much preparation that could be done from thousands of miles away, and I've already had a fair amount of experience moving and living abroad.  More to the point, though, it's too late to prepare; I'm already here.

All of this is an incredibly long-winded way of saying "OMG, you guys, SO MUCH has happened in the last week!"  Enough that I'd have a hard time compiling it into one post, so...hell, it's my blog, let's break it up a little bit.  What follows will be in no particular order.  First up: the housing and security situation.

The view from my window.  The constant cloud of red dust and smoke from garbage fires makes for some killer sunsets!

Despite the occasional foibles that I understand are common to housing in developing countries (frequent power outages, mouse problems, unreliable laundry facilities), the living situation here is chock full of amenities.  The internet works great, we have a swimming pool, the geckos are puny and inoffensive, and the compound's guards are friendly and helpful, most of the time.  Yeah, compound.  Guards.

I've never lived on a compound before; the term definitely suggests cults or militias, neither of which really jives with the hippie lifestyle of the kind of tool who still says "jives."  Yet here I find myself, living behind a tall stone wall topped with razor wire, with a front gate manned by guards 24/7.  My place of employment is likewise surrounded by walls, razor wire, and guards, and I have a driver to transport me to school every morning though it's just a 15-minute walk around the local stadium (which is also surrounded by walls, razor wire, and guards).  Everyone here in the school's employ who's here to help the teachers stay safe and happy has been incredibly friendly and welcoming.  So why do I feel like such a schmuck when I cross paths with them?

In a lot of ways, I feel incredibly unsafe being surrounded by such imposing security measures at all times.  It reminds me of some fond memories of my research on Gothicism back in grad school: building enormous castle walls is done to keep out danger, yet those walls are a constant reminder of that danger, and having one's mind filled with the threat of violence gives rise to nightmares when it grows dark within the walls.  The guards at my compound naturally carry some of that baggage with them, like it or not.

More immediately, the walls and guards are a constant reminder of the specter of colonialism that hangs over my life in this country.  It's kind of hard not to think about the fact that I, a white man from a wealthy country, being paid more in a month than most families here will see in a year, am scared and defenseless in this place.  For all my power—to move among countries freely, to find employment at an international school, to have near-constant internet access—I am powerless in my daily life, and I am completely reliant on locals to get through even basic daily tasks.   Being reminded of one's privilege is a good thing, I think, and necessary from time to time, but it's also kind of a punch in the gut.

I'd like to think that I'm contributing something to the community here, that I'm not exactly here to plunder natural resources, but the fact that I'm reliant on the much poorer local people to keep me safe, drive me around, and clean my house is deeply unsettling nonetheless.  It's taking a lot of getting used to.

I think some of what's pulling me up short when it comes to speaking with servants (and I really think that might be the right word) is that the whole institution feels so...well, un-American.  In all the books and movies that I can recall from when I was growing up, bad guys were generally the ones who had servants; the hero tends to do things for himself, sidekicks notwithstanding (and they're more frequently compelled to serve through friendship, not a paycheck).  I don't particularly like the idea of becoming comfortable interacting with servants.

So now, when I find myself interacting with the school or compound guards, I do so sheepishly, even brusquely.  I'm not generally rude, I hope, but I find myself tending to look away rather than smile and make eye contact, nodding rather than asking "Ça va?" or "Comment allez-vous?"

My new coworkers don't seem to have the same problems as I do.  Some of them are unapologetically distrustful of our staff, citing previous thefts, rudeness, drinking on the job, etc..  Some are coldly competent when discussing how to best vet locals we're considering hiring to cook or do our shopping.  Some have no qualms about greeting them with a handshake, a smile, and a "Hey, brother, how are you going?"  (This last happens to be Australian.)

I'm really trying not to keep myself on the rack about this one.  Interacting with people through a new power dynamic is a hard thing, and it's not anything that anyone is born with.  I really think I'm going to make it through the next six months in one piece; let's hope I can leave in June not having made anyone's life harder or more demeaning for having met me.

Casablanca

It hasn’t been all that long since I’ve traveled somewhere new, but it’s been long enough that I’d forgotten just what it feels like.  Specifically, I seem to have blocked out just what a fantastic mix of lows and highs the whole affair is.  The lows started coming on sometime while I was writing the previous blog post, and got much lower after I boarded the plane to Casablanca.

After carefully stashing my small backpack and my precious ukulele in an overhead compartment and getting settled in the middle seat right by the wing of the plane (of course), between two middle-aged Arabic-speaking men, I was alarmed to see another passenger take my bags out of the compartment, insert his own hefty rolly-bag, and roughly begin to cram my uke and backpack back in.  “Hey, hey, careful!” I snapped, half-standing.  Every passenger in the back of the plane turned to look at me…except, of course, the guy who was manhandling my gear, who continued to stuff them in between other, much heavier suitcases before finally sitting down.

