The Value of Trust and the Relativity of Value

We were robbed.   And I don’t mean in the US/Belgium match.  We were actually robbed.  Actually, twice.  The first time, it was more of a pick-pocketing.  Out dancing, a man approached Amanda with a card case in his hands – is it yours, he asked?  No, but it was Katie’s.  In the frenzy that followed, we realized items that had been in purses were now strewn on the dancefloor, and we scurried to collect them.  Ultimately, things were missing – phones, wallets, pride.  In hindsight, the man who seemed to be the hero, the rescuer, was very likely part of the plot to take our things.  Was it at that moment of distraction that the job was finished?  Or had the damage already been done?   We’ll never know for sure.

Last weekend, we headed south west, crossing the equator, to Lake Mburo inside a national game park. We spent Saturday under the beautiful African sun driving through the breezy park en route to a campsite, quietly rolling along among zebras, impalas, warthogs, water buffalo, monkeys, baboons.  It was magical.  We took turns riding atop our pop-top van, snapped photos, took it all in.

  

photo credit:  Ka'ili Jackson

photo credit:  Ka'ili Jackson

photo credit:  Ka'ili Jackson

  

We played volleyball, had a campfire, and set up tents near hippo-occupied territory; one hilariously terrifying moment had everyone screaming and piling into the van as hippo footsteps were detected on the shore of the lake.  

photo credit:  Ka'ili Jackson

We dozed on and off throughout the night, under the dark sky, the bright stars, and the milky way, to the sounds of hippos snorting, the distant screeching of sparring somethings, and by early morning, incredible bird songs like I’ve never heard before.




I woke groggily to the sound of one of our group shouting “No!” along with other less benign expressions of disbelief.  She was on the phone with another of our group who had stayed behind and was calling to report that overnight our apartments had been robbed.  Six laptops, a GPS camera, an iphone, an external drive, a wifi stick, $350 in cash, and a passport along with other forms of identification and monificiation.

our apartment building in Kampala, pre-robbery

The following 48 hours was filled with trying to piece together what had happened.  Inside job or a case of straight-up casing the joint by an outsider?  Had they used the keys to enter, or had they come through the balconies or windows?  Had they climbed up from the ground floor or had they started on the roof and worked their way down?  Why were some apartments robbed and not others?  And on it went.  Strange details like missing shoelaces that would later turn up in other people’s apartments, and scarves tied together from one balcony did more to confuse than resolve.

Conspiracy theories began to fly.  People from outside of our group got involved, introducing theories and speculation:  Why were none of the apartment electronics taken – was the owner been in on it?  Had the kind cleaning staff been used for information?  Had it been the night guard whom we had fed dinners and watched movies with?  Why was he still there when the theft was first discovered, if he was to ultimately disappear?  Had he been planning it for weeks, once he realized we were leaving on weekends?  Why had some apartments been hit, but not others?  Why did it take the police so many hours to show up?  And why wouldn’t they take our statements seriously?  Whose contact had they been?  Was the manager trustworthy?  The landlord?  Little by little, our suspicions were so heightened that it seemed we should trust no one.  

There was an outpouring of sympathy from our Ugandan colleagues and friends.  When we arrived back on Sunday, the young gate guard had is head down and we detected a tear.  The cleaning staff told us how sorry they were.  But like, deeply sorry – not just a passing sentiment.  I subsequently became embarrassed.  The guard who owns three shirts, and sees us leave every day in new outfits, carrying our laptops, and come home every night with bags of groceries.  The cleaning staff who cleans our beautiful large sunny tiled apartments with running hot water and pristine white sheets and sinksful of dishes following our indulgent dinners. They watch us pile into vans with our camping gear and our abundance of food, and take off, carefree.  These sweet concerned people who have nothing.  

We are students, we owe crap tons of tuition, NYC rents are crazy.  We are by no means wealthy.  But compared to what surrounds us every day, we have everything.  Anything we could want.  Any weekend activity we can think of.  We all walk around here muttering that we can’t afford this or that, but the truth is, we can.  If we choose to. But not everyone has that choice. 

I cannot imagine the living conditions of these people who were so deeply hurt by our taken things.  I have walked through the informal settlements, and seen the conditions in which people live.  The impossibly close quarters, the communal toilets that are just holes in the floor and stink to high heaven, the lack of access to water, the smells, the noise, the animals, the garbage, the dust, the mud, the filth.  

