By AMANDA BENSEN
Published in The Post-Star (G2) 6/7/07
"You are speeding," an electronic sign warned me as I drove home on the Northway one night.
I slowed down to match the speed limit in the construction zone, but not without grumbling. Forty-five miles an hour seemed like a snail's pace.
But then I reconsidered my reaction -- what was my hurry, anyway? I had no plans for the evening, other than making dinner and catching up on some e-mail.
Americans are always in a rush, it seems.
We zip through fast-food restaurants to consume calories, then pop "instant weight loss" pills to get rid of those calories.
We'll honk at the car in front of us if they take a millisecond too long to hit the gas after the traffic light turns green.
We don't like to wait in line at the grocery store, so we'll take the self-checkout option even though we're stymied when the computer demands the produce code for broccoli crowns. We prefer ATMs and electronic passes to potentially slow bank tellers and tollbooth collectors. Some of us have even tried "speed dating."
I admit it -- I'm addicted to speed, too. But I've found that travel can be an excellent form of rehab.
In France and Spain, I learned to enjoy long, leisurely dinners and savor every sip of wine. In Austria and Germany, friends explained that a waiter generally won't bring the check unless you ask for it, because they don't want you to feel rushed. How nice.
In Africa, I learned that everything follows a tangibly slower tempo, from the pace of pedestrians on city sidewalks to the schedules of important events. When my friends and I showed up on time to attend a 4 p.m. wedding in Kampala, Uganda, we watched four other happy couples leave the church before things finally rolled around to our friends' wedding an hour and a half later. Instead of throwing a temper tantrum, the waiting bride and groom just shrugged their shoulders and smiled.
And on a 30-hour train ride across the face of India, I learned to enjoy looking out the window, chatting with strangers, and just laughing when the train inexplicably creaked to a halt for long stretches of time. Simple pleasures, like eating an orange or playing a card game, gained a new sheen of fascination in contrast.
My most recent trip was much less exotic -- a weekend of camping on an Adirondack lake -- but it also reminded me that it's important to slow down sometimes. Separated from my laptop, cell phone (which also serves as my watch), and car, it simply wasn't possible to hurry anywhere or even check the time. It felt wonderful.
I woke at sunrise and sat at the edge of the lake for a while, listening to the gentle gulping of the water against the rocky shoreline. I didn't have to be anywhere else, or do anything else.
Eventually, I paddled out in a canoe.
I didn't have a destination in mind, but I knew I was definitely not speeding.
-- Amanda Bensen is a features writer for The Post-Star. She only uses her car horn to scare ducks out of the road.
Showing posts with label first-person. Show all posts
Showing posts with label first-person. Show all posts
Friday, June 08, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
20something column: Leave me alone...I think
By AMANDA BENSEN
Published in The Post-Star (G2) 5/24/07
I went to see a play by myself a few weeks ago, and got a free serving of pity with the candy bar I bought at intermission.
"You're all alone," said the guy behind the concession booth, in a tone of voice that suggested this was perhaps the saddest thing he'd ever witnessed.
As I headed back to my seat, I looked around. He had a point -- everyone else in the room was part of a couple or group of friends. Heck, even the play itself was about a couple. I started feeling a bit self-conscious. Was I supposed to have stayed home because my boyfriend had to work?
I remembered feeling this way at other times, often while traveling. Last time I went out to dinner alone, the waiter treated me like I was naked in public and should be ashamed.
"I'll rush your order, so you don't have to stay here alone for long, sweetheart," he promised.
So after the play, I decided to prove to the world (or at least myself) that there's nothing weird about a young woman going out by herself. I went to my favorite jazz bar and ordered a glass of wine, prepared to just relax and people-watch for a while.
Of course, I forgot that it was around 10 p.m. on a weeknight, and there were only about three people there to watch. Within about two sips, my bravado was completely gone, and my desire to disappear was battling with my innate sense of thrift (you shouldn't waste an $8 glass of wine).
I imagined that the two girls engrossed in conversation at the other end of the bar were peering at me with disdain, as though I was a kind of spider lying in wait to entrap hapless boyfriends. I've seen that look whenever I show up alone at parties.
I tried not to stare at the man chugging expensive scotch a few seats down -- you don't chug scotch unless you've got some serious problems -- and focused intently on the television instead. That is, until I realized that the object of my faux fascination was one of those embarrassing medical commercials.
Eventually, I caved. I reached for my cell phone, and texted a friend to see if she would join me.
"No, I have a headache," came the reply.
Okay, I thought, chugging my wine. Time to back out with my tail between my legs.
Suddenly my wine glass was full again.
The bartender's shift had ended, and he was on my side of the bar now, buying me a drink. I realized that my misguided attempt at singles empowerment appeared nothing short of pathetic, and I had to laugh. It was a relief to have someone to talk to.