For the next half hour I sat there fuming, hating every minute of the travel experience.  I hated how long we sat on the runway.  I hated the cramped space.  I hated the fact that the video screens hadn’t been turned on yet.  I hated the smell of the other passengers.  Most of all I hated the notion that some rando had busted my gear, the valuables that had been so carefully packed, that had survived thousands of miles of travel by train, ferry, plane, and bicycle.  I eventually convinced myself that the only thing that was likely damaged in the repacking was the half-finished bag of Cheez-Its in the side pocket, and those were mostly busted already.  This conclusion ended up being entirely correct.

Something else I’d forgotten is what it feels like to travel alone.  The last time I traveled anywhere without Jenn was ten years ago now, and I mostly remember spending my time moping around London and Oslo, shunning human contact and feeling sorry for myself for not having any money.  That may have been a function of youth, or perhaps listening to too much mopey music (which itself is often a function of youth); whatever the reason, wandering around Casablanca for three hours felt like an almost comically long amount of time.  And while I still shunned most human contact during my day on the town, spending a few hours walking and taking pictures definitely felt like a high point.  (It helped that the $20 I withdrew from the ATM turned out to be way, way more money than I needed for buying a coffee and lunch, enough that I also splashed out on a couple of pastries in the marketplace and a bottle of water in the airport.)

I didn’t forget how much easier traveling by yourself can be than traveling with another person…in fact, I had never known this.  It’s lonely, sure, but not having to justify poorly-informed or impulsive decisions cuts back on stress in a big way.  For example: after a nap in the airport-provided hotel, I rather unwisely decided to just walk towards where Google Maps claims the Old Medina is.  It should come as no surprise that there was very little where the pin was placed by Google, but the fact that I was only wasting my own time made the experience much less of a thing.  Likewise, choosing a restaurant is often a fraught experience with travel partners: when one person doesn’t like the feel of a place the other person suggests, that creates some natural conflict.  (Also, had there been anyone else around, I probably would have been embarrassed that after two and a half hours of wandering around the city I ended up eating at the awesome French restaurant right by my hotel.)

Speaking of, it’s striking just how much less stressful it is speaking French with people for whom French is likely not their native language.  I’ve griped about this extensively before, but it bears repeating that many French people are kind of…well, to put it as kindly as I can manage, they’re proud of their language, they place a premium on being well-spoken, and they don’t take terribly well to the fumbling efforts of cretins like me getting grubby fingerprints all over their beautiful language.  Speaking a simple sentence in Korean or Japanese in those countries is frequently met with smiles of relief (and sometimes literal applause), no matter how simple the grammar or how awkward the pronunciation.  Not so French people, who tend to correct minor errors and/or appear frustrated when they hear a foreign accent—not that everyone we’ve encountered has been rude, of course, but no matter how kindly it’s done, it’s frustrating to have one’s best efforts with the language met with condescending correction at best and angry criticism at worst.  This is one reason I managed to make it out of seven months of living in Normandy and still speak pretty piss-poor French.  After today, though, I’m hoping that I’ll discover that speaking French to French speakers not from France will be just as easy in Conakry as in Casablanca.

And what of Casablanca itself, then?  In some ways, it was completely different from what I had expected: it was quite green, especially from the air, and it was chilly enough that I ended up needing the hoody I’d packed.  In other ways, though, my expectations were confirmed: the architecture is white and dusty and gorgeous, the coffee is powerful, and the city is crawling with a population of extremely pathetic-looking stray cats.

That may not be a great deal to learn over three sleep-deprived hours getting lost in Casablanca, but it’ll have to do for now.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever stop thinking “I wish Jenn was here to see this,” but it’s good to know that I can have a good time discovering a city even when I’m alone.

Air Male

I know that I’m breaking very little new ground when I say that airports aren’t the most pleasant places; the better airports are generally distinguished not by appealing qualities, but by the relative lack of the indignities that characterize the species.  When graded against pretty much any other human-built structure, even the best airports would fall short—less convenient than train stations, uglier than government buildings, less fun than, say, Dave & Buster’s.

All that said, New York JFK appears to suck even for an airport.  Unlike in O’Hare, outlets are in criminally short supply, so I type this sitting cross-legged on the white tile floor, hoping it’s less dangerously unhygienic than it looks.  There’s also a complete lack of electronic departure boards, so underlying all the boredom is the persistent worry that my gate has been changed or flight cancelled without any way to know.  So I sit here, eagerly awaiting the moment when I can stand in line to sit in a tiny chair and breathe in recycled farts for six hours.  The only way to travel!  (In that there is literally no other way for me to reach Guinea.)

I’ve been traveling for twelve hours now; I have about twenty-four more until I arrive in Conakry, Guinea.  My flight lands at 1:30 a.m. on Sunday, and the first day of school is Monday.  Tick-tock.

I’ve been teaching for roughly eight of the last ten years, which I understand will make me something of a hotshot at the international school where I start work in about sixty hours.  It’s nice to be taken seriously and have my experience respected as a useful resource.  On the other hand, all eight of those years were enabled by my exacting qualifications of being born an English speaker and pretty much nothing else.  It should be no surprise that I’m still stuck in that wonderful tailspin of ego and imposter syndrome that’s characterized my career to date: “How dare they treat me as a clueless newbie just because I’ve been hired without any teaching qualifications?  They’d better respect the expertise I have to contribute to the school community…just as long as they don’t discover that I actually have very little idea what I’m doing!”