A woman and her three children living in a space slightly larger than my bathroom, that also operates as her small shop during the daytime hours. There are no windows, there is no power, there is no security.  I imagine our staff here lives in conditions much like these.

Our mantra in response to this sympathy became “at least no one was hurt.”  But honestly, thank goodness.   People were home in the apartment complex at the time of the theft; it certainly could have happened.  Our things were taken, and these things of course have a value.  But there was more lost than just these things.  The monetary value of our stuff diminishes significantly in light of the loss of security and the sense of being safe.  That was truly what was taken from us.  It becomes quickly apparent that this one detail entirely changes how we value our things, just as the value becomes reframed against the intense privation around us on a daily basis.  Value is relative.  

We had let our guard down; yes, we had trusted.  And that trust had been laughed at.  So what now?  Trust no one?  Innocent until proven guilty or guilty until proven trustworthy?  Here, we were warned, trust must be earned.  If you trust someone, you don’t trust his brother, simply because he is his brother.  The brother must earn the trust himself.

I love east Africa.  There is so much to love about it.  But there is a hesitation about a life framed by trusting no one, as the default.  I think of the victims of human trafficking, in every major city around the world – in Mumbai, in Kuala Lumpur, in Kampala, in New York City.  They are taken from their homes, many to countries in which they cannot communicate.  If they come from places where the authorities are corrupt and cannot be relied upon for help, that sentiment is reinforced, even if it is not the case, to breed distrust.  They are strategically kept away from people who speak their languages, to remove any possibility of building alliances.   What an unimaginably terrifying feeling.  To be able to trust absolutely not one living soul.  Here, there are 11 others with whom I can align, discuss, sympathize, advocate, understand, plus our program coordinator and her trusted contacts. And we still feel victimized, violated, and vulnerable.   It feels unjust and we are indignant.  

Millions and millions have lost their lives as they know them, their dignity, their futures, their souls.  After this incident, I find myself somewhere between contentment, accepting that the things taken were only things, and the feeling of compromised safety that comes with such a violation.  On Saturday, I would have valued my laptop as high among my assets, and was probably giving very little emotional energy to the value of safety.  In one day, the hierarchy is upended.  Yes, value is relative.  And the more I can continue to keep that perspective, the more I am freed up to value those things in life that are truly important. 

photo credit:  Ka'ili Jackson

Tugende

Saturday

I'm in the middle of east Africa. It’s a scene that inspires stories, overlooking vast, lush green tea fields, a mountain range in the distance, beyond which lies the Congo. Sharply dressed black and white birds sporting bright red tails are swooping and alighting on nearby trees, while tiny bright green ones fly around in front of me, chirping sweetly, reminiscent of that scene from Cinderella. Flowers from the frangipani trees have fallen to the ground and Ka’ili picks up a few to fashion a crown; they smell heavenly.  

The grass is soft and green, the landscaping idyllic.  The air is warm and the breeze is cool.  There is no buzz in my ear, no traffic sounds, no phones ringing, no construction noises – just birds and the breeze and the faint sense of exhaling. I sit under a thatched roof on hand-crafted wood furniture, sipping a cold beer, taking it all in. 

Day 9 in Uganda. After eight days in Kampala, we decide, tugende – let’s go. Seven of us rent a pop-top van and drive west. We were destined for a volcanic crater in the southwest, to trek and swim and escape the city. We almost made it. This lovely, serene campsite that we stumbled upon has us unconcerned about our unrealized plans for the day.

Along the way we pass through expanses of green country side, dotted with town after dusty town, filled with people peddling their wares along the road side. The low generic concrete buildings have hand-painted crowns with ads for telecom carriers, paint companies, laundry detergent, beer, and soda with flavors called “funtime” and “what’s up.” 

There are small wooden huts with corrugated metal rooftops, and makeshift fruit and vegetable stands – after a while, they don’t really seem makeshift at all; they’re all built similarly, of slim logs and a slanted thatched or metal rooftop, all selling similar items - tomatoes, bananas, plantains, mangoes, onions. Some pineapples and jackfruit make guest appearances. As we pass through the towns, people look up and pause for a moment as our van full of mzungos, the two blondest and fairest seated in front, zooms by leaving a cloud of dust. 

