I haven't posted in quite a while, and probably I would continue procrastinating for a bit longer except that today marked two months that I've been here. And that seemed to be of enough import to spur me into writing. Two months is a funny milestone. I'm not quite sure whether that's still only little time... or actually a long time... or something in between. Most likely something in between. (Aren't most things?) So it's a strange point of evaluation because I'm not entirely sure what I should have accomplished by this point. I have a tendency to think that surely I should be doing more than I am. Surely I should know more than I do. But two months is only two months... 9 or so weeks... 61 days... not so long after all, perhaps.

I've come to the conclusion that the most culturally inappropriate thing I do here has nothing to do with my hair or the length of my sleeves or how late I'm out at night. It's very simple and much more difficult to control. I laugh and smile. In public. Out on the street. When men are around. I can't help it. Things strike me as funny. The simplest task can become so ridiculously difficult here. Taking a 15-minute taxi ride can quickly turn into a riotously funny adventure. Not to everyone, maybe, but I find that my first reaction is usually amusement rather than anger or frustration. Praise Him for that. I pray every day that I don't lose my sense of humour here. Even if it does mean inadvertently smiling at inappropriate moments.

Last night I went to a wedding with some friends. The going was a long and involved process: they picked my flatmate and me up from our apartment at 4:30 in the afternoon, and we didn't actually get to the wedding until almost 11:30 that night. What happened in the meantime? A excursion to the hairdressers, a run-in with security at a Metro stop, and a bit of wandering lost through the streets of a not extremely nice part of town (especially so late in the evening). All intermixed with the usual relaxed pace of life that pervades this culture. (Americans would say we wasted a lot of time.)

The trip to the hair salon was definitely a highlight of the day. Consider: in the States when women make themselves up for a fancy dress party, dance, what-have-you, they have a stylist pile all their hair on top of their heads in french twists and beehives and other more elaborate concoctions. But here, in a place where generally women's hair must be covered, or at the least pulled back from their faces and tightly bound, women go to a stylist to have their hair straightened and brushed down around their faces, or curled into long sausage curls that bob down past their shoulders. Even after this older women will often still cover their carefully arranged loose hair for the evening. But it doesn't matter. That's how you do your hair for a party.
My friends insisted that Allison and I do the same. But here some complications arose. I would be willing to place a fairly large sum of money on a bet that we were the first foreigners (Westerners) ever to walk through the front door of that hair salon. This in itself caused a stir. But more amusing than this-- our hair simply isn't like theirs. Allison wasn't as bad off-- her hair is thick, and she decided not to have it curled. But my hair is fine, very fine, and tangles at the slightest provocation. So this poor man, who I'm sure is quite competent in his craft, was completely baffled by my hair. Everytime he tried to do anything, it slipped out of his hands, off the brush, out of the clips, and then became (in his eyes) inexplicably snarled. Everyone was quite frustrated, and I know that none of them were satisfied with the end result. Which in some ways added to my discomfort at walking through the streets... at night... with my hair blowing about my face. It felt wrong. And I've haven't even been here two months. Imagine how I'll feel after two years.

The wedding itself was great. "Wedding" is a bit of a mis-translation into English, I think. The ceremony is not actually public, so to picture where I was think of the biggest reception you've ever been to... outside... with carnival lights... and a throne for the bride and groom that has for a backdrop an eight-foot tall fan-shaped extravaganza of air-brushed hearts and rainbows and clouds... and a live band (whose repertoire is definitely not that of The Wedding Singer; this was a Sudanese wedding) playing music pumped out of speakers at such volumes as might be heard if you were leaning up against the front mains at a Metallica concert (my ears were still ringing this morning)... and hundreds of people laughing and talking and clapping and singing and dancing-- and warbling the odd traditional call of celebration that sounds rather like a jackal mourning his dearly departed mum... and then throw in some more noise and people and color just for effect... and that might be something like the wedding I attended last night.
It was wonderful.