Twenty-three hours and fifty minutes.

Of course, they know what they’re getting.  Last year this school actually offered to hire Jenn and me both, sight unseen, certification unnecessary.  The only thing that kept us from accepting on the spot was prior commitments, but the fact that I have another year of graduate classes and teaching experience under my belt should make me overqualified if anything.

This is it, then, my big chance.  After the next six months and a few more grad classes, I’ll have the license and Master’s degree to back up the sense of self-importance.  I’ll be qualified to teach in elementary schools around the world.  Assuming, of course, that I make it out of the next six months alive.

That’s another point of conflict: for as much credit as I get from friends and relatives about my international lifestyle, I’ve spent extremely little time in developing countries (to use a somewhat loaded term), and all of that has been in very tourist-centered countries such as Lao and Indonesia.  Sure, plop me in a foreign city and within a day I’m confident I can manage the subway system and mail a postcard home.  The thing is, in addition to having to worry about tropical diseases, poor infrastructure, and wild dogs, I understand Conakry lacks both public transportation and a postal service, rendering my international skills (such as they are) pretty moot.  Mooter than usual.  The mootest, even.

What little I know of my incipient workplace has been fragmentary and not a little frightening.  I understand the school lacks a lot of resources and until this year was housed in a relatively unsafe environment (the phrase “razor wire” doesn’t crop up in most pedagogical literature), and has been kept open and revitalized by the U.S. government in order to maintain diplomatic relations with the country.  Communications with my new coworkers have done little to allay my worries.  If nothing else, I’m confident I can manage the students; jokes about butts transcend culture and language, I’ve found.

I think it would be relevant to bring up how alarmingly poor is my knowledge of Conakry, Guinea, and Africa in general.  I can finally point the city and country out on a map after a bit of sweating, and I know that the lingua franca is French (appropriately enough) and that the region is famous for drumming and, more recently, Ebola.  I feel a bit sheepish about entering a long sojourn in a country with such pathetic ignorance of my new temporary home (not that that stopped me in Korea), but with twenty-three and a half hours to go, it’s a bit too late for that.

I guess knowing things about Guinea is about to sort itself out, one way or another…

Hello

Hello!  Hi!  This is a blog!  I'm Harry, the person who writes the things and eats the food.

Image unrelated.

More than ever, I'm not entirely sure who this blog is for, which makes any kind of introduction or informational update kind of tricky.  If I don't know you personally or you're not the author of "Potato Pals" googling himself, I'm not sure why you'd be interested, so starting with the basics seems a little unnecessary.  On the other hand, I've made a fair number of friends, acquaintances, and traveling companions over the years, and I haven't always done the best job of keeping in touch, so some explanation might be helpful.  If you happen to go through any of the archives, way back to 2009, this uncertainty of audience has been a constant theme, vacillating between "I'm Harry, an American travel writer and carbon-based life form" and "Hi, Mom!"  I'd like to think that this blog has something to offer, though, even if you don't give any specific sort of damn about me—information, inspiration, entertainment, blurry sunset photos, etc.

And occasional hard-hitting journalism

Since the last post on this blog back at the end of 2014, Jenn and I have (*deep breath*) wrapped up our bike tour in Southeast Asia, studied meditation in Thailand, returned to Kansas, visited an incredible eco-village, biked across Missouri, taught English in Normandy, biked across Bretagne and southwest Ireland, bummed around Western Europe for a spell, returned to Kansas again, started graduate degree programs, and made absolutely no progress in kicking our karaoke habit.  More on these episodes to come (probably).

So without going too much more into the backstory (plenty of that in the archives), here's the most immediate skinny on why I'm firing up ol' Bloggy again: for the next six months, from January until June 2017, I'm going to be teaching kindergarten at an international school in Guinea that I'm going to try to avoid naming to preserve the privacy of my colleagues and supervisors.  This is going to be my first time in Africa, my first full-time classroom teaching position, and one of my final steps in getting my elementary teaching license so I can do more of this craziness in the future.  I've packed my antimalarials and very little else, and I've got a feeling there are going to be more than a few surprises in the immediate future.  Over the next six months, this blog will likely continue to be a mishmash of professional multicultural educator issues, travel pictures and anecdotes, and sundry personal reflections.  There will be puns.

Of course, the main reason I'm going to be restarting the blog now is because for the first time since this whole adventure started, I'm going to be getting into various shenanigans and escapades without my all-time partner-in-crime, Jenn.  This blog isn't just to keep something for posterity (blogs don't have an expiration date, right?), or just to hear myself talk (I do plenty of that already), but to share something of this experience with Jenn, who will be continuing her studies in Kansas while I'm off doing whatever it is I'm about to be doing.

😍

There's a lot to reflect on over the next few days, to say nothing of the next six months.  When I have the time, inclination, and internet access, I'll post something from Guinea.  I'll also try to share some odds and ends from the last couple of years, and I may tidy up the blog a bit if I get around to it.  Forgive the mothballs.