Real

Sometimes this blog is hard to write. The words I most often find myself wanting to put down are descriptions of this beautiful world as I discover it day by day. I want to write about people and places and experiences that are completely new and exciting or charming. But even to me my thoughts sometimes read like romanticized daydreams right from the pages of an Isak Dinesen short story or the delusional monologues of a cross-cultural junkie in the throes of honeymoon stage culture shock. I don't mean for everything here to sound beautiful. It isn't. (But maybe you are laughing as you read this because to you my words most often describe a place you would like to visit right after your summer holiday in Mogadishu, and stories of soldiers, monitor lizards and simply dreadful heat are all just really, really depressing. If that's the case, than this particular blog entry is not meant for you. Just skip it and come back next week.) Whatever the case may be, sometimes I worry that I will do my current home a disservice by most often writing about its good aspects – all those things that are legitimately beautiful or gracious or interesting. But places that are only beautiful are not usually real. And more than anything, I want my blog to make this place feel real.

On our trip to the state capital last week I got manhandled. I was perusing a scarf shop alone when the very friendly owner helped himself to a handful of the one up-side to pregnancy so far (and no, I don't mean a glowing complexion) and though I initially (naively) attributed the incident to an unfortunate close-proximity folding accident, when it happened again I lay the overpriced item down and walked out in a huff. The incident bothered me and for a little while I couldn't stop thinking about it. Was I overacting? Was I under-reacting? I don't know how I would handle the situation in my own culture much less someone else's. All I knew is that I hated being taken advantage of because of the idea that all women by themselves are just inviting trouble. And I really hated being taken advantage of because of the assumption that all Western women are incredibly loose anyway so why should she really mind?

I tell you this not to make you upset for me or to reinforce some silly stereotype. I do it for quite the opposite reason. I want you to know that this place and the people who live here are real. They are jerks and opportunists and bigots, just like everywhere else. Remember that. But remember that so that when you hear me write about the old, very traditional man who buys our tea after we hardly do more than greet him respectfully, you will know that that too is real. When you read about the road engineer who gives us a truckload of gravel to build our garage for free just because he appreciates that we moved here to try to help in some small way, know that is real. The women who insist on sharing their only meal of the day though it's hardly enough for them and their kids and our friend who runs a local school even though half his students can't pay a dime are real. People here are selfless, forgiving and hospitable beyond belief. They are so achingly real.

I went to town alone today alone and bought some material to make pillowcases for my couch. Beyond the usual greetings and bargaining no one said or did anything really out of the ordinary. No one except maybe the male shopkeeper who came up to me unbidden and insisted that I take a handful of his dates from his breakfast plate. Day after day, for good or bad, I am overwhelmed by the realness of this place.