You can't make this shit up.

My mom saw our wonderful family friend, Bob Weddington, at a wedding last weekend.  She told me he was disappointed that I stopped writing.  I realized that I had because sometimes Cairo does that to you.  I didn't want to scare anyone at home, I didn't want to offend anyone here and I had no energy left at the end of the day to make sense of the events that people would be interested in reading.  That's not to say it's all been "scary" or that all I have to say would be "offensive," but those are the things that come to mind when I think about writing.  Of course there's fantastic things to write about, too, but I'm too busy doing them to write about them.

Sometimes living in Egypt is ridiculous.  Who am I kidding?  Living in Egypt is always ridiculous.  There's so many absurd things that happen on a daily basis that you can't help but laugh.  These are the things that when you really think about it, you can say "Oh...! This is the problem.  This is why this place is the way it is...I finally get it!" but you don't ever think about it because it's more fun not to.  Life is much more pleasant when you shrug your shoulders, laugh and go about your day because trying to explain or understand is just not worth your time.  Because when you finally think you get it, you realize you don't.  These are the things that when I cross paths with my friends here in the future, after I've left, no one else will get our quirky conversations and will be annoyed because they just won't get it either.
This past weekend, my good friend Jen and I went to Alexandria.  Alexandria, the city founded by Alexander the Great, is one that is known to be difficult for 2 American girls traveling alone, so Jen and I took our favorite driver, Ayman, with us.  Although Ayman hates going to Alex, we convinced him to and we're so glad he was there with us, otherwise the absurdities that follow would be less funny and more stressful.

Presidential elections are next week (even though we already know Sisi will be the next president) which has renewed the common Egyptian pastime of protesting.  On our way to check into our hotel, we drove right past one.  Jen and I looked at each other with a mutual "What have we gotten ourselves into" look.  After quickly checking in and dropping our stuff off, we got right back in the car to head to the famous Fort Qaitbay that guards Alexandria's Mediterranean coast from threats like Julius Caesar (hmmmm...not sure how well that worked).  On the way, we drove through another protest, which are now illegal but since they were Sisi-supporters, nbd.  Jen and I both rolled up our windows, wishing we could take pictures instead.  One of the many funny things about driving in Egypt is there are not any left-turn lanes.  So of course we had to make a U-turn, only to drive through it again.
While being followed by a large group of teenage boys at Fort Qaitbay, one of the younger ones asked, "Are you American?"  I replied with a snotty-sounding "No." In which he said, "Oh you're French."  That's one way to not be pegged by the negative label.  Thanks 'Merica.

The main reason people go to Alex is to visit the Library of Alexandria--the one that my Astronomy professor in college talked about when we needed a break from stars and midterms.  He told us the story of Alexander the Great and the library and one of it's greatest philosophers, Hypatia, in such an enchanting way that I highly considered a history degree.  If someone had told me ten years ago, that I would be standing inside that very library, I wouldn't have believed them.  And I shouldn't have.  Because the Library of Alexandria is temporarily closed on the weekends.  Of course it is.  Needless to say, Jen and I tried to go anyway.  When we arrived, even the outside courtyards were barricaded.  We asked a police officer (out of uniform but guarded by a military post, so we took him seriously) if we could walk through just the outside to take pictures.  He said no, but since this is Egypt, we went to get a coffee overlooking the library and walked to the other side to ask someone else.  We walked up to the next set of police officers (also out of uniform) and they immediately said the library was closed.  The funny thing though is we can see other people walking around and taking pictures.  So when Jen asked if we could just walk through the outside to take pictures, one of them asked our nationality.  Naturally, we both replied Canadian.  And then I met Alexander the Great.

So Alex was great.  We didn't get followed or harassed, minus at the Fort.  We saw everything we wanted to see and ate delicious food and we checked one off the "What to do before we leave Egypt" List.  We decided to leave Alex after lunch on Saturday in order to make it back to Cairo at a decent time.  It had only taken us 3 hours to get there just the morning before, but 5 hours on the way home.  Naturally, we sat in Alex traffic for 2 hours before we could really be on our way.  The wait was long and dusty due to road construction, but as soon as we got through the gate to exit Alex, we were flying (remember Ayman hates Alex).  Only to have to come to a sudden stop a couple minutes later.  What was causing this traffic, you ask? A man in a galabeya selling loofahs in the middle of the Cairo-Alex Desert Road, ya' know because you're super dusty from the traffic you just got out of.

