Hedonists and Beats

14 February 2010

Uganda entry: 5

I went white water rafting on the White Nile on Friday, and I got a bad sunburn on my thighs. I guess I shouldn’t have worn my short swimsuit, but we all suffer for fashion. Nevertheless, it was an incredible experience. The massiveness of the Nile, the magic and history of the river, as well as the intense class 4,5, and 6 rapids made me think about the wonders of nature, and its role in the human experience. Since time immemorial we’ve heard stories about the importance of the Nile, and what it means to the people whose lives it touches. It is a source of life and subsistence. The spirit of the river is palpable. On one of the class 6 rapids, we had to portage our raft around by land, and from the bank I watched in amazement the flow of the giant rapid. My heart fluttered in an inexplicable flurry of excitement. We watched as a kayak went through the rapid, being thrown about and tossed into the air by the majestic movement of the water. The sheer bulk of the water, the billions of gallons all moving together in such beauty, it takes your breath away.

Our guide’s name was Lee, a temperamental Scot who had been a white water guide for the past 10 years in Europe, North America, and Africa. He was 28 and flirtatious and I’m sure that he was very successful playing Casanova with the tourists. At the take-out, we were greeted with beverages and beef’n’pineapple kebabs, and on the ride back to the compound in the open-air bus, Lee bought our group a pack of cigarettes to much acclaim. Once back at the compound, with its hostel-like dormitories and guest tents, I got to see the life of the raft guide in all of its glory. There is an interesting, and sometimes indistinguishable line between entertaining tourists and pursuing one’s own hedonism. And I’m jealous of that life to a certain extent. Lee was completely content with his life of world travel, laying scantily clad tourists, and floating white water everyday, and that’s an appealing lifestyle. In the open-air bar (everything is open air, it doesn’t matter, it’s the equator) groups crowded around to drink with all the guides and to exchange stories, to talk about world travel and to flirt. It got me thinking about my life, as I suppose most of these experience do. I’ve been reading “The Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac lately, and I’ve been thinking about living a life much akin to those of the Beat generation, or raft guides, one in which my own concerns or my own search for truth would prevail. I am on a search for truth, I suppose, but that’s always been about my interaction with others, and my desire to make some sort of change in the world, and I don’t mean change in the sense of Beat revolution, I mean something more substantial and tangible. I’m not trying to open-minds or conscientize anyone. But I’m nonetheless jealous of their ability to evade reality, to get drunk every night and raft every day, to read Zen books and hike Mt. Matterhorn because I have no other commitments. On the other hand, I’m glad that I have some other purpose to serve. It’s too bad that I can’t live a life of hedonism, but Hegel wouldn’t approve of that choice. I have too many thoughts that I need to make concrete with my action and my labor, and I can’t remove myself to some obscure corner of the world and interact with drunken tourists and pseudo-intellectuals. I’ve been over this terrain before, and I don’t want to be so repetitive, but I’m excited about my future. I’m excited about my present; living in the developing world that I’ve studied so diligently is incredible. Perhaps I’m undervaluing it. It’s hard to believe that I’m actually here, even after a month and a half. I haven’t even begun to attempt to understand that political atmosphere here. OK, I’ve been reading Human Rights Watch while I’m in class, but there’s so much more to interpret than the Western perspective. The newspapers here are insane, and I don’t know which ones are government mouthpieces and which ones are legitimate, but I suppose it will be worth finding out. My incredulity at my experiences here have yet to become blatantly real, and I can still laugh about many things that I find intriguing, because, really, they seem so much like I’m in the Twilight Zone. But maybe that means I’m living a life detached from reality. And maybe I’m no better than a hedonist or a Beat. Reality is a difficult concept to grasp, and I think people have a few different ways of avoiding it. I guess I should stop now.

Family Special

4 February 2010

Uganda entry: 5

I’ve been thinking about homesickness, not really in terms of myself, but just about what it is supposed to mean- a deep connection to one’s home life, a sense of discomfort in one’s current atmosphere, or a longing for typical creature comforts. I’ve been here for a month now, and culture shock hasn’t set in yet. I feel comfortable in my surroundings here, whether or not they’re particularly desirable, or reflect my academic ambitions, because they really don’t. I still find humor and intrigue in the slow walk of Ugandans, the horrible, but eager service at restaurants, and the colorful chaos that penetrates the Kampala identity. I’m coming to love the masses of fruits and excess of carbohydrates that are a major part of the diet. Beef, chicken, rice, matoke, potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. I don’t think I’m gaining any weight, probably because I have a quick metabolism, as well as the fact that I walk 2 miles everyday. I admit, sometimes it is hard to push myself out of the comfort zone I have created here. I go to class, I go to one of several restaurants in our neighborhood, I shop at the grocery store across the street. It’s tiring to go into the city. It’s often hard to find the energy to get into a crowded mutatu, haggle over the price, get dropped off in the middle of a densely crowded roundabout, and make my way through the maze of people and wares to get to any destination. I know that this is something I need to overcome in order to fully experience my time here, but it’s draining, both psychologically and physically. I guess I’ll just take more B-12.

I’ve been thinking about family, not necessarily my own, but the general concept. We’ve been “learning,” and I use that term loosely, about the lineage ideology of African peoples, and about the social networks that hold people together, and I can’t help but think about making American juxtapositions. In Africa, people have a strong connection to the past and to their ancestry, through naming, religious practices, rites of passage, etc. Lineage provides strong concepts of cooperate identity. Families and the networks created by African concepts of lineage provide financial assistance; they provide a social safety net that ensures the survival of the community and the individuals that it encompasses. When making comparisons to the typical Western family, I can see obvious differences, but I can also see subtle similarities. I’ve been thinking about all the families I’ve experienced, about divorce, about estrangement, and about conflict; and I’ve always remained at a safe distance from these examples that have become so prevalent in our culture. I think it’s taken the past year or so for me to realize my own gratitude. My time here, and even my time at Hendrix, has given me a much more conscious appreciation for just how beautiful my family is. I always find myself excited to show my friends pictures of my family, it’s almost like showing off.