My friend changed her mind and arrived a few minutes later. Maybe she figured that only a serious crisis could have landed me at a bar by myself on a Wednesday night. I was OK, but I'm still glad she showed up. Because, in the end, there's a reason people tend to go out in groups: Friends are fun.
-- Amanda Bensen is a features writer for the Post-Star. She's not trying to steal your boyfriend.
Published in The Post-Star (G2) 5/24/07
I went to see a play by myself a few weeks ago, and got a free serving of pity with the candy bar I bought at intermission.
"You're all alone," said the guy behind the concession booth, in a tone of voice that suggested this was perhaps the saddest thing he'd ever witnessed.
As I headed back to my seat, I looked around. He had a point -- everyone else in the room was part of a couple or group of friends. Heck, even the play itself was about a couple. I started feeling a bit self-conscious. Was I supposed to have stayed home because my boyfriend had to work?
I remembered feeling this way at other times, often while traveling. Last time I went out to dinner alone, the waiter treated me like I was naked in public and should be ashamed.
"I'll rush your order, so you don't have to stay here alone for long, sweetheart," he promised.
So after the play, I decided to prove to the world (or at least myself) that there's nothing weird about a young woman going out by herself. I went to my favorite jazz bar and ordered a glass of wine, prepared to just relax and people-watch for a while.
Of course, I forgot that it was around 10 p.m. on a weeknight, and there were only about three people there to watch. Within about two sips, my bravado was completely gone, and my desire to disappear was battling with my innate sense of thrift (you shouldn't waste an $8 glass of wine).
I imagined that the two girls engrossed in conversation at the other end of the bar were peering at me with disdain, as though I was a kind of spider lying in wait to entrap hapless boyfriends. I've seen that look whenever I show up alone at parties.
I tried not to stare at the man chugging expensive scotch a few seats down -- you don't chug scotch unless you've got some serious problems -- and focused intently on the television instead. That is, until I realized that the object of my faux fascination was one of those embarrassing medical commercials.
Eventually, I caved. I reached for my cell phone, and texted a friend to see if she would join me.
"No, I have a headache," came the reply.
Okay, I thought, chugging my wine. Time to back out with my tail between my legs.
Suddenly my wine glass was full again.
The bartender's shift had ended, and he was on my side of the bar now, buying me a drink. I realized that my misguided attempt at singles empowerment appeared nothing short of pathetic, and I had to laugh. It was a relief to have someone to talk to.
My friend changed her mind and arrived a few minutes later. Maybe she figured that only a serious crisis could have landed me at a bar by myself on a Wednesday night. I was OK, but I'm still glad she showed up. Because, in the end, there's a reason people tend to go out in groups: Friends are fun.
-- Amanda Bensen is a features writer for the Post-Star. She's not trying to steal your boyfriend.
Friday, May 04, 2007
First-time fishing
Published in The Post-Star (G1)
5/3/07
The last time I was anywhere near a fishing pole, I threw a tantrum.
I cried and staged a PETA-worthy protest as my father smacked a writhing, gasping rainbow trout down on the dock during a family vacation to Colorado.
"Put it back! Put it back! It's dying!" I screamed.
"Well, you didn't want to eat it alive, did you?" he asked with infuriating logic.
It smelled delicious at the dinner table that night, but I refused to eat even a bite of the "poor little fish." Well, except the bite I snuck from my brother's plate when he wasn't looking. Darn. It did taste as good as it smelled.
About 17 years later, I decided it was time to confront my childish squeamishness. I've always enjoyed eating fish -- why shouldn't I enjoy catching them? Besides, people who fish talk about it like it's some kind of religion.
I wanted to be hooked, too.
CE Skidmore and I headed north on Monday for an afternoon of fishing with Michael West, whose family runs The Crossroads store in Chestertown. After buying a license, a basic rod and reel combo, and a cup of live "dilly" worms, we set off for Mill Creek, a few miles up the road in Wevertown.
I started by getting hooked a bit too literally, jabbing my own fingers several times as I struggled to work the barb through the body of a wriggling worm. I thought I was being terribly mature, but looking back at the pictures, I see I actually looked more like a 5-year-old concentrating fiercely on learning to tie her shoes.
West, a friendly outdoorsman who looks like an L.L. Bean model, must deal with a lot of first-time fishers. He didn't seem at all bothered by my basic lack of hand-eye coordination when it came to tying the hook onto the line. He didn't snicker when I closed my eyes as I ripped a worm in half. And he was thoughtful enough to point out that I should only remove my index finger -- not both hands -- from the pole when I cast it into the river. (Seriously, that's something I can see myself doing.)