At one of the small towns, we stop for fuel. The van takes diesel, so we pull around to the stand-alone pump. The guy removes the cover, fishes out the rubber belt from the floor of the inside of the pump, and feeds it around the wheels until it’s properly fitted. Then he attaches a handle to the left side of the pump and begins to turn it; this guys is now manually pumping the fuel into our car.

Around and around this crank arm goes, until we have added 40,000 Ugandan shillings (UGX), about $16.  We continue on.

We stop in Fort Portal for directions, some internet, and a few snacks – our guidebook calls it “Uganda’s most attractive town.” It is pretty adorable, with a strong colonial legacy evident, and the faded orange, arched-entranced open-air market makes me want to stay all day and browse through the giant bags of grains, admire the tidy piles of produce, and chat with the lovely shop keepers who show me everything from popcorn to used watches to toothpaste in an effort to make a sale. But alas, we head onward. (Ok, yes, I bought popcorn).

Our drive in search of the intended campsite is reminiscent of the mountain roads of Kigutu – it now feels familiar. Hard-packed dried mud, deeply divoted, dusty, windy, overgrown brush, dotted with small homes and gardens, animals roaming along the roadside.

Only as we’ve gotten over five hours out of Kampala do we start to see children intrigued by the mzungos, screaming and waving, and the occasional woman or girl dressed in colorful pagne. 

We’ve now popped the top and those of us in the back are standing with our heads peeking up through the roof as we wind and bounce along the rural east African roads.  An elderly man in a tattered too-large dusty blazer holding a walking stick gazes at us suspiciously as we pass, but cautiously grins and tentatively lifts a hand as I wave and smile.  Nathaniel is now driving like an African – weaving through the divots, dominating the road, sending animals scurrying.  After an hour of this, we are almost expecting to see signs that read “Welcome to the DRC.”  We instead see a sign for a campsite – not the one we were searching for, but still, a campsite – so we drive down the path, and discover the beautiful spot where we will set up camp for the night, and plan tomorrow for the volcanic crater.

Two tents, seven travelers, plenty of cold beers, and countless rounds of cards. At dinner, Evan suggest we go around the table and say what we're thankful for.  I am very aware of the great privilege and blessing it is to be able to say "tugende!" - let's go - and just pick up and explore the world - to get to know the people, the culture, the landscape where the air is different and life is different and I can discover a new me.  Shortly after we eat, the rain begins but holds off enough for us to get cozied into the tents before it starts coming down. The soft ground and the sounds of rainfall and crickets lull me to sleep.


Sunday

We rise with the sun, to birds singing and a dusty orange stripe burning through the last of the early morning clouds. 

The ground and our tents are still wet with last night’s rain. We enjoy coffee under the thatched roof with a mountain view, throw the tents in the van and set off for the Kyaninga lake, which is actually a volcanic crater surrounded by lush beauty.  

So beautiful in fact that an American decided to build – with his own hands and those of many Ugandans, no doubt – a spectacular resort lodge atop one of the peaks along the edge, overlooking the magnificence.  We choose the “crater walk” as it takes up high, versus the “forest walk” which would take us along the edge of the water. 

It’s the perfect day for a pseudo hike - the sun feels warm behind the intermittent clouds, and the breeze is perfect - we take time to admire the vast variety of vibrantly colored wild flowers along the way.  When we are almost around, we meet a Belgian motor-biking along the top of the crater; he has bought the property neighboring the resort, where he plans to build a sustainability and arts center.  Naturally. 

We finish up our walk, arrive back at the van, grab our suits and descend the endless rocky steps until the brush opens up to a small dock inviting us into the clear beautiful water. Lake Victoria is terrifying, filled with microscopic snails that will set up camp inside of you, but we think this water is safe, so we each discreetly strip to swap into our suits and dive in; only my pesky sunglasses keep me from being the first to plunge. It’s glorious. We swim and goof and take ridiculous photos, and soak it all in.

On the dock, we’re careful to keep our flip flops close – a guy at the GIS consultancy where I'm working revealed just before I left that his entire family caught chiggers, presumably from that dock. Is there a bigger fear than something alive burrowing itself into your skin and living under it, feeding off of your flesh and insides and procreating in there?  I think not. Every day thereafter, my feet tingle and itch and I’m convinced I have them. (editor’s note: over a week has now passed; confident I’m chigger-free).

