A ship destroys the internet

Once upon a time, internet providers in East Africa decided to make their internet faster. To American standards, that ment moving from dial up speed to slow cable speeds. They decided to build a fibre optics station in the bottom of the sea. Surely, no one would ignore the restricted space that flagged this area. So they built fast internet, charged expats a fortune, and locals the inability to experience the fast internet. And so it was.

Then one day a ship was unable to access the port it wished to dock. So it decided to anchor outside the port. Restricted access? Surely it does not mean us. So they anchored. And destroyed the high-speed internet's fibre optics. Down went the high speed interent for multiple countries. Down went fast internet, work ability and the such. But this is Africa, and life continues whether or not the foreigners are able to access the high speed internet.

I laughed when I read this news article about a ship's anchor destroying a fibre optics line for high-speed internet off the coast of East Africa. If I was in East Africa, I would be furious. Since I am not, I can only laugh and think, "only in Africa would the internet be destroyed by a ship".

If you want the full story, you can check it out here: on the BBC website.

I had horrible experiences with internet, paying for internet, only for the record of my payment gone, etc. So this is story is just so typical with the woes of internet and East Africa. For my friends experiencing abnormally slow internet speeds, I am sorry.

New York Times

I like reading the New York Times. It makes me feel sophisticated. I usually skim the headlines and focus my reading on the op-eds and the world news section. Today, however, I got to read an article written by a friend. So if you want, jump over and read her story of giving birth to an American child in a Muslim country on the anniversary of 9/11.

You can find it here.

Morning Commutes

There is something about morning commutes that make me feel alive. I don't know why, but they do. I have fond memories of morning commutes. Most people dread them, hate them, move closer to their work so that the time is shorter, etc. But they make me happy.

When I was in college and still living in the dorms, I would walk into the bathroom and my friend would be sighing with happy sighs that the day had begun. The walk to the cafeteria was quiet, not everyone was awake, the breakfast bland, but the company enjoyable. I filled up my cup with ice, to chew in class to stay awake, before I would join in the throngs of students sleepily moving towards their classrooms. Professors somehow were always more awake. At least, the ones that taught early classes.

When I lived in Kenya, the feet that traveled the dirt paths alongside the roads of Nairobi, the cars honking, the smell of exhausted filling your nostrils, ultimately making them black, kept me alive. I was so exhausted that I just followed my friend's feet in front of me, one after the other in the cold air. The smell of burning garbage, smoking maize, and dust filled the air. Exhausted, happy, worried, and filled with life that I was part of the morning commute.

When I worked in Minnesota, I would commute with my dad. He would drive in, and I would drive out. Pitch black, with only the headlights to light the way, we would enter the lineup of cars wanting to enter the freeway. By the time we were onto our second highway, I was nodding off, trusting that my dad would get us where we needed to be. But on our way home. Our way home I drove, and we chatted about our days. He would be exhausted, but I would be full of life. Even sitting behind cars of people, I felt content. Part of society.

When I moved to Boston, I walked to "work" aka school. A morning rush and fight over the one single bathroom I shared with my roommates. The making of coffee, splitting the pot with my friend. Feeling like I was a duck, following my friends up the hill to the university. One step, two steps, three steps more. The song, "we are following the leader, the leader" played in my head a lot. I felt alive in the morning, with cool crisp air that filled my lungs. Happy.

When I moved to DC I took the train. I felt empowered. I would park my car in a pre-paid spot, happy that I had scored such a deal. I would walk the few blocks to the train station and swipe my smart pass through the gate, grabbing a newspaper along the way. I would stand on the right side of the escalator for those who were incredibly rushed could run by. I knew where to stand on the track so that the door would open exactly in front of me, allowing me to get the choice seat. I sat and read the paper, listened to music, and people watched. I transfered trains smoothly, knew where to throw my paper into the recycle at the end of my ride. I got mad at tourists, even angrier at the transit committee for trains breaking down, and would compare horror stories with my coworkers about the metro. Buy I was part of the daily commute of people who worked for powerful people. The people who made decisions about the country and the world.