I wasn't very good at aiming into the spots he suggested, but I was thrilled every time I simply managed to land the hook in the river. And on a sunny spring day like that, it was easy to fall in love with fishing.
West told us it was going to be tricky to catch anything, since the water was running so high and fast, but he was wrong. We caught a lot of things: the river bottom, some rocks and leaves, several tree branches, and even each others' lines. No fish, though.
No tantrums, either, on the plus side.
--
GEARING UP:
Fishing doesn't have to be an expensive hobby; first-timers can get started for under $50. You'll need:
-- A license, unless you are under 16 years old. A one-week license for New York residents costs $12, but it's a better deal to get the whole season for $19. Senior citizens cost just $5.
-- A basic rod and reel with line, $20 and up
-- Hooks, $1 and up
-- Sinkers or split-shot (non-lead metals), $1 and up
-- Bait, such as live worms (type depends on fish)
-- A cooler, or at least a plastic bag, in case you catch something
-- Pliers or a pocketknife to cut tangled line and remove hooks
WHAT'S IN SEASON:
-- Trout, landlocked salmon, kokanee, shad, sunfish, American eel, lake whitefish, crappie, striped bass, black bass (catch and release only until June 15). Opening May 5: walleye, northern pike, pickerel and tiger muskellunge.
LOGGING ON: More information on freshwater fishing is available from the New York state Department of Environmental Conservation: http://www.dec.state.ny.us/website/dfwmr/fish/
5/3/07
The last time I was anywhere near a fishing pole, I threw a tantrum.
I cried and staged a PETA-worthy protest as my father smacked a writhing, gasping rainbow trout down on the dock during a family vacation to Colorado.
"Put it back! Put it back! It's dying!" I screamed.
"Well, you didn't want to eat it alive, did you?" he asked with infuriating logic.
It smelled delicious at the dinner table that night, but I refused to eat even a bite of the "poor little fish." Well, except the bite I snuck from my brother's plate when he wasn't looking. Darn. It did taste as good as it smelled.
About 17 years later, I decided it was time to confront my childish squeamishness. I've always enjoyed eating fish -- why shouldn't I enjoy catching them? Besides, people who fish talk about it like it's some kind of religion.
I wanted to be hooked, too.
CE Skidmore and I headed north on Monday for an afternoon of fishing with Michael West, whose family runs The Crossroads store in Chestertown. After buying a license, a basic rod and reel combo, and a cup of live "dilly" worms, we set off for Mill Creek, a few miles up the road in Wevertown.
I started by getting hooked a bit too literally, jabbing my own fingers several times as I struggled to work the barb through the body of a wriggling worm. I thought I was being terribly mature, but looking back at the pictures, I see I actually looked more like a 5-year-old concentrating fiercely on learning to tie her shoes.
West, a friendly outdoorsman who looks like an L.L. Bean model, must deal with a lot of first-time fishers. He didn't seem at all bothered by my basic lack of hand-eye coordination when it came to tying the hook onto the line. He didn't snicker when I closed my eyes as I ripped a worm in half. And he was thoughtful enough to point out that I should only remove my index finger -- not both hands -- from the pole when I cast it into the river. (Seriously, that's something I can see myself doing.)
I wasn't very good at aiming into the spots he suggested, but I was thrilled every time I simply managed to land the hook in the river. And on a sunny spring day like that, it was easy to fall in love with fishing.
West told us it was going to be tricky to catch anything, since the water was running so high and fast, but he was wrong. We caught a lot of things: the river bottom, some rocks and leaves, several tree branches, and even each others' lines. No fish, though.
No tantrums, either, on the plus side.
--
GEARING UP:
Fishing doesn't have to be an expensive hobby; first-timers can get started for under $50. You'll need:
-- A license, unless you are under 16 years old. A one-week license for New York residents costs $12, but it's a better deal to get the whole season for $19. Senior citizens cost just $5.
-- A basic rod and reel with line, $20 and up
-- Hooks, $1 and up
-- Sinkers or split-shot (non-lead metals), $1 and up
-- Bait, such as live worms (type depends on fish)
-- A cooler, or at least a plastic bag, in case you catch something
-- Pliers or a pocketknife to cut tangled line and remove hooks
WHAT'S IN SEASON:
-- Trout, landlocked salmon, kokanee, shad, sunfish, American eel, lake whitefish, crappie, striped bass, black bass (catch and release only until June 15). Opening May 5: walleye, northern pike, pickerel and tiger muskellunge.
LOGGING ON: More information on freshwater fishing is available from the New York state Department of Environmental Conservation: http://www.dec.state.ny.us/website/dfwmr/fish/
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
My trip to Africa
Published in The Post-Star (B1)
4/22/07
Four down, three to go.