We of course have one towel between us. We grab our stuff and make our way up the eternal ascent back to the car. A loitering cat falls prey to Evan’s Lion King re-enactment just before we head out. 

Along the way home, after being temporarily roadblocked by a posse of baboons, I announce I’d like a pumpkin. We pass through several towns with small stands, but eventually come to a proper roadside market, where Nathaniel pulls over. The women flock to the van and escort me out, trying to sell me everything they are convinced I need. It works. I buy a pumpkin. And a few bunches of tomatoes. And an entire bagful of avocados. Orders are being conveyed from the van. Two cabbages – one for Ka’ili. Joey wonders aloud if she should get some eggplant. A bag is 40 cents; we decide yes. Onions?  Of course, why not. Eventually I climb back in, loaded up with fresh local produce, and we continue our journey homeward.

We arrive back to Kampala just at nightfall, around 7pm. The city is massive and the traffic is completely nuts in ways I cannot adequately describe. Getting home is slightly harrowing, and an errant turn has us overshoot our neighborhood.

Two conflicting GPS reports later, we finally arrive. Nathaniel has truly become African over these two days.  An added dynamic is that Ugandan roads are left-hand drive, and cars are right-hand drive. In spite of this would-be impediment, he’s maneuvering like a boss – no Kampalan would take this blond-haired blue-eyed guy behind the wheel for a mzungo, based on driving ability alone.

Home, we shower, eat, chill out. Dogs bark and horns honk in the distance, the air smells faintly sweet of burning garbage, boda engines drown out sounds briefly as they pass, the nightclubs of Kabalagala are already throbbing. What a difference a day makes. I am in the middle of east Africa. But the same Africa from the beginning of the story?   Mere hours, but it feels like another world.  The blessing of the privilege of being able to say "tugende" settles firmly in my heart.

23. My own self: maybe (maybe!) I'm just a little hard on me

Ok, so this lesson is not technically one that I've learned from myself.  It has come from others, as they read, observe, watch me, know me, and tell me about me.  But I'll go ahead and take credit for it, because after all, if I wasn't hard on myself, I wouldn't have the lesson to learn.  

Many have expressed that they have enjoyed reading these posts - it's been a humbling and rewarding venture.  But several have told me that it feels in some ways less like 30 days of life lessons, and more like 30 days of my shortcomings.  I dismissed the first person who told me this - she always tells me I'm too hard on myself; I know I'm not.  But within a week, another (unconnected) friend had the identical observation.  Maybe I should listen.  

To me, the reason these qualify as life lessons is that they are things that others do well, which happen to highlight things I don't do all that well. Without sharing my shortcoming, does the lesson not lose impact?  That's how I see it anyway.

This is "Day" 23.  Ok, not really day 23.  It's entry 23.  On day 43.  I was due to finish this project January 31st, but it become a bit more than I anticipated it would be, which was actually a pleasant surprise - my very second post was about my friend Josie and the importance of finding opportunities to write about life; this has given me a great platform to do just that.

I'm several (many...) days behind on my project and alas, a few entries short; this will be my last of this series.  I left room up front for the possibility that I wouldn't have 30 lessons to document in this way, but it was a project that occupied me for the planned 30 days (fine, 43), even on days when I didn't post.  So I will be kind to myself ( ! ) and consider this a success.

In fact, I have decided to heed this observation of my dear friends, and pay attention to when I might consider that I'm being harder on myself than necessary (but really, isn't it always necessary?  just kidding).  This bit of insight has started seeping into my life in lessons like "it's good enough" and "you picked the wrong one," and I find that as I do cede this outrageous suggestion that I'm occasionally too hard on myself, it gives me a little space to exhale, and refocus my energy on worthy pursuits.

The process of documenting these lessons and observations has drawn me really close to what I appreciate and love about each of those mentioned herein, and has given me an opportunity to know myself a bit better too.  And to maybe consider that I could be a little kinder, more empathetic, more forgiving to my own self.  In some ways, it has given me a new perspective, has allowed me to see things in a new way - something I always appreciate and think is so important.  