When I lived in Uganda, the sounds I heard as I woke up were what made me feel part of the commute. School kids walking by, talking and gossiping. Boda Boda drivers revving their engines. The sounds of my landlady greeting the staff, jumping her car, running to her next destination. The lorries honking their horns as they narrowly missed the neighborhood goat. The beginning of a new day.

This morning, I was up and out of the house. I spent the morning at a tea shop and got a glimpse of the morning commute. Regulars coming in and ordering their drinks, mothers having tea dates to catch up, school kids running in with their mom's money to buy her a cup of tea. The rhythm of morning life. It gives me joy.

Morning commutes are good. It shows life, the economy, culture, and customs. It makes me feel apart of something.

Normal.

I've been told by my only loyal reader on this blog that I need to write a blog post. I'll be honest, I think I am a terrible blogger. Blogging takes time and dedication. I have the time, but apparently not the dedication. I think desire gets thrown into the mix too... and creativity. I often think, who the heck would want to read about my life? Apparently my best friend does. Which is funny, because she knows more about what is going on in my life right now than pretty much anyone else.

Perhaps her timing could not be more perfect. It has been one year since I left Uganda and this week I have been thinking about it quite a bit. I think I have hit all re-entry, culture shock, and craziness of leaving one country and entering another that happens. I have written a master's thesis, traveled to Boston a few times, and managed to graduate. I flew to Sri Lanka to be able to watch a good friend get married and felt like I was the queen of the world by staying in some posh places. In the process of returning to the states, I got stuck in Qatar and feared for my life, cried like a fool, and was in complete awe of the amount of sand that the country held. Maybe I should have been in more awe of their oil. So technically I can check off the Middle East and Arabian Peninsula off of my- travel-to-one-day list. I also really regret not buying the dates in the duty-free store in the Doha airport.

I returned to Minnesota and life got predictably normal. Because lets face it, normal people don't travel and move and change addresses as much as I have in the last five years. I'm figuring out normal and it is growing on me. Normal means making dinner for my parents at night and getting great joy out of their satisfaction. Normal means being able to see my friend's babies toddlers grow and learn and change. Normal means teaching said toddler how to draw snowmen and getting him addicted to it. (Sorry Beth!) Normal means spending hours and hours on end applying for more than 150 jobs and still being unemployed; and then having your friends/colleagues tell you they have applied to double your amount and are still unemployed. Normal means trying to figure out how to make friends in a normal setting. Normal means trying to explain on a volunteer application why you have more than seven addresses in the last five years and not sound crazy. Normal means shoveling the limited amount of snow we have gotten. Normal means being pasty white (because I live in MN) and being okay with it. Normal means hanging out with my cousins on a weekly basis. Normal means meeting with dear friends who have equally un-normal lives but somehow have ended up normal with me. Normal means drinking more, wait for it- green tea than coffee. Yes, I did just admit to the world that I am drinking more green tea right now than coffee.

So in the midst of all this normal, I find it hard to write a blog. Yet people get famous by writing a blog on their normal lives. But is that really what I want? Not really. I don't really want to be a famous blogger. Maybe, just maybe, I am joining the ranks of normal bloggers. Mediocre bloggers. The thing is, wherever someone is in life it seems so normal to them that they don't think anyone would be interested in reading about their lives. Because to them, it seems boring. I even felt like that towards the end of my time in Uganda. Yet we fail to realize that our normal will never be normal to anyone else. Yes, other people may relate- but my reality in all its conditions will never be like anyone else. wow. Did I just talk myself into blogging? Maybe I did. But here is the thing. Do I have the desire and time? I have the time (remember the 150 failed job applications?) but do I have the desire? Probably not... at least not until my dear friend tells me to write another blog post.

And for kicks, since blog posts are always more interesting with pictures, I have included one with my mother and I doing a normal winter thing of visiting the conservatory.

Did you notice the pasty white skin? Yeah, apparently that is normal for Minnesota in January.