As a senior in high school, I naively included "travel to every continent" in the "future plans" section of my yearbook profile. It seemed achievable, since of course I would have a fabulous job as a ... well, I didn't really know. As a professional traveler, I guess.
Earlier this month, I got my first taste of Africa on a vacation to Kenya and Uganda.
My college roommate, Jenna, lives and works in Kijabe, Kenya, a rural village about an hour northwest of Nairobi on the edge of the Great Rift Valley. She is the assistant to the director of a hospital run by CURE International, a Christian medical charity that works in developing countries to treat children with disabilities like clubfoot, cleft palate, spina bifida and hydrocephalus.
I started saving for a plane ticket almost immediately after Jenna moved. My friends all know that gaining an international zip code basically guarantees I'll visit them, even if I only saw them once a year when they lived within driving distance.
My childhood friend Courtney joined me on the trip. She teaches global studies at a high school in western New York, and fell in love with Africa after taking an educational vacation to Uganda last year. We left New York City for Nairobi (a 19-hour trip via London) for 10 days on April 6.
These are some of the highlights:
April 7
The night air felt wonderfully balmy -- around 70 degrees -- as we stepped outside the Nairobi airport, but I noticed that the locals were wearing warm jackets and hats. From their slightly sub-equatorial perspective, this was practically winter.
April 8
We visited an outdoor tribal crafts market, and came away with ebony wood carvings, brightly striped scarves and hematite jewelry. I knew that simply being a "mzungu" (Swahili for "white person") meant I would get charged extra, but enjoyed the game of haggling. Strangest deal of the day: a soapstone dish in exchange for my used ballpoint pen (the guy grabbed the pen and wouldn't give it back, so I really didn't have a choice). I turned down a similar offer involving my sunglasses.
Then we went to the animal orphanage in Nairobi National Park. The warthogs were ugly, the ostrich was goofy and the lions were magnificent, as expected, but the unexpected highlight was walking into the cheetahs' cage with their keeper to pet them. Apparently, growing up around humans had made them quite tame. They purred like overgrown housecats at our touch.
April 9
Potholes the size of wading pools had eaten most of the road to the Nakuru wildlife preserve, a dusty three-hour drive from Kijabe. We passed people plowing fields and digging ditches by hand, or walking for miles between towns with heavy bundles balanced on their heads. I bet they would laugh out loud at the idea of paying for a fitness club membership.
Our van had a pop-up roof that provided a vantage point for safely viewing the animals in the park. Baboons came the closest, often gathering on the roadside to watch us watch them. The rhinoceroses only allowed us some distant photographs of their departing backsides, but the zebras were more flirtatious, sometimes galloping across the road within yards of our van. The giraffes stood in shady patches, tugging mouthfuls of leaves off the trees, and looked mildly amused by our excitement at spotting them.
Flamingoes gathered by the thousands on the shore of Lake Nakuru, forming a bright pink ribbon visible from miles away. We walked along the beach and took photos as the birds poked at the sand in the shallows, seeking food and murmuring to each other. Their gentle cacophony sounded like a nursery full of just-waking babies.
April 10-11
I was expecting to rough it on this trip, and was surprised to discover not only indoor plumbing and clean drinking water in Kijabe, but high-speed Internet access. We stayed in a lovely home owned by American missionary doctors who were away on vacation.
A walk into the village outside the medical compound revealed humbler neighborhoods -- houses cobbled together from scraps of metal and wood; cement-faced shops with quirky handpainted signs like "Photocopy Hello Services Etc." and "Barbers Ghetto Haircut" -- but the kids running around seemed happy and healthy.
A man named Samuel came to clean the house, and we started chatting about U.S. politics. Like many Kenyans, Samuel was fascinated by Barack Obama, and knew as much (if not more) about the 2008 presidential race as the average American. He predicts that Hillary Clinton will lose the Democratic nomination to Obama, "because people would not like to have a woman in charge."
Some of Jenna's Kenyan friends came over for dinner. We ate chicken, ugali (cornmeal paste formed into a thick, breadlike patty), scuma (like shredded kale or spinach cooked with spices), and fish stewed in coconut milk. Following their lead, I ate with my hands, using the ugali as a utensil to pick up the scuma and fish sauce. Delicious.
April 12
We flew to Entebbe, Uganda today. Jenna's friend Sam (another CURE staffer) picked us up at the airport to drive us to our hotel in Kampala. Jenna asked what great plans he had to entertain us, and got a chilling response.
"The plan is to keep you safe," he said. "There are riots in the city. Three people have already been killed."
Sam explained the Ugandan government wants to sell part of a national nature preserve -- Mabira Forest -- to an Indian sugar corporation (not coincidentally, one in which the government owns a majority stake) that would cut down the trees and plant sugarcane. Many Ugandans were outraged by this move, and had organized a major protest in Kampala. Police broke their promise not to use tear gas and bullets, protesters broke their promise to be peaceful, and things got ugly in a hurry. An Indian motorcyclist was stoned to death; a journalist was run over by a car; shops were looted and cars were set on fire.
