throwing in the towel

It had been a long time coming.

It was a little over two years since I'd touched the ground stateside. The plan was to meet up with a Peace Corps buddy after closing up our respective loose ends, and snake our way through the safer bits of West Africa to some place cheaper to fly home through (avoiding a painful connection in Paris).

The trip was edgy from the start ...

I'd been dodging sketchy expats in Lome (Togo), a crazy prostitute fight at the hotel's beachside bar in Busua (Ghana), and a hilariously horrid attempt at convincing some PCVs in Tamale (Northern Ghana) that we were current and not former Peace Corps volunteers (so we could crash in their guest house).

I'm not sure why but I was starting to take more interest in what was happening at home.  In retrospect I think I was beginning to loosen up my homesickness guard, which had been up for so long.  I was texting my brother in law for college football scores, emailing old friends, etc.

I don't think I really noticed this at the time.

Along the way my traveling partner, Brendan, woke up with stomach movements that were literally shaking the bed up by the Burkina Faso border.  It sounded like a chainsaw starting in our room, and worse from the bathroom down the concrete hall.  How he made it through an epicly slow, hot, and painful minibus ride from the Burkina border to the capital (Ouagadougou) still amazes me.

After crossing Burkina Faso (by ancient train, a dilapidated 4x4, and walking when the road became impassible) to see some pretty amazing waterfalls and present a sacrifice (bloody chickens) to some "sacred" catfish, we were back in the capital staying at a large guesthouse run by ancient french nuns.  I loathed leaving the compound because there was a gang of taxi drivers and "guides" waiting to heckle me into paying for their "services".

People we thought would help out in Ouaga, were lame.  It seemed like we were getting picked on for being white everywhere we went in Burkina, getting chased out of a market by dudes yelling "racists" in Francophone West Africa is a bit discomforting.

I snuck off alone one afternoon to see what my options were at a travel agency, getting home from these far flung places requires a bit of planning.  Either I was done with West Africa or it was done with me.

I went to an exhilarating, if long, mass at the Cathedral.  It was there I made up my mind, I was coming home.  That night I told Brendan I was done, which he was remarkably cool with.  He convinced me to keep going on to Niger.  We had plans to meet up with a couple of friends and go up north into the Sarhara.  We made arrangements and left the following morning.

What followed was an incredible time ...

Niger, hell even the bus ride there, was like a breath of fresh air.  After our horribly lame experience in Burkina I almost kissed the ground at the border.  Niamey was awesome, and our trek out to the Sahara was legendary.  Meeting new friends, drinking in experiences, and pushing my boundaries.

I think of it often.

We went to the bar that last night and had one of those only-in-Africa nights ... beers flowing and food bought off vendors heads while listening to Afro-pop under the cover of a starlight sky.   I gave what I had left of value and not on my back to Brook and Ethan who were returning to Benin for their second year before dropping them off at the bus depot on my way to the airport at 2am.

What I am most thankful for is that I was able to come home on my own terms, I didn't leave a broken man as I'd seen so many others.  Oddly, this I owe to the fact I knew I was done.  

It means a lot I was able to leave a place that meant so much to me on a high note.  I only hope others are so lucky.

Theres a word for that? Really?

Living behind Harrod's was nice and super convenient. In addition to the insane cafeteria on the ground floor of the department store, there was an awesome little Russian place tucked back there and a few decent pubs.

I was especially fond of the bright yellow Lamborghini that Fayed's other son (not the one who crashed with Diana) kept parked overnight on the street. Nothing like classing up the street a bit.

Of course my place was a hideously expensive corporate flat so my employer was nudging me to get a place to live. Thankfully, they would still be paying so I didn't mind too much.

After striking out in Marylebone (mostly several year leases), I followed a friends suggestion and went out to see a few places in Fulham. I saw a handful of places scattered across the neighborhood, none of which were very appealing. They were all fairly hard to find, and I was totally wiped out.

Having taken the afternoon off, I happened by a pub and stopped for a pint. Chatting up the bartender I learned that Madonna lived nearby, before taking my second outside to enjoy the spring sunshine.