When I woke up this morning the swollen ball of pain that had been lodged in my throat for the past two days had dissolved enough to allow me to swallow. At the time it seemed an improvement. After twelve hours of dry coughs that threaten to tear out my much-abused throat and leave it in a bloody heap on the floor, however, I'm no longer quite so sure that it was such an improvement. Maybe the knotted lump was better.

As a celebratory gesture towards being out of bed and able to stand upright for more than a few minutes at a time, I worked on rearranging my room this afternoon. My goal is to shape it into something that at least resembles a place in which I might voluntarily live. So far I haven't had much success, though today's efforts did bring at me least a tad (a skosch?) closer. Of course, I do have to realize that by my standards it will never truly be home until at least one wall is smothered in books-- and that's simply not going to happen here.

Still, despite the aesthetic and literary inadequacies of my flat, it does feel surprisingly like home. Maybe that's partially because after nine (or maybe more?) moves in the past five years it doesn't take me long to settle into a place. But the feeling of home-ness extends beyond the walls of this apartment and out into the streets of the city. Returning from Cyprus earlier this week gave me a quite shocking sense of homecoming, of regaining the familiar and secure. Granted, I only have to walk out into the street and try to talk to someone (female, of course) to have at least some of that illusion swept away. But the sensation is there none the less.

After two days of imprisonment I'm eager to go out tomorrow and conquer the world. Or at least watch some of it go by. But my desire for freedom is in some part quelled by my body's sudden and insistent craving for more sleep. Perhaps I shouldn't have moved all that furniture on my own this afternoon. Maybe I simply need to drink more orange juice. Whatever the case, I betake my weary self to bed.

I spent the past few days in the mountains of the island of Cyprus, enjoying the trees and the quiet and the fresh air. I even enjoyed the company of the nearly 200 women there for the retreat-- though during the first evening the waves of estrogen and emotion threated to overwhelm and consume me completely. I shudder to think how many trees had to die in order to provide tissues for these past five days.

Our end-of-the-session final exams begin tomorrow and continue for the two days following. They won't be difficult. In fact, I would relieve myself of any burden of studying at all except that I've neither heard nor spoken Arabic for several days now, and at this point in my studies it's easy to lose the edge. Like a poorly learned habit, my ear and tongue quickly slip out of practice.

But there is a thing that makes returning to school tomorrow morning bearable-- after Thursday, el-ham-del-allah, I am finished with school. I switch over to community based learning as soon as this school session ends this week, and from there I fire on ahead at what I hope is a faster pace. One of the best things about the retreat was the opportunities to discuss projects for my second year-- sooner, if I can reach the required level of language proficiency before then. I believe I can. And positive thinking is half the battle, right? The sooner I finish my language studies (the formal part of it) the sooner I can go live in a mud hut. That's motivation for you, eh? Yet that's exactly what I want.

Dropping out of school also frees up about three hours every day. Most of that comes from transportation time. And this should make my life at least a little less frantic, leaving time for some important things that have fallen by the wayside during the five weeks I've been here. Like eating. Sleeping. Reading. Writing. I might even be able to post here a little more often.

It rained yesterday. Rained. As in water fell from the sky.

This was no sudden downpour, of course. And it wasn't even a gentle shower. It was no more than a sprinkling of drops, never so much that one became unable to distinguish individual splotches of water in the dust that covers everything here. But there were raindrops nonetheless, and I felt their coolness on my cheeks and hands as I stood with my face turned up to the clouds. Real clouds, too. Not just the usual smoggy haze.

With this the heat broke. After at least a week in which temperatures every day stretched up to break 100 degrees, even the life-long residents of the city were crying uncle. We're hoping that was the last heat wave of the year; things should be cooler from here on out. Till next spring, at least.

I am fascinated by the Metro.