We were also 1)riding in a vehicle that had been donated to CURE by the government, and still looked official enough that the rioters might target us, and 2)nearly out of diesel, and had already tried three gas stations that were out due to a national shortage. Traffic was snarled by numerous breakdowns as people had no choice but to drive until they ran out of fuel.
Using side roads, we made it to Sam's gated house on the city's outskirts. He kept us there until things calmed down. When we drove through downtown that evening to reach our hotel, the streets were scarred with stones, broken glass and burnt debris, but a fierce rainstorm had dispelled the crowd. To my relief, we managed to find a gas station with some diesel left to sell.
The next day, the government-aligned newspaper blamed the violence on long-standing racial tension between blacks and Indians in Uganda, and focused on the death of the motorcyclist. They didn't explain how the other two victims were killed -- probably by police firing on the crowd.
April 13
After stocking up on more souvenirs at an outdoor market, we went to Mukono, a village just outside Kampala. Courtney's friend Nora lives there, and brought us to visit her daughter Comfort's boarding school. Uganda's public school system is so weak that parents must struggle to find the fees for boarding school if they want their kids to get a decent education.
We were quickly mobbed by children fascinated by our foreignness and fancy cameras. I was surprised at how simple the living conditions were, since "boarding school" in the U.S. is usually equated with wealth and privilege. Here, kids slept in bunks stacked three high in warehouselike rooms, washed themselves and their clothes in plastic basins outside, and all wore the same close-shaved haircuts and simple green uniforms.
Comfort was a shy, endearing 9-year-old who said she wants to be a doctor someday. I asked her what she planned to do on her upcoming school vacation. "Help my mother with doing dishes and sweeping the house," she said. (Note to parents: See what happens when TV and Nintendo aren't an option?)
Trips like this always remind me that even though I sometimes feel "poor" compared to my American peers, I'm rich by the standards of many others in the world. I could see it in the eyes of the African kids, and even in some of the adults'. They looked at us so hopefully, as though we might have superhero capes tucked beneath our sweaty T-shirts. I wish we did.
4/22/07
Four down, three to go.
As a senior in high school, I naively included "travel to every continent" in the "future plans" section of my yearbook profile. It seemed achievable, since of course I would have a fabulous job as a ... well, I didn't really know. As a professional traveler, I guess.
Earlier this month, I got my first taste of Africa on a vacation to Kenya and Uganda.
My college roommate, Jenna, lives and works in Kijabe, Kenya, a rural village about an hour northwest of Nairobi on the edge of the Great Rift Valley. She is the assistant to the director of a hospital run by CURE International, a Christian medical charity that works in developing countries to treat children with disabilities like clubfoot, cleft palate, spina bifida and hydrocephalus.
I started saving for a plane ticket almost immediately after Jenna moved. My friends all know that gaining an international zip code basically guarantees I'll visit them, even if I only saw them once a year when they lived within driving distance.
My childhood friend Courtney joined me on the trip. She teaches global studies at a high school in western New York, and fell in love with Africa after taking an educational vacation to Uganda last year. We left New York City for Nairobi (a 19-hour trip via London) for 10 days on April 6.
These are some of the highlights:
April 7
The night air felt wonderfully balmy -- around 70 degrees -- as we stepped outside the Nairobi airport, but I noticed that the locals were wearing warm jackets and hats. From their slightly sub-equatorial perspective, this was practically winter.
April 8
We visited an outdoor tribal crafts market, and came away with ebony wood carvings, brightly striped scarves and hematite jewelry. I knew that simply being a "mzungu" (Swahili for "white person") meant I would get charged extra, but enjoyed the game of haggling. Strangest deal of the day: a soapstone dish in exchange for my used ballpoint pen (the guy grabbed the pen and wouldn't give it back, so I really didn't have a choice). I turned down a similar offer involving my sunglasses.
Then we went to the animal orphanage in Nairobi National Park. The warthogs were ugly, the ostrich was goofy and the lions were magnificent, as expected, but the unexpected highlight was walking into the cheetahs' cage with their keeper to pet them. Apparently, growing up around humans had made them quite tame. They purred like overgrown housecats at our touch.
April 9
Potholes the size of wading pools had eaten most of the road to the Nakuru wildlife preserve, a dusty three-hour drive from Kijabe. We passed people plowing fields and digging ditches by hand, or walking for miles between towns with heavy bundles balanced on their heads. I bet they would laugh out loud at the idea of paying for a fitness club membership.