I was the only one there for the most part, outside of a couple. From the looks of it they'd been shopping all day on The King's Road and were imbibing a few pints to cool down. Their conversation grew louder and angrier as they moved inside for another round. I don't remember what they were bickering about but all of the sudden as I turned my head the woman tossed the contents of her 20oz pint glass in the guy's face. Not skipping a beat, he grabbed the glass and proceeded to pound it into her forehead.

Glass shatters, woman bleeding, beer everywhere. She runs downstairs to the loo, he takes off outside, and the barkeep and I look at each other like ... did that really just happen?

Sticking around long enough to make sure the woman was OK (some bleeding but not too bad), I got the hell out of there.

Upon my arrival at the office the next morning, I was still a bit shaken up. I recounted the storing in graphic detail to my colleagues who were floored. "Tom saw someone get glassed yesterday ... in the middle of the afternoon ... in Fulham!" Lance exclaimed to some latecomers.

I was like ... "There is a word for that? A verb? So, this sort of thing is a regular enough occurrence that it has a name? Really?"

To which his reply was, "You've never heard of anyone getting glassed before? It happens all the time, in some of the grittier pubs almost nightly. Now not usually involving a woman and not in Fulham or in the middle of the afternoon, mind you, but ..."

I was shocked by what I saw, they were shocked by where and when I saw it.

lost in the supermarket

After two plus years, an unplanned overnight in the Newark airport, and 5500 miles from Niamey I was home.

Only it didn't feel like home, frankly it didn't feel like anywhere.

I holed up in my sister's house for a few days, terrified of having to talk to anyone. I'd been in West Africa for 27 months, and while I was aware I had changed a good deal I don't think I was prepared for how much "home" had changed. When you're away, the idea of "home" is stuck in time. The longer and further away you are gone, the worse reentry is.

After a few days I managed to go to Comp USA, I'm not sure what I bought but I remember stumbling through the check out conversation and saying something in French.

A week or so later I was all proud of myself, I'd made it to my condo in the Gold Coast and was doing better. There was just one problem ... the supermarket. It was daunting. I'd be in there for like an hour, and come out with one bag of random groceries. Living downtown without a car, I had to go every few days ... and it sucked.

In Benin, there are a handful of smallish supermarkets Cotonou (the capital) and they are generally filled with stuff you don't really want (like imitation Oreos), stuff you shouldn't be buying on your salary (when food on the street costs $1 or $2 anything pre-packaged is a bad deal), and stuff you couldn't use if you wanted (like frozen pizza ... no ovens or freezers). I generally went to the supermarche's to pick up a few things ... syrup, spices, and snacks ... on my way out of town. Say once every month or two.

Conversely in Chicago supermarkets we relatively cheap, filled with stuff I actually wanted, and convenient. This should have been awesome. But it sucked. It was the amalgamation of all the things I was having trouble with ... interacting with strangers, seemingly endless choice, and acting like I belonged.

But I didn't have a job, and I needed to eat.

Takeout or delivery seemed wasteful, both because of cost and the fact I was having trouble eating american food. I could eat my weight in ingamme pillet but only half a plate of what my excellent cook of a sister served. So I went to Jewel, every day to two. Once while stuck like a deer in the headlights in the ice cream aisle, a woman actually asked me if I was OK. Humbling.

I am guessing it took a month or two, but I eventually turned the corner :).

This picture is framed in my parents' house

Every time I go back for my annual pilgrimage to Motown, I enivatably see this photo. It sits in the bedroom I shared with my older brother alongside pictures of my 3 siblings, their spouses, and my parents now 9 grandchildren.

It never ceases to make me laugh. Ever.

The picture was snapped by my then future Peace Corps post-mate Becky outside Bohicon, Benin ... the town where we would spend the next two years. It was our first visit to our future home and we had just been out to the neighboring village of Lissezoun to get introduced to a future friend and all around great dude named Mathieu.

Like any good Beninese host, our meeting started and ended with shots of local moonshine know as Sodabe. Lonely Planet calls this very local beverage (the palm tree it is distilled from grows in like a hundred mile range) an alternative jet fuel for NASA. We had some local fried snacks, toured a small library Mathieu built for the local youths and downed a few shots.