There are more lessons to be shared (generosity comes to mind, but there was no way to choose just one friend or family member who demonstrates this to me!), and of course life has many more in store - wisdom and character to be gleaned from those I love and admire.  For those in my life who have blessed me with their love, care, stark honesty, wisdom, and little bits of themselves, who have inspired me, who have been voices of reason in my life, I am deeply thankful.  Each has moved a tiny outpost into a corner of my soul and will always be with me, and for that, I am humbled and truly grateful.

22. Kathleen: don't get hung up on the details

Kathleen and I have been friends since high school - by senior year, inseparable. Most stories I relayed to her back then - invariably about boys or bitchy high school girls - took place in school, or at parties, or football games, or the beach, and we were usually there together.  The stories didn't need background - who was standing where, what I was wearing, the dynamics of the event; Kathleen was already there and was well-acquainted with the players involved.

Then came college - we were separated!  Now stories required details!  She didn't know the people I knew, she wasn't at the same parties, she didn't have handle on the dynamics.  So of course I had to explain them to her!  In an inordinate amount of detail.  With drawings and re-enactments and minutia no one cared about but me.

This has become a running joke between us - whenever I hear myself slipping into the realm of the only-relevant-to-me, I pull myself back.  I remember Kathleen laughing hysterically at the scenarios I would map and that the color of that girls boots or the Giants hat that guy was wearing might - just might! - not make a difference to the overall story.

I have since reined it in.  When I do occasionally feel myself slipping into crazy-detail-land (Wait - what was that guy's father's neighbor's name?  It doesn't matter to the story!), I check myself.  And in fact sometimes go the other extreme, much to the frequent consternation of my family.  

Kathleen's influence of not getting hung up on the details has had application in many other (slightly more important) aspects of life. She's a big picture person - when weighing pros and cons, I will agonize over all aspects, all details, all possibilities. She's quick to strike the extraneous ones from the equation and encourage me to focus on the aspects that will actually make a difference. Small lifestyle details can be adapted to; big picture items are the ones that have the potential to change our lives.  Dismissing the trivialities that can cloud a larger decision is simply the better part of wisdom.  What's the big picture and how does narrowing the scope of analysis help to arrive at an unencumbered decision?

When I start to get hung up on the details - whether telling a story or making a major life decision - her laughter inside my head reminds me to keep the important things important, and don't get hung up on the details.

21. Liz: the human heart is not properly connected to the human brain

Ok, so Liz Lemon isn't technically a friend of mine.  But dang, if we knew each other, and if she was real, I know she would be.*  

On the series finale of 30 Rock, as the show-inside-a-show, TGS, breaks up and the actors-playing-actors head off their separate ways, Liz reflects on getting thrown together professionally with Tracy and how difficult he has made her life; she then says to him "but because the human heart is not properly connected to the human brain,  I love you and I'm gonna miss you."  

The heart not properly connected to the brain?  What?  Oh wait - we already know this.  Don't we?  I think so.  In our brains anyway.  But our hearts argue.  And confuse us.  And betray us.  And we think that if the two are not in synch, something is wrong.

But I know Liz is right.  In those moments of doubt and uncertainty and confusion, Liz Lemon's voice inside my brain reminds me that it is indeed not properly connected to my heart.  That brain decisions will cause heartache and heart decisions will cause brainache.  I know this.  I know this from experience.  So I (try to) go in, eyes open, knowing that either way, there will be consequences.  Emotional, financial, professional - there will be consequences.

Sure, the brain should always win in a society that takes success and the measures thereof very seriously, but sometimes it just can't.  So when I decide to move to Africa, go back to school, spend my weekends surfing the earth .... my bank account reminds me that these are heart decisions; my brain lost these rounds.  Do I hate the fact that I probably have to move when my lease is up?  Yep. Does deciding between a brake adjustment for my bike and a haircut feel like a decision I shouldn't have to be making at this point in my life?  Absolutely.  But I remember that my heart won this time, and the rest of me has to be willing to accept all of what that means.

Maybe somewhere in the future, the two will converge. I'd like to think they will. When heart decisions make brain sense, and brain decisions settle comfortably in my heart. I'm not sure what that will look like or feel like or sound like, but I do hope I get to find out.

Until then, I will shore up reason, and remind myself that the two have proven themselves out of synch, and for now - maybe just for now - making life decisions will mean I have to choose.  