Our van had a pop-up roof that provided a vantage point for safely viewing the animals in the park. Baboons came the closest, often gathering on the roadside to watch us watch them. The rhinoceroses only allowed us some distant photographs of their departing backsides, but the zebras were more flirtatious, sometimes galloping across the road within yards of our van. The giraffes stood in shady patches, tugging mouthfuls of leaves off the trees, and looked mildly amused by our excitement at spotting them.
Flamingoes gathered by the thousands on the shore of Lake Nakuru, forming a bright pink ribbon visible from miles away. We walked along the beach and took photos as the birds poked at the sand in the shallows, seeking food and murmuring to each other. Their gentle cacophony sounded like a nursery full of just-waking babies.
April 10-11
I was expecting to rough it on this trip, and was surprised to discover not only indoor plumbing and clean drinking water in Kijabe, but high-speed Internet access. We stayed in a lovely home owned by American missionary doctors who were away on vacation.
A walk into the village outside the medical compound revealed humbler neighborhoods -- houses cobbled together from scraps of metal and wood; cement-faced shops with quirky handpainted signs like "Photocopy Hello Services Etc." and "Barbers Ghetto Haircut" -- but the kids running around seemed happy and healthy.
A man named Samuel came to clean the house, and we started chatting about U.S. politics. Like many Kenyans, Samuel was fascinated by Barack Obama, and knew as much (if not more) about the 2008 presidential race as the average American. He predicts that Hillary Clinton will lose the Democratic nomination to Obama, "because people would not like to have a woman in charge."
Some of Jenna's Kenyan friends came over for dinner. We ate chicken, ugali (cornmeal paste formed into a thick, breadlike patty), scuma (like shredded kale or spinach cooked with spices), and fish stewed in coconut milk. Following their lead, I ate with my hands, using the ugali as a utensil to pick up the scuma and fish sauce. Delicious.
April 12
We flew to Entebbe, Uganda today. Jenna's friend Sam (another CURE staffer) picked us up at the airport to drive us to our hotel in Kampala. Jenna asked what great plans he had to entertain us, and got a chilling response.
"The plan is to keep you safe," he said. "There are riots in the city. Three people have already been killed."
Sam explained the Ugandan government wants to sell part of a national nature preserve -- Mabira Forest -- to an Indian sugar corporation (not coincidentally, one in which the government owns a majority stake) that would cut down the trees and plant sugarcane. Many Ugandans were outraged by this move, and had organized a major protest in Kampala. Police broke their promise not to use tear gas and bullets, protesters broke their promise to be peaceful, and things got ugly in a hurry. An Indian motorcyclist was stoned to death; a journalist was run over by a car; shops were looted and cars were set on fire.
We were also 1)riding in a vehicle that had been donated to CURE by the government, and still looked official enough that the rioters might target us, and 2)nearly out of diesel, and had already tried three gas stations that were out due to a national shortage. Traffic was snarled by numerous breakdowns as people had no choice but to drive until they ran out of fuel.
Using side roads, we made it to Sam's gated house on the city's outskirts. He kept us there until things calmed down. When we drove through downtown that evening to reach our hotel, the streets were scarred with stones, broken glass and burnt debris, but a fierce rainstorm had dispelled the crowd. To my relief, we managed to find a gas station with some diesel left to sell.
The next day, the government-aligned newspaper blamed the violence on long-standing racial tension between blacks and Indians in Uganda, and focused on the death of the motorcyclist. They didn't explain how the other two victims were killed -- probably by police firing on the crowd.
April 13
After stocking up on more souvenirs at an outdoor market, we went to Mukono, a village just outside Kampala. Courtney's friend Nora lives there, and brought us to visit her daughter Comfort's boarding school. Uganda's public school system is so weak that parents must struggle to find the fees for boarding school if they want their kids to get a decent education.
We were quickly mobbed by children fascinated by our foreignness and fancy cameras. I was surprised at how simple the living conditions were, since "boarding school" in the U.S. is usually equated with wealth and privilege. Here, kids slept in bunks stacked three high in warehouselike rooms, washed themselves and their clothes in plastic basins outside, and all wore the same close-shaved haircuts and simple green uniforms.
Comfort was a shy, endearing 9-year-old who said she wants to be a doctor someday. I asked her what she planned to do on her upcoming school vacation. "Help my mother with doing dishes and sweeping the house," she said. (Note to parents: See what happens when TV and Nintendo aren't an option?)
Trips like this always remind me that even though I sometimes feel "poor" compared to my American peers, I'm rich by the standards of many others in the world. I could see it in the eyes of the African kids, and even in some of the adults'. They looked at us so hopefully, as though we might have superhero capes tucked beneath our sweaty T-shirts. I wish we did.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
20something: Is it hot in here, or is it just me?
Published in The Post-Star (Go)
March 29, 2007
Nothing is neutral.