Here the car doors do not slide shut with dignity and decorum. No soothing voice broadcast over loud speakers urges you to "please stand clear of the doors". There aren't even signs warning you to "mind the gap". The doors slam shut, separating those inside from those outside with an abrupt finality that plants questions in one's mind about death and the meaning of life and the Great Beyond. Woe to anyone who is caught in limbo at that time of judgement.

The school year (both for public grade schools and for universities) started on Sunday, and suddenly the morning streets are teeming with throngs of uniformed school girls and boys. Watching their antics is fast becoming another source of amusement in my life here. Yesterday as we rode the Metro to our school I bechanced to see one such school boy pulled up short in a struggle with the infamous doors. Boys are allowed in the women's car until they are about 12 or 13 years old, which is a daring and awkward and thus hugely entertaining age. This particular boy had taken a running jump into the car just as the doors started to close, and while he personally escaped the snapping jaws unscathed, the small backpack which dangled off one of his arms was not quite so fortunate. The doors caught it squarely and fairly, and he spent the next few moments tugging at it, his forehead wrinkled in dedicated concentration. Finally he gave up and waited patiently until the next stop, where the doors grudgingly slid open and released their prey.

I've passed my two week mark now. Strange, my time here seems so much longer than that. And yet at the same time the days have passed very quickly. Perhaps the routine of school has helped with both those impressions. Already I have established somewhat of a routine, so that I feel settled in, and I'm busy enough that the days fade into one another with astonishing rapidity.

I'm still impatient a great deal of the time. I have to force myself to look at the progress I have already made in Arabic... otherwise I tend to feel discouraged that I can't say more to people... or understand more of what they say. Patience. That's a scary thing to ask for. Usually it's taught to me through lessons I would rather not have.

And my impatience is not only with my Arabic. I have yet to find my place here, my place in the work, my place on the team. I came here not knowing, and my two weeks' worth of impressions has certainly not clarified that-- if anything I feel more overwhelmed. But my focus right now really should be on language learning, and that I can handle. And in the meantime-- I have made friends. We slowly and painfully eke out our conversations... very little English, very little Arabic, lots of hand gestures... and with this the relationships grow. Amazing how little common language is needed for friendship.

Friday morning as I reflected a bit on the week (Friday being the holy day here-- no school) I realized that I really had to be thankful that we had started school on Monday, whether or not I like class or want to continue with it. Without language school I would have spent the week wondering how on earth I was supposed to find my first language helper, I would have been much more in our flat with little to do, I would still have almost no Arabic, I would have less experience in getting around the city... in short, it would have been a rather dull week, in reality much more frustrating than anything has actually been thus far. Because of the necessary amount of time I have spent in getting from place to place this week, my flatmates and teammates are much less nervous about me being out on my own, and as a result of that I have a far greater amount of freedom than I think I would have otherwise. So, oddly enough, I have to be grateful for language school.

This does not, however, mean that I really wish to continue with it in the long term, and yesterday I spoke to my leaders about this. mafeesh mushkela, as we say here-- no problem. There is some question as to how long this first session of school actually runs... I have so far heard four, five, and six weeks.... The problem with asking questions here is that everyone wants both to be helpful and to save face, which means that if the person you ask doesn't know the answer then he'll make something up. (It's rather like talking to my sister Missy.) This is particularly a problem when asking for directions around the city; in general it is best to keep asking different people until you've gotten the same answer at least three times. Otherwise it's quite likely you'll end up going in completely the opposite direction. I have already experienced this a few times.... Anyhow, however much longer this class session lasts, there should be no problem with me moving to CBL (community based learning) afterwards.

This morning on the way home from my language lesson (not to be confused with language school... this is something different, just one teacher and one student) I was watching a man attempt to ride a bicycle down the major street near my flat. This was entertaining to me in many ways... first, because traffic in this city is chaotic and anarchic at best, and I simply cannot see how anyone with any bit of common sense would dare to attempt to bicycle around. To make things even more complicated and dangerous, it would be somewhat of an understatement to say that his wheels were out of alignment, and neither wheel was exactly round. And the tires were very flat. And on top of all these things, he was constantly muttering, whether to himself, the bicycle, or Allah, I don't know. Possibly all three. I stood for a moment and watched him as he weaved along and occasionally rolled over his trailing galibeyah.