***I wasn't going to write this post but changed my mind after a protest went by my apartment last night (simultaneously as a wedding was being celebrated).  I ran to the window while FaceTiming with Dana (because who doesn't want to watch a protest?!) and one of the last guys chanting away about Sisi or Morsi, was selling cotton candy.  And all you can do is laugh.  You really can't make this shit up.  34 days people.

Countdown.

Over the last 4 months, I have had many things to look forward to.  Naturally, I was able to keep track of all of these events by a countdown app on my phone.  I counted down to Dahab where I spent four days learning how to scuba dive.  I counted down to Dubai where I went to the top of the tallest building in the world.  I counted down to Ethiopia where I hiked across the Ethiopian Highlands with shepard boys and girls.  I counted down to Abu Dhabi where I partied with Jay Z.  I counted down to Hurghada where I learned how to enjoy scuba diving.  I counted down to Beirut where I learned how to speak Arabic while day drinking.  Now.  Finally.  I count down to Colorado where I feel the comfort of my own home.  And it could not come soon enough.

Living in Egypt isn't so bad.  I like my job.  My Second Grade team may be the most normal functioning team I have ever been on.  The kids are wonderful and make me laugh all day.  My apartment is pretty sweet.  It's on the best road in all of Maadi Degla.  I get to travel to the aforementioned places.  But I cannot wait to get home.  I can't wait to eat good food.  I can't wait to have heat and warm clothes.  I can't wait to see my family.  I can't wait to catch up with my friends.  And I can't wait to hang out with a certain boy.  

I looked back at past blog posts today about coming home.  It's funny.  As much as I love traveling, I write about coming home almost every time I travel.  They usually have the same theme though--not being ready to leave the place I am coming from.  Although I can't predict the future, this time it's different.  I don't know if it's Egypt.  Or if it's that I live here.  Or if it's that I've been gone too long.  Or if it's Colorado.  What I do know is this: the grass isn't always greener on the other side (Egypt doesn't even have grass).  So even though I am not coming home for good (yet), I know where I belong and will start an official Cairo Bucket list/Countdown to Colorado as soon as I return in January.  As much as this has been an adventure and an experience that I am thankful for, I know it's not for me.  Not now.  At the end to the school year, I will be headed home for good.  I'd love to give you details as to what has brought me to make this difficult decision over a fancy cocktail or a craft beer sometime.  

But I'm not done yet.  I still have lots of laughs with my friends and teammates here. I still have to teach some 7-year-olds how to read and write.  I still have to learn Arabic.  I still have to dive deeper.  I still have to see the region--Turkey, Jordan, and Greece for sure.  I still have to have some visitors.  I still have to visit my African family since I live in Africa.  I still have to see more of Egypt.  And for goodness sake, I still have to see the Pyramids.  So as I sit here now, counting the days, hours, minutes and seconds till I feel the frozen Colorado air on my cheeks, I know this adventure isn't over yet, but I desperately need a break.  Take me home!

115 Days

115 days.  That’s how long my summer was.  115 days of not really having to wake up too early.  115 days of home and travel goodness alike.  Of course I’m not subtracting summer school from those 115 days because that wasn’t really like work anyway.  115 glorious days of living simply, soaking in the sun and spending time with some really wonderful people.   Upon reflection, it was exactly what it was supposed to be—a chance for me to appreciate where I come from in preparation for moving to Egypt.  It. Was. The. Best.

Thanks to some of the best friends a girl could ask for, I was able to {pretty much} complete everything on my Colorado bucket list.  I got to see and do some uniquely Colorado things that I love or have never done.  I left with a renewed love for my city and state, which reminds me that no matter how long I am abroad, Denver will always be home.  Some highlights include rafting the Arkansas River beneath the Royal Gorge, standing at the top of Mount Evans, riding my bike like an Egyptian through Palisade, City Park Jazz with my favorites and catching a kickball, naturally. 