A sociology professor terrified me with that statement in college. I'm not good at making quick decisions, so it was overwhelming to suddenly feel surrounded by them.
She made the point that even the simple act of eating comes with a lot of baggage, thanks to globalization. You can choose between organic and non-organic; fair-trade and non; New York or New Zealand apples. Your dollars make a statement, whether you want them to or not.
The weather, apparently, isn't neutral either.
Sure, rain is rain, and you'll get wet whether you're liberal, conservative, green or a member of that obscure "Rent is Too High" party that showed up in last year's gubernatorial elections.
But drop the words "global warming" into any of those circles, and you'll definitely get some mixed precipitation.
Most liberals and greens will unleash a hurricane of anxiety, pelting their listeners with statistics about the imminence of climate change and free viewings of "An Inconvenient Truth."
Many conservatives will respond with an icy drizzle of skepticism.
"Global warming? Riiiight ... Al Gore didn't notice that snowstorm last month. Guess he was busy inventing the Internet!"
(As for that last party, I can only assume they would say something like: "The planet is in danger? Will that reduce my rent?")
I recently overheard a group of middle-aged men debating global warming in these terms. One argued that scientists are still divided on the issue, and it's only those crazy liberals who are scaring everyone because ... well, that's the part I must have missed. Is there some sort of secret kickback system, where a dime of every dollar spent on reducing carbon emissions gets donated to the Democratic Party?
Another man responded with earnest outrage that millions of people will die by the time the proof is undeniable, and it's only those crazy conservatives who are dilly-dallying because ... hmm, I didn't catch that one either. Are all conservatives accepting bribes from the oil industry? (Why haven't I been offered one? I've voted for at least one Republican.)
They droned on for an hour or more, accomplishing nothing besides annoying everyone in earshot. I wish I could say this surprised me, but I've heard the same debate so many times it hurts my head.
How did what should be a scientific issue get so tied up in a political tug-of-war? The result is that people who vote on issues, rather than party lines, are bewildered into a false sense of neutrality that feels more like paralysis.
Nothing is neutral, and it's foolish to pretend otherwise. But that doesn't mean everything needs to become a battle, either, especially not a politicized one. The world's got enough war on its hands already.
Amanda Bensen writes features for The Post-Star. She agrees that rent is too high, but probably won't be voting that way.
March 29, 2007
Nothing is neutral.
A sociology professor terrified me with that statement in college. I'm not good at making quick decisions, so it was overwhelming to suddenly feel surrounded by them.
She made the point that even the simple act of eating comes with a lot of baggage, thanks to globalization. You can choose between organic and non-organic; fair-trade and non; New York or New Zealand apples. Your dollars make a statement, whether you want them to or not.
The weather, apparently, isn't neutral either.
Sure, rain is rain, and you'll get wet whether you're liberal, conservative, green or a member of that obscure "Rent is Too High" party that showed up in last year's gubernatorial elections.
But drop the words "global warming" into any of those circles, and you'll definitely get some mixed precipitation.
Most liberals and greens will unleash a hurricane of anxiety, pelting their listeners with statistics about the imminence of climate change and free viewings of "An Inconvenient Truth."
Many conservatives will respond with an icy drizzle of skepticism.
"Global warming? Riiiight ... Al Gore didn't notice that snowstorm last month. Guess he was busy inventing the Internet!"
(As for that last party, I can only assume they would say something like: "The planet is in danger? Will that reduce my rent?")
I recently overheard a group of middle-aged men debating global warming in these terms. One argued that scientists are still divided on the issue, and it's only those crazy liberals who are scaring everyone because ... well, that's the part I must have missed. Is there some sort of secret kickback system, where a dime of every dollar spent on reducing carbon emissions gets donated to the Democratic Party?
Another man responded with earnest outrage that millions of people will die by the time the proof is undeniable, and it's only those crazy conservatives who are dilly-dallying because ... hmm, I didn't catch that one either. Are all conservatives accepting bribes from the oil industry? (Why haven't I been offered one? I've voted for at least one Republican.)
They droned on for an hour or more, accomplishing nothing besides annoying everyone in earshot. I wish I could say this surprised me, but I've heard the same debate so many times it hurts my head.
How did what should be a scientific issue get so tied up in a political tug-of-war? The result is that people who vote on issues, rather than party lines, are bewildered into a false sense of neutrality that feels more like paralysis.
Nothing is neutral, and it's foolish to pretend otherwise. But that doesn't mean everything needs to become a battle, either, especially not a politicized one. The world's got enough war on its hands already.
Amanda Bensen writes features for The Post-Star. She agrees that rent is too high, but probably won't be voting that way.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
20something column: Not a morning person
By AMANDA BENSEN
Published in The Post-Star (Go)
March 15, 2007
I'm not a morning person. It must be biological, because I've had plenty of behavioral training to the contrary.