It is at odd moments like these when suddenly I catch a glimpse of understanding that I am here. Here. Just as quickly it is gone again, but I am left shaken by the idea, by the realization, by the sense of distance, both geographically and culturally. And after a few moments my head clears and everything appears as it did before. Still this is not very real to me. Perhaps I am expecting too much of "real".

Seen from above the Metro during rush hour must look like one of those tile games where one square is missing and you slide the others around one by one until you've reconstructed the picture, or put the numbers in order, or whatever. There is constant movement in some part or another of the car as the women slide in and out, wriggling their way through the crush in a callously persistent effort to reach the doors in time to disembark at their stop, or scooting ever closer to a row of seats, waiting for someone to stand up so that they can slip into the vacancy, sometimes rather like a baseball player sliding into home. But slightly more dignified. For most of the line the car remains so tightly packed that it is completely unnecessary to hold onto a bar (even if I could reach one); when one sways, we all sway, and when one stumbles, we all stumble. A strange picture of unity. Slatted wooden shades are pulled down over the windows to block out sunlight and dust, and this only heightens the cattle car impression.

Thankfully, especially since the Metro is crowded at most times of day, the front car is reserved for women only, and between about 8 am and 4 pm the second car is also. We never ride anywhere else. If the throng in the women's car is uncomfortable, it's certainly not more crowded than the rest of the train, and sharing body heat and breath with Muslim women is always preferable to sharing them with Muslim men, who think that American women want only one thing (and it ain't diamonds or love).

We decide that tomorrow we must certainly leave by 7:30 at the latest, in an effort to beat the 8 am rush. The ride home in the afternoon is nearly as crowded until we pass out of the center of the city, and then we each manage to find a seat for the last 20 minutes of the ride. The wooden shade at my window is jammed open, and dust billows in through the opening. By the time we reach our stop my shirt is soaked through on my back with sweat, but the women across the aisle look completely untouched by the heat, despite being shrouded in polyester long-sleeve shirts and long skirts, with their heads tightly wrapped in huge scarves.
It must be in their genes.

Jet lag has struck with a vengeance.

One would think that given my last few days in the States, with their complete lack of anything remotely resembling a schedule pertaining to sleep, I wouldn't be having such troubles here. But this morning I was excited because I managed to sleep until 6:50-- that's almost two hours later than the morning before! But that's my most awake part of the day in what was formerly my normal residence (8 hour time difference), and so it continues to be the part of the day during which I am most awake... which makes me-- gasp-- a morning person. Oh, the shame!

But otherwise things here go well. After much protesting, wheedling, and assuring we would be quite safe, we (the four newcomers) convinced our other teammates that we could go out into the city today without being babysat at every moment. (This ended up meaning we only had to have one chaperone instead of four or five.) So today we wandered through the large market here in our city-- and I have successfully purchased Metro tickets and hailed and directed taxi cabs, thereby impressing several of my teammates with my derring-do and city smarts. Didn't take much.

And now I'm very, very tired, which hopefully means I will sleep long and well tonight. Not too long, however, since we're leaving at 7:15 tomorrow morning... for language school... where we will start language class. Plans for language learning have been altered a bit, it seems-- though I did finally determine today that after these first four weeks (for which we are already enrolled) I should be able to bow out of attending any more formal classes, if I so choose. As I probably will choose.

Much sleep is required before another day begins. So I betake my weary body to my very inviting bed.

Was Monday really the last that I wrote? Actually, I suppose that it's not that long ago. But it seems like it. So much has happened this week....

But at the moment all I will say is this: I am here. My (at least temporary) destination. My home for most of the next two years. I still don't think that it's quite real, but I think that seeing some of the city tomorrow will help. All I saw on the ride from the airport to my flat was the back side of my backpack and the bottom of the guitar case. It was a wee bit crowded.