After summer school, Maren and I jetted off to Thailand.  Although maybe “jetted” isn’t quite the verb I should use because it takes a long time to get to Thailand.  We stretched our legs in Seoul for a day and then spent July touring Wats (Thai word for Buddhist temples), swimming with fish and Dana and feeding elephants.  I spent most of my time at Seed, a migrant resource center for Shan people (an ethnic group from Shan State, Burma) ran by Partner’s Relief and Development and Shan Youth Power.  I was teaching beginning English to some of the hardest working students I have ever had.  After working or going to school all day or night, they would come to Seed for three hours everyday to learn English.  What good is English in Thailand?  Besides the prospect of having the ability to speak to farangs (foreigners) hence getting a better job, most students were attending classes at Seed because they previously never had an opportunity to receive an education.  Some students fled Shan State or other parts of Burma in fear of being forced to become child soldiers, others left simply because there is no work and no school.  Similar to the plight that many undocumented workers coming from Mexico to the US face, Shan migrant workers are second-class citizens in Thailand.  They work low-paying, labor-intensive jobs and are frequently discriminated against simply because they are Shan.  Add in the fact that they are coming from a warzone that has been occupied by the Burmese military for the last 25 years which has displaced 2 million people and forced 150,000 kids to become child soldiers, not to mention Thailand does not recognize them as refugees, I was so grateful to get to know some of these warm and humble people.  I spent my mornings and nights teaching English that they could use with the next farang they see, hopefully at the vegetable stand they worked at in the market.  I was also learning a fair bit of Shan that I was able to practice with one of my Project Worthmore families once I returned home.  My students at Seed, most around the age of 20, are diligent and motivated.  They made me laugh, they taught me Shan and they welcomed me into their culture with open arms.  My most favorite day in Thailand was my last day at Seed.  After our morning class, one of my students, Kham Mon, took me to lunch and then shopping.  On the way back to Seed, she stopped at a market I had never been to.  I wasn’t quite sure why we were stopping, mostly because her English was only what I had taught her in the past two weeks—simple pleasantries and shopping vocabulary.  We walked through the produce section of the market, stopping in front of one where she greeted those working.  She looked at me smiling and asked if I wanted to go shopping.  I laughed as I realized that this is the vegetable stand where she works.  She slipped on an apron and stepped behind the table and asked, “How may I help you?”  I have never been prouder than that moment when I realized how much she had learned in just two short weeks.

After a few quick, but wonderful weeks back in Denver, I left for my new home, Egypt.  I had come to terms with the fact that summer was over, but upon starting new staff orientation in a country that is currently in a state of emergency (translation: 7 o’clock curfew), I was surprised to find out that my summer had been magically extended.  The school year would be delayed two weeks because many students travel very far each day to get to school and wouldn’t be able to with the current curfew in place.  And the Egyptian Ministry of Education said so.  Some might be stressed out that their new country may be a bit unstable, but I saw it as an opportunity to see another part of the country while picking up my Open Water scuba certification.  Luckily, there was already an Open Water class planned with our sister campus, AIS West. (I work at the main campus, but prefer to call it the East campus.)  So then I spent 6 glorious days in the Southern Sinai in a wonderful little beach town, Dahab.  I made my first good friends (albeit they work and live very far from where I work and live in Cairo) and learned how to breathe under water.  While the course was EXTREMELY difficult (who wants to purposely fill their mask with water 10 meters under the sea and then get the water out while still under water), in the end, it was totally worth it.  

So now, as I sit mentally preparing myself for the actual first day with students tomorrow, I can’t help but already miss my sweet summer.  But I am certainly ready for a routine.