My high school was about 30 miles away, which meant I had to leave the house by 7:15 a.m., and I was usually still staring blankly at my closet around that time. It feels like my brain doesn't fully switch on before the hours hit double digits.
My mother tried the cheerful drill sergeant approach -- marching into my room, giving the blankets and window shade a vicious tug as she sang ditties like "Good Morning, Good Morning," and "Rise and Shine" -- but that only made me more determined to hide my head under a pillow.
Friends tried the gentle, coaxing approach, especially after I nearly gave one of them a bloody nose as I tried to shoo away the nasty noise disturbing my slumber. They laughed and rolled their eyes on Sunday mornings when I was late for youth group -- quite a feat since it took place in my own living room.
Realizing that I was developing a reputation for being lazy, I tried setting my alarm to a radio station that hosted a screaming fire-and-brimstone preacher in the early morning time slot. That worked pretty well, although I still dawdled in the stage between getting out of bed and getting out the door. Fortunately, I was a good student and my teachers usually let the tardiness slide.
These days, I have plenty to incentive to get up at a reasonable hour. I have a day job, and I usually look forward to going to it, unlike school. It helps that I live on a street with alternate-side parking that switches at 8 a.m. every day, and a truly dedicated parking enforcement official who begins his patrol about 15 minutes later (thanks, City Hall, you keep me on my toes).
I still love lazy mornings, but I've grown up enough to realize that some things are more important. Last weekend, I went to visit some old friends and their 3-year-old daughter, who is the closest thing I have to a niece.I slept on their couch -- or tried.
That cup of coffee after dinner probably wasn't such a good idea, and their cat kept yowling. I think I finally fell asleep about 3 a.m., which was actually 4 a.m. because of the daylight savings time change.
About three hours later, a little voice pierced my dreams from the upstairs hallway:"It's da mornin!" the 3-year-old announced, as though delivering a present.
Her dad brought her down to the kitchen for breakfast, pointing out the lump on the couch with a whisper as they passed. He offered her a bowl of cereal.
"No thanks, Daddy, cereal is noisy, and she's sleeping," she responded at full volume.
I smiled, and got up.
Amanda Bensen is a features reporter for The Post-Star. She tried unsuccessfully to wake up early this morning to write this column.
Published in The Post-Star (Go)
March 15, 2007
I'm not a morning person. It must be biological, because I've had plenty of behavioral training to the contrary.
My high school was about 30 miles away, which meant I had to leave the house by 7:15 a.m., and I was usually still staring blankly at my closet around that time. It feels like my brain doesn't fully switch on before the hours hit double digits.
My mother tried the cheerful drill sergeant approach -- marching into my room, giving the blankets and window shade a vicious tug as she sang ditties like "Good Morning, Good Morning," and "Rise and Shine" -- but that only made me more determined to hide my head under a pillow.
Friends tried the gentle, coaxing approach, especially after I nearly gave one of them a bloody nose as I tried to shoo away the nasty noise disturbing my slumber. They laughed and rolled their eyes on Sunday mornings when I was late for youth group -- quite a feat since it took place in my own living room.
Realizing that I was developing a reputation for being lazy, I tried setting my alarm to a radio station that hosted a screaming fire-and-brimstone preacher in the early morning time slot. That worked pretty well, although I still dawdled in the stage between getting out of bed and getting out the door. Fortunately, I was a good student and my teachers usually let the tardiness slide.
These days, I have plenty to incentive to get up at a reasonable hour. I have a day job, and I usually look forward to going to it, unlike school. It helps that I live on a street with alternate-side parking that switches at 8 a.m. every day, and a truly dedicated parking enforcement official who begins his patrol about 15 minutes later (thanks, City Hall, you keep me on my toes).
I still love lazy mornings, but I've grown up enough to realize that some things are more important. Last weekend, I went to visit some old friends and their 3-year-old daughter, who is the closest thing I have to a niece.I slept on their couch -- or tried.
That cup of coffee after dinner probably wasn't such a good idea, and their cat kept yowling. I think I finally fell asleep about 3 a.m., which was actually 4 a.m. because of the daylight savings time change.
About three hours later, a little voice pierced my dreams from the upstairs hallway:"It's da mornin!" the 3-year-old announced, as though delivering a present.
Her dad brought her down to the kitchen for breakfast, pointing out the lump on the couch with a whisper as they passed. He offered her a bowl of cereal.
"No thanks, Daddy, cereal is noisy, and she's sleeping," she responded at full volume.
I smiled, and got up.
Amanda Bensen is a features reporter for The Post-Star. She tried unsuccessfully to wake up early this morning to write this column.
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