But I am here. This is what matters.

Tonight I ran along the bayou, steadily ingesting hordes of small insect life for about a mile, till finally I could stand it no longer and forced myself to slow to a walk. A walk, it seems-- even a fast-paced walk-- allows time for the exacerbating little creatures to avoid at least my mouth. Really, I suppose it was my fault for running at dusk along the bayou.
[Author's note to non-Houstonians: The bayou, in this case otherwise known as Mason Creek, is merely a waterway... concrete-lined, like so many I grew up with in Oklahoma. Nothing so spiffy as it sounds.]

I'm hovering. I'm treading water. If I thought I was in limbo two and a half months ago, I was wrong. That was nothing compared to this. That was a mere ripple in the ocean of displacement. I've been pulled down by the undertow since then. I don't live here, I don't belong here, and there's no point in trying to settle in. I only exist, waiting, watching, wandering through each day in a vague hope that the date on my tickets will someday arrive. That I'll get on an airplane and go someplace else, someplace different, someplace far away. That those seven weeks of torturous schedules and sessions and convenant groups were not an end in themselves.

There is more than all this, I know. This is an in-between time. And I could go into the cheesy illustration of the trapeze artist, but I won't. Suffice to say, I'm feeling disconnected. Neither here nor there.

I grow tired of waiting. But I dare not ask for patience.

I think it's time to go.

Not that I'm packed. Oh, no, far from that. But in ways other than readiness of material possessions, it is time to go.

So what do I do for the next week? A good question. I'm not exactly sure. Pack, obviously. Keep saying goodbye... over and over and over again. The knowledge that I am leaving soon seems to lay heavily on everyone except me. Typical. The person most concerned is the person least involved.

I spent a great deal of time on the phone last night, talking to people back in Norman. And I'm glad I had the chance to, but I feel as though there is only one conversation I left, and with everyone to whom I speak it is this same conversation, with only very slight variations. Yes, I leave in a week... a week from Thursday... no, I'll be working with a language helper, a native speaker... orientation was good... yes, I'm excited about going... not really worried... not really any more dangerous there than it is here... yes, I'll have email access... I'll keep you posted on how things are going........
There is only one conversation, repeated infinitely many times.

One of my teammates sent around a list of books that she's packing-- she wanted to make sure we didn't waste space by all bringing copies of the same book. Funny, I'm not bringing any of the books on her list. In fact, with one exception, I don't even own any of the books on her list. I'm supposed to send out a list of the books I'm packing, but (even if I knew for certain which books those were) I have to wonder: how likely is it that any of my team would be considering packing any of the books I might bring? How likely is it that they would even own any of those books, or that they would be interested in reading them?

I'm not slighting them. But sometimes I am very aware of the differences that stretch between each of us... and sometimes I am very aware that many of my books are not usually considered 'appropriate' reading. Oh, sure, probably few people would actively disapprove of Faulkner or Dickens. But that's probably because they've never really read them. And Faulkner and Dickens might be considered the 'safest' of my books.
And then there's my music....

I seem to require many safe people.

A couple of days with Kristin and I'm feeling much restored. I think sleeping most of the weekend helped too. Quite possibly.

I have this vague idea that I'm supposed to be packed and ready to go in about a week, but I have very little conscious or coherent idea of why. Or of where I'm going. Occasionally I receive emails from people who are already leaving, and then my fog of confusion clears a bit and I think, Oh yeah, I'm moving to north Africa. Otherwise I'm not really aware of it.

It's so amazingly wonderful to sit in this house and know that I'm the only one here and everyone else is at work and won't be home anytime soon. Astoundingly wonderful. It's quiet. No voices, no laughter, no music. Just the clack of the keyboard and the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. And I know that if I allow it, all thoughts and concerns and emotions will fall away, will slide off and puddle around me like discarded clothing, till nothing remains but the core of me, a tranquil emptiness. A purity I have not found in weeks.