One Good Story

"Have one good story to tell people, because they’re not going to get it… so at least you’ll have a story.”
--Lindsey Troup, on returning home

Substitute At Will

by Atim Jessica Millen

When I was teaching in Uganda, the teachers would always challenge the students to a Teacher versus Student soccer game.  Godfrey would always recruit all of the teachers and make a roster for the starters and the substitutes.  Every week, my name would come up on the substitute list and we would all laugh that I would have “great impact.”  On the day of the big game, all of the teachers and students would go out to the soccer field.  The starters would warm-up by running around in circles as the hundreds of students on the sidelines laughed and made fun of their teachers who were clearly out of shape.  I would usually stay to watch the game, too, but would usually spend time taking funny pictures with Komakech Gilbert, Okot Stephen and my other students. 

The last week had finally come.  Lessons were coming to a close as students were preparing for the end of term exams and Josh, Sarah and I were preparing to return to the US.  The teachers had lost every single teacher versus student soccer game, so in an effort to win a game before we left, Godfrey organized one last game before we left against the non-teaching staff.  “Who is the non-teaching staff?”  I asked Godfrey.

“Oh, don’t worry.  You know the people who work in the offices and kitchen, the ones who clean the school grounds.”

“Jess, you totally got this,” said Josh, “You should definitely play.”  I had been feeling a little left out since I had never played.  Even though I had never actually played soccer before, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to say that I had played soccer in Africa.

“I’ll put you in as a Substitute at will, so you can decide when you want to play,” Godfrey reassured me.

“Okay.  I will be ready this time,” I replied.

When the day came, I was late getting out to the field.  I walked back into the staff room from class and Josh tossed a jersey at me and said, “Hurry up.  We’re short players.  You are starting.”  I rushed to change into my uniform.  When I walked out to the field, the teams were already organizing themselves into their positions.  As the game started, I realized how intimidating the non-teaching staff was.  They were much taller, much stronger and very serious about winning this game.  They were only speaking Luo and were playing very rough.  I even got pushed out of the way when I tried to get the ball.  I felt my face get hot.  I knew that I was nervous, had no idea what I was doing, and was getting frustrated because I didn’t know why the head boy, who was the referee, was blowing the whistle.  I wanted to be out of the game.  I wanted a substitute, but there was no one to come in for me. 

At that moment, I noticed the ball coming towards me.  I looked around and no one was near me.  I knew I had a chance before any of the non-teaching staff players could get to me.  As I ran towards the ball, it bounced so I did the first logical thing I could think of—I hit the ball—with my elbow.  The head boy immediately blew the whistle and called “Hand ball.”  The ball was picked up and given to the other team.  I had no idea what had happened.  Why had he called it a hand ball?  Hadn’t he seen me use my elbow?  I looked up, confused, and saw the hundreds of boys on the sidelines—cheering, laughing.  That’s when I realized that it didn’t matter.  I was standing in the middle of a soccer field in Gulu, Uganda.  I thought of my students back at home.  They were never going to believe this.  I realized then that I had done what I had come to do.  I had built relationships with the teachers and students at Sir Samuel Baker School and had become a part of their school community.  As the final whistle blew for the half, I walked to the sideline, feeling the uneven soccer field underneath my feet.  Please, let me feel this ground underneath my feet a little longer.  I took off my jersey and handed it to my replacement, grabbed a water and joined Stephen on the sidelines, “Madame, you played great.”

Coming Home

Last year, it was much more difficult to acclimate back into American society.  Not to mention the jet lag, there was this overwhelming sense that I had left Gulu without being ready to leave (honestly, though, is anyone ever ready to leave Gulu? No).  Culturally, I was Acholi and was appalled at many of the things that were considered normal in America.  This time, though, I was more prepared (besides using simple American appliances).  Was I less Acholi?  No.  Just more prepared about how to deal with reverse culture shock.  Bringing home 3 boxes of African Tea certainly helped.  However, what I wasn't ready for (no one ever can be) was coming back into a community that is in the recovery and healing process of a recent tragedy.  Someone had said before leaving Uganda that it's usually the opposite--we were in East Africa calling home to make sure everyone was okay, wondering about the safety and well-being of students--people expect that the community recovering should be in Gulu (although it is), not Aurora.