*From the 30 Rock episode Grandmentor:
Jack (lamenting that public attention to his wife being held captive in North Korea and forced to marry Kim Jong-un is waning):  "Liz, the media have moved on ...."
Liz:  (stammers, then fans herself) "Media as a plural noun.  Oh my!"
(note to the reader: the line is unfortunately misquoted in this link, but the visual was worth including anyway.)

20. My sister: what a fighter looks like

My sister - you would never know it to meet her, but she's been through some stuff. Born with a disability that wasn't fully realized until she was two years old, she spent the better part of her young childhood in doctors' offices, surgeries, technicians' offices, therapy, and general confusion.

Kids are mean.  And my sister's classmates were no exception - they made sure she knew they knew she was struggling and made sure to peck at the weak spots.  I remember coming home from school often to my sister fighting back tears after schoolmates had given her a rough day. 

As time, and technology, progressed she found her way, and things leveled.  By high school she was cheerleader - and not just the consolation basketball cheerleader like her sister - a football cheerleader ... the real deal.  Go team Jenn.

My sister's natural ability for dance eludes all of the rest of us, and this become her undergraduate pursuit.  Hours of daily practice and grueling physical routines surrounded her core studies.  This would be her career - the vision was clear.  Until she blew out her knee.  In a single moment, everything changed; a shattered knee, a shattered dream.

Once again, she would pick herself up and forge ahead.  The future saw challenging work situations, the kind that erode one's confidence and invoke self-doubt.  Jenn would not be shaken.  And somewhere along the way, she developed this ridiculously quick witted sense of humor that somehow felt like Jenn 2.0, and always leaves us laughing hysterically or at least shaking our heads with a smile.

Years of ongoing fatigue and discomfort, undiagnosed, plagued her during this time. Doctor after doctor came up with mis-diagnoses or nothing at all.  And finally the verdict was in - lupus.  Over a decade-long dance with this disease, for which there is no cure, has had her fighting once again.  This time without any hump to just get over - this one will stubbornly stay with her.

As it is with life, new struggles always come our way.  As new struggles come my sister's way, it will once again be hard to watch her walk through it, but her fighter spirit will prevail.  That's simply a fact.

These tiny glimpses have been abbreviations of the larger dynamic stories, lacking the character and detail known to my family and Jenn's close friends.  But they give a picture of a series of hurdles that my sister has handled with grace and tenacity in a way that I not only admire, but will always inspire me to stay strong and keep fighting, no matter the challenge.

19. Vonda: what support looks like

The subject of this post could be about many of my friends, but this entry is specific to my dear friend Vonda.

Vonda and I have been friends for years - since we were 18.  We have had a great group of about 10 amazing girlfriends since sophomore year of college.  You know how this goes - small groups of besties form within the larger group, but Vonda and I were never really paired off back in the day.

When my divorce became a reality, I was all of a sudden free ... in many ways.  Not only was I free of the weight and the negative energy in my life, but I was also freed up to see friendships in new ways; Vonda was right there.

She invited me one summer to come stay for a time with her family at her beautiful home, which has become something of an annual tradition for us. She had me come up and bunk with her kids for ski weekends.  As I've gone through other significant transitions over the last few years, she has continued to be a support and encourager, always calling to check in, lending and ear or a word of a advice, always with me in my journey.  She still calls regularly to check in.  She remembers details, and always follows up.  I get homemade postcards crafted from goofy photos of her and or kids, that always make me smile, and continue to make me smile from my bulletin board.  She never forgets to mark an occasion - or maybe no occasion at all - with a card in the mail.  I'm a terrible correspondent, so all of these USPS greetings are even more meaningful to me.

Days before I left for Africa last year, I received a card in the mail.  Vonda had sent an iTunes gift card, recognizing that I might need a little taste of home during my trip.  But she went further - inside the card was a song pick from each family member.  It was so thoughtful and really touched me.  She included a fair trade salted dark chocolate bar (my favorite), which kept me company on the long and uneasy flight from Brussels to Bujumbura, all the while reflecting on my thankfulness for her friendship.

I could go on.  But suffice it to say Vonda has been a consistent and significant force of support and encouragement in my life over the last several years, in a way that I not only really admire and really hold dear, but also in a way that serves as an example when others in my life are in need of support from me.