More than anyone in the world, I love my grandmother, and all that she has taught me about what is important in life. I’ve learned the most important lessons from her; I see so much of her in myself, and it gives me a strong sense of identity through the concept of lineage. Without her, who would sneak me wine, or eat my vegetables, or give me innumerable kisses, or tell me how to smoke cigarettes discreetly, or call me “fanny face,” or pamper me as if I were the last heir of a royal line? More importantly though, who would have instilled in me an unconditional love for life, and just how simple that love can be? She taught me to show everyone the love that she shows to everyone she meets. She taught me to radiate that love, to express it in any endeavor. Such a small woman, but somehow she finds a way to engage an entire room. Somehow, she manages to make my heart swell, even from 3,000 miles away.

I remember living at home, seeing Guy come home everyday, never forgetting to embrace Corine, and I could feel their love for one another. Then it was gross. Now, I see how deeply meaningful their love is, not only to each other, but also to my own identity. Being raised in the presence of such intense love and devotion has had a profound effect upon who I am. And now, as I “blossom” into adulthood, I can look to them for guidance, and we can speak on adult terms. I don’t have to censor myself, and I value that more than anything. I have never wanted to be one of those families with issues, and I’ve never wanted to be at a certain distance from my parents that I see in so many others. I can say what I want to my parents, and we can laugh and enjoy one another without worrying about ruining some abstract image that they have of who I am. They know who I am, because I tell them, and because I want and need them to know. And no matter where I go, or how strange it seems that I want to do development work in Africa, or devote my life to something that will probably never earn me any money, they can stand beside me and I always know that I have them as my net.

Neil and I used to fight a lot. But now I think we can both look back on that time and laugh. Now, I see him, not only as a brother, but also as my closest friend, a friend that is perspicaciously aware my successes and my flaws, a friend that has an undeniable intuition for seeing my motives, my desires, and even my music taste. I don’t think that, if I died, he would marry my widow and take over my farm. But we have something like half of the same DNA, and my brother’s way cooler than yours. I don’t know how to describe our relationship quite yet, but let’s just suffice to say that he’s my favorite. I don’t know if this is all too sappy or overly personal, but I think I just need to say all of this to myself, so I know how much I am truly thankful for my family, and so I can know that my connection to them is deeper than what my education presents as the Western norm. I do have a strong sense of individuality, but I also have a strong sense of my past, and of my duties and obligations to my family. I keep coming back to the African proverb, “I am because we are.” It is universally relevant. I am because we are. I would be nothing without my past, without the identity that comes from my lineage. Maybe I have white guilt, maybe there are real comparisons that can be made; but I know that there’s something special about my family, and I don’t want anyone to think that I’ve forgotten that fact.

It's Hot on the Equator

1 February 2010

Uganda entry: 4

It’s oppressively hot outside. I spend most of my time in front of a fan, or drinking water. Perhaps it is good for my health, detoxification and whatnot, but I’ve never been a sweat-er (I almost wrote “sweater,” but then I realized that that was obvious). I realized the other day that I’m actually in the northern hemisphere, which actually makes no difference other than that the toilet water goes the right way and I found some abstract comfort in it. Kampala sits just slightly north of the equator, explaining the oppressive heat, and I walk an average of 2 miles a day to and from class, up and down a massive hill, paved with concrete and garbage. Kigali is at a much higher altitude, and the promise of cool breezes entices me. I’ve been thinking about what it will be like when I return to the States in 5 months or so, where I can drive everywhere (and there are rules of the road) and walking more than 3 blocks is a rarity. I’ll be used to walking by then. Perhaps I’ll even enjoy it. But that’s just a thought in the abstract. I’ve started to appreciate my morning and afternoon walks here, talking with Morgan and Rachel the whole way, stopping at Ciao Ciao’s for $0.50 ice cream in the afternoon. It’s too much like summer here, and I feel far too lackadaisical.

Per my last note titled “Leviathan,” I’ve begun to push myself into routine and rigor at a slow, but sure pace. Obviously, I’m still distracting myself from homework by writing blogs, going to Las Vegas (our newest favorite club), and lethargically eating fruit, but I’m attempting to develop, in myself, a deeper interest in my studies here. I wrote an essay for a class last night, relating our cultural visit to a dialectic I’ve been thinking about for another project. Most likely, it will be way over the head of my professor who stumbles to find words like “hollow.” But it was a small triumph for me to know that I still had the ability to produce something like that. I won’t know my grade for another week or so, and I suppose that will be an indication of my success or failure. Whether that success or failure relates to my academic ability, or my ability to know what my professor wants is another issue entirely.

I’ve found solace in the aforementioned project that I’ve been working on. My last post is related. Traveling to Eastern Europe with Neil has been the focus of most of my thoughts and excitement for the past few weeks, but now I have something to look forward to in addition to site-seeing and being a nihilist. I’m thinking about this dialectic of historical memorialization. Milan Kundera writes about it in “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.” Neil got it for me a while ago and I never read it. While doing research for this project, I ran into an article that focuses on what he called “the Kundera paradigm,” the struggle between those who attempt to control or retell the past. I’m currently submitting my proposal to get Odyssey credit and funding.

But now it is time that I begin to actualize my goals. I’m turning on the fan, I’m picking up my book, I’m hoping for success.