Restoration and balance.

At last... orientation is finished and I am out of Virginia. And it's storming here in Houston-- a welcome change from the haze of Richmond. Right now, however, I'm so exhausted I can hardly walk a straight line (actually, I'm not sure that I can at all). It's now been been almost 36 hours since I've slept, except for those few uncomfortable moments of delirium and loss of consciousness during my flights today. Hopefully after a couple of days of sleep I'll regain some modicum of thought-capability and find some much needed perspective on what's happened over the past seven weeks.

Until then.

Things are much better today. Not that I'm no longer sick of being micromanaged and shoved into group time at every moment of the day, but only that my natural ability to withdraw to my own safe place (mentally, at least) has reasserted itself. And even better-- I was able to stay up late last night, knowing that when I went to bed I wouldn't have to set my alarm at all. (That did, of course, require skipping the dreaded weekly group talk, but I'm well beyond feelings of guilt for missing that.) And today we have nothing else except personal interviews-- mine is about to start-- and the wonderful freedom of a nearly empty schedule has buoyed me up considerably.

INTP-- prone to sudden and violent outbursts of emotion if pushed too far. Yup. I'd say that holds true.

My interview is starting.

I am finally and truly sick of being here. Everything I have done today has been a backlash resulting from my extreme frustration (bordering on anger) at the controlling atmosphere in which I have been imprisoned for the past five weeks. I'm tired of being expected to come up with questions and comments-- questions and comments which no one can answer because "it will be different wherever you go". So why are we still discussing it?

Ahh. The release of complaining. And now I'm going to take a nap. And practice avoiding 'reality' for a while.

We're in the midst of regional leadership time (RLT) right now. Which is great, because while our region has nearly 40 people going through orientation right now, that's still nothing like sitting through classes filled with 140 people. Or worse, almost 300. That's draining. The sheer volume of people is exhausting. So RLT is a much welcomed respite. But it also makes me impatient-- RLT is designed to give us training and information specific to where we'll actually be living, and that shifts my focus more to going and how much I want to be there now. Especially since we're into our fifth week here, and my mental hard drive has definitely already reached capacity. Not too mention that I long ago overtaxed my RAM. These days in classes I practice Arabic far more than I listen.

I've suddenly run out of thoughts and words. I'm off to bed.

My weekend hasn't felt like much of what most would consider a good weekend-- Friday and Saturday were spent in training to become certified to teach ESL/EFL. All in two days. I did get to sleep for part of this morning, since Erin and I had made an 'executive decision' and decreed that HC would start at 11:00 and go no later than noon. We were all in need of a break. Rehearsals for this evening's service started this afternoon at 3:00. We had a 15 minute break to eat dinner and then a couple of frantic run-throughs with all the auxiliary folks before the service started. But now, at long last, my duties are complete and I've a couple hours to read or write or do whatever before I go to bed.

However much I enjoy most of my time here, I have no doubt that I'll be relieved when this is over. Courtesy of my ESL training seminar, I found out Friday that the emotional need for my particular learning style is freedom from micromanagement. There are days when I think this place is one big attempt at micromanagement. (I say 'attempt' because I am, of course, too wily to be enslaved by such obtuse tactics as those employed here.) So I apply many of the same strategies I used in college and I come through looking like the golden child. With the ever-present and hard-to-overlook touch of cynicism.

Smile a lot and don't ask many questions.

I achieve balance.

Tonight I finally snuck out the back gate and went for a run alone in the blessed dark. Nothing but fields on either side, and only the stars overhead. After muddling through two days of insanity and group activities (that was probably redundant) and cowering under the impending doom of at least two more, I needed to escape. To have my existence defined by nothing more than breathing and running. No thoughts, no questions, no words. One foot inexorably in front of the other, pointed straight down the dark line of road.

I achieve balance.

Many thanks to Average Woman for the lines from Paradise Lost. Contributions are much appreciated (or at least chuckled over).