in conclusion, life is amazing

It used to be that I’d be driving along, texting, eating or otherwise distracted by a really good song or the view from Broadway Bridge or the cute little ladybug crawling along my dashboard with three spots, one on the left wing and two on the right wing and wait, didn’t I hear the number of spots indicates something like the number of years the ladybug has been alive or some pessimistic prediction of the number of years I’ll continue to be alive or wait, was it the number of years it’ll take before trans-saturated fats are banned in Oregon’s restaurant system or…and all of a sudden I’d have to slam on my brakes to avoid a run-in with an Audi or some other expensive, living or otherwise unexpected obstacle.

A few weeks back I got a small dose of whiplash that reminded me of the good old days, only in this scenario I was walking distractedly, counting my own spots/freckles which I can only hope are an indicator of my remaining years, humming a really good song to myself since some Kenyan man is appropriately learning all about Radiohead’s Karma Police on my Ipod and all of a sudden, BLAMO, I’m face-to-flank with a giant cow. For description’s sake I’ll clarify it was my face to the cow’s flank, though if you Google image “ankole cattle” you might find more excitement and/or humor in the reverse scenario. Terrifying creatures.

It took a bovine fender-bender to effectively put into perspective how dramatically my life has changed in just over one year and also to remind me what a unique experience this really is. Every day here is completely bizarre and wonderful. Tuesday: sat and watched two crested cranes peck around in the garden directly outside my house for over an hour (…if you Google image “crested crane” you might find more excitement and/or beauty in the scenario). Wednesday: was unexpectedly given the responsibility of naming a friend’s newborn baby. I finally settled on Corrigan, which is not simply Oregon with a C, or at least I don’t think so, or at least I didn’t notice the similarity until it was pointed out by another volunteer, or at least that’s not the only reason I like it. Last night: sat in a village bar with no electricity and learned such vital phrases as “We are drinking beer!” and “We have just finished drinking beer!” and “Gosh, beer is great!” in Rufumbira, albeit slurred Rufumbira, from the man sitting to my right. Afterwards, the man on my left asked me to give him a religion. A word about my soul: I’ve since realized my friend’s request to name his baby stressed me out far more than this second man’s search for spiritual guidance and eternal salvation but since realizing this, I’ve been stressed out enough by the implications of the discovery to make up for my lack of care and concern in the first place. Which essentially puts my soul right back on balance. Phew.

In conclusion, life is amazing. I know that was also the title; I figured if I started out with some sort of intended thesis you might be forced to come to that very conclusion yourself after just 499 jumbled words plus at least one word that’s not a real word at all. On the other hand, maybe a serious case of cow-induced whiplash is just what you need.

i think he’ll pass on your handbag tricks but you're entirely welcome to serve me some breadsticks

I’ve been told the easiest way to distinguish an authentic designer bag from a knock-off is simply by picking it up; evidently there’s a major weight differential between the real Louis Vuitton and his more economical, lighter and equally hideous cousin Louis II. Which brings up such obvious questions as: Why can’t phony cousin Louis get his act together and put on some weight? Why would anyone want to replicate such an ugly bag in the first place? And is the difference in weight simply a matter of the personal belongings which can be found inside a real versus fraudulent Louis Vuitton handbag? Because I’m thinking a gold watch outweighs food stamps.

Questions aside, I find myself wishing there was an easy trick to distinguish between real and fake in all life scenarios. I’m not just talking about products, though this is obviously a useful skill; if I do in fact have Italian ancestry they were probably wholly offended by my wholly distasteful purchase of wholly bogus Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses a few months back but in my defense…it was quite sunny and they were quite cheap. If they were appalled I’m hoping there’s an Olive Garden in the afterlife so I can smooth things out over warm and buttery peacemakers, also known as unlimited breadsticks. And if you’re questioning the authenticity of Olive Garden you should know old Italy was just bursting with green aprons and those small vibrating Thank God, It’s Finally My Turn For A Table devices.

What I really need is some sort of easy way to differentiate all the genuine things in my life from the not-so-genuine things. Take, for example, Kampala this past weekend when I thought I stepped off a genuine curb onto a genuine, solid street and ended up in a genuine hole. Or when I thought a group of women on the street were simply a group of friends, albeit scantily clad friends, until they offered to “serve” the genuinely funny man who let me fall in the above-mentioned hole in the first place. Now I’m not entirely without a doubt sure what they wanted to serve him but I’m guessing that experience would be less than genuine.

It would be especially convenient if I could just use the handbag trick on people. And no, that’s not a new term I learned from the prostitutes in Kampala, although ‘the handbag trick’ does sound like it could bring in top dollar. Or top shilling. What I mean is it would be nice to be able to pick someone up as if they were a questionable handbag and know who they really are and what they’re all about. But the thing about living here and being an outsider is people inevitably change when you’re around. I suspect they’d also change behavior if I tried to hoist them off the ground. It seems the only time I get to see people in an authentic state of being is when I’m traveling and can watch a Uganda pass by my window that’s for the most part completely oblivious to and unaltered by my presence. Luckily, I have ten genuinely sweaty, genuinely bumpy hours of travel time to the capital where I can do exactly that…and not a whole hell-of-a-lot else.

i miss that warm, fuzzy pre-heart attack feeling

Portland, Oregon may have a yearly jazz festival, a yearly beer festival and countless movie festivals to fill those long summer days but the truly worthwhile annual event actually kicks off at the first sign of a snowflake. I’m not referring to the slight frenzy caused by Starbucks’ charmingly snowflake-speckled seasonal coffee cups but to the utter mayhem caused by those tiny, mysterious specks of frozen water so very incomprehensible to my Ugandan neighbors. Each year it seems those tiny, mysterious specks congregate in Portland to conspire against the streets and schools and townspeople. And each year it seems Portland doesn’t expect those mysterious specks and doesn’t have the necessary equipment to deal with those mysterious specks but wholeheartedly and falsely promises to have a proper plan in place for the following year.

I used to appreciate Portland snow days for their ability to completely dismantle my standard routine but ever since moving here, I’ll take any semblance of a routine I can get. I’d even take a routine pap-smear right about now. The best way I can describe day-to-day life here is by saying it’s just like a series of chaotic Portland-esque snow days except the windchill is 70^o F, there are no charming seasonal coffee cups in sight and sadly, my carrots don’t get to fulfill their true destiny as crooked snowman noses.

Ugandan snow days may be completely snow-free but they’re a nonetheless extremely real phenomenon. Of course I’m referring to the overall atmosphere of a snow day rather than an actual weather pattern, which is to say there’s a general state of confusion and uncertainty mixed with an anticipation that anything could happen. Obviously there are minor differences; instead of waking up to excitedly discover school’s been canceled on account of snow, I wake up to upsettingly discover the class I’m scheduled to teach has been canceled on account of….well, I never actually got a clear explanation. And instead of getting to see my breath in the frosty air, I get to see my breath in a giant red cloud of dust. Which seems especially good for my health.

I’ll admit I have a strange, secret recurring hope that one of these days I’ll wake up, run to the window and discover an unexpectedly full day of work. I daydream about the characteristic chest pain that comes from running up three flights of stairs to be on time for a doctor’s appointment. I fantasize about the kind of heart palpitations that precede an exam. In other words, I’m way more of a brainwashed American than I previously thought.