Only having been in West Africa for a month or two, my stomach was not yet ready for prime time. The parasites (ghardia, amoebas) and bacteria (of various flavors) were just moving in and getting acquainted with my insides and all lubed up with grease and thrice fermented palm sap.

Needless to say, I was far from regular.

Local travel in Benin is usually via small beat up mopeds called Zemijahn's. Going outside of any decent sized town means bumps on dirt/sandy/rocky roads. I was in a line of four of these, with a current PCV (Xotchil), Becky, and our new French friend (Delphine) when I just couldn't take it anymore. We bouncing around on sketchy shocks halfway between town and this village and I made my driver pull over. I was set to eminently explode.

I hadn't been around long enough to learn to carry a role of toilet paper or better yet a 99c pack of baby wipes hand carried from Walgreens to the Dark Continent, and I had just enough time to grab some maize leaves.

I ran up a small hill looking for a semi-private place to unload.

My three female traveling companions were losing it, and asked that I pose for a quick picture. Somehow I held off the ensuing deluge long enough for this photo to be captured before retiring further down the other side of the hill for some much needed privacy and a deep cleanse.

Please don't tell my mom, I'd hate to have her take the picture down :).

the broom closet

I was on my way home from a month of solo backpacking in SE Asia and had scored no charge 4 day layover in Japan. My brother had spent and MBA summer internship in Osaka and loved nearby Kyoto, so outside of Tokyo it was to be my only stop.

I arrived late on the bullet train, and found some sort of room booking service at the train station. Not the sort of thing I normally do, but useful. That was until I found that the guy manning the booth spoke nothing in English other than "super" and "terrific". It was getting late and I was looking screwed.

Somehow I cajoled him into calling a place in my guidebook, and I had a room for the night.

After a long flight from Bangkok, the airport train into Tokyo and the $250 one way bullet train to Kyoto I was sick of transportation. I had a map in the guidebook at surely I could find my way across the river to this little guesthouse. Tragedy narrowly averted.

One thing guidebook maps suck at is scale, I got lost leaving the station and after writing myself it took me nearly an hour to even get in the vicinity of the place. I was tired, hungry, and getting irritated.

Somehow I managed to find the place against all odds, and I took my shoes off and dropped my bag at the door. Tragedy #2 narrowly averted.

The sound of some guests using English words other than "super" and "terrific" was lightening my spirits until the guesthouse owner explained it took so long for me to find the place they gave the room up. This probably took like 15 minutes for him to communicate to me, given our language barrier. I was yet again, crushed. Thankfully the guy was super nice, and called around for me.

He found me a place, and I hopped in his car for a literal video game high speed dash around Kyoto ... across the river somewhat near the train station I had originally left. Spirits uplifted by Japanese pop songs and clinging to my seatbelt, I was sure glad to find this place.

Then there was another problem. They were pretty obviously stalling at the small hotel. Finally a guy somehow conveys that there was something, but before I pay he wants me to take a look. Hell, I was in SE Asia for a month with no reservations but the first night ... I always look first. We walked up row of stairs after stairs until getting to the top floor where there was a door at the end of the staircase.

It was small even by Japanese standards. The guy opens the door and inside they had thrown a mattress in the middle of a broom closet, cleaning supplies and all. He was hugely apologetic, probably made more so by how excited I was just to see a bed ... frantically telling him over and over again "it's good!"

When we got back down stairs he was struggling to get something out in English ... "no ch", "no ch", "no ch", and finally he muddled "no charge". In some order: I smiled, thanked him in surely awful Japanese, and gave him a big hug.

Tragedy narrowly averted.

why would anyone read this blog?

About while back The Onion used to ask a few simple questions to a band in an attempt to "Justify Their Existence" ... so I'll do the same substituting "read & blog" for "buy & record".

The Onion: Why would anyone read your blog?

Tom: They shouldn't. Well unless they like laughing at me, poking fun at the current generation of commercialized yet not travel writers, or enjoy a story that ends with someone pooping their pants. Then they should.

The Onion: Do you think your blog will help people?

Tom: Absolutely not, if anything it will hurt them.

The Onion: Do you think your blog could save lives?

Tom: It is far more likely to endanger than save lives, depending on interpretation.

The Onion: Is this blog your ticket to heaven?

Tom: I certainty hope so, but fear not.