The past two weeks have really made me think about my beliefs and values.  I have had to redefine what justice means to me.  The idea of justice has been all around me the past week of being home.  As I began processing my summer, one of the main events that came to mind was the conversation Josh, Sarah and I had with Okata about caning.  When asked why teachers at Sir Samuel Baker don't cane, Okata replied, "You can't fight violence with violence."  For some reason, maybe it was my way of processing the Aurora Theater Shooting, this kept coming into my mind.  You can't fight violence with violence.

Without getting super political, I had never really thought about what I thought about the death penalty.  Yes, I had written a persuasive essay in 10th grade about it--but cannot remember which side I sided with.  Last weekend, I had a really good conversation with one of my best friends about the death penalty.  I asked her what she thought and she said that she would never want to be responsible for taking someone's life, then she cited this article.  At that point, I questioned my own beliefs--what do I believe?  And then I wondered, if/when Joseph Kony is caught, what would justice be for him?  I don't know.  I have always said that I want him to be caught, tried in the International Criminal Court, and brought to justice.  But I don't know what the justice looks like.  Does the death penalty bring justice to 12 lives?  What about tens of thousands?  Then I realized that Kony could never be brought to justice on this Earth.

The next day, I went to church only to hear a sermon about what? About justice.  "It's the Lord's job to judge, the Holy Spirit's job to convict, and my job to love."  Man, Someone can sure hear my thoughts.

I visited the memorial site and was speechless in it's awe.  Just across the street from the theater, I could feel the love that surrounds this community.

                                     

          

With going back to school on Tuesday, I can honestly say that I am so proud of Aurora Public Schools.  From the very beginning, APS opened its doors and hearts to the victims and the rest of the community.  I feel ready (although a bit nervous) to get kids on Tuesday.  We have been briefed by not only the Superintendent but also mental health professionals from outside the district.  APS has hired extra phycologists and counselors to support students and staff.  Not only are they allowing us to talk to our students about this tragedy day one, they are providing us with talking points to help guide this difficult conversation.  I know that we will be okay and we will heal--together, as a community.

So needless to say, this has been an entirely different coming home experience than I have ever had before.  It has forced me, or possibly allowed me, to process in a much different way.  It has pulled me back into my community in a much stronger way and faster than ever.  It has caused me to learn from my experience in Gulu and to be able to actually put it into words this time.  While I am still redefining justice and still developing what I believe, I cannot ignore these connections--they have connected my two homes in a way I never thought possible and in a way I never wanted.

How to Cook an Acholi Meal {Not for the Faint of Heart}

When I first heard that Josh, Sarah and I were staying after school to go to Doris' house to slaughter a chicken for dinner, I didn't actually think that we were going to slaughter the chicken.  Well, I was wrong.  Click here  for the first phase of slaughtering a chicken.

The second phase of slaughtering a chicken is to pluck it's feathers, pictured here:

Phase three is putting the whole chicken on the fire to burn off any extra feathers (and keep the pussy cat away).

 Phase 4:  EWWWWWW, don't eat these parts.  Gross!

Phase 5:  Cut the chicken into pieces at the joints.

 These are all of the usable parts.  Yes, even the eggs.  In Acholi culture, the eggs are given to the husband as a sign of respect.  Doris and Okata are both teachers at SSBS, but are not married to each other (although they are both married and live away from their spouses).  However, Okata got to eat the eggs.

Phase 6: Cooking of the chicken stew.  First put in cooking oil and onions.  Then add carrots and garlic.  Then add a fresh chicken.

 Phase 7: Cook the side dishes.  Irish potatoes and fresh pineapple.

 DINNER IS SERVED!

Phase 8:  Thank the Lord for our food, eat and enjoy!  (Yes, that is a gizzard on my plate.  In Acholi culture, the visitor should always eat the gizzard as an honor.  If the visitor is not given the gizzard, then they are not welcomed.)

This night spent with Doris and Okata was by far the best Acholi meal I had ever had.  The food was fantastic (obvi) but the conversation was even better.  Sitting around Doris' living room with the florescent light blinking on and off continuously, we talked about family, beliefs and the insurgency.  As it grew dark, I couldn't help to imagine where we were and how unsafe it would have been for us to be there only six years before.
 We learned of the reputation that the school had had--stubborn, undisciplined boys--and then the current teachers that came in after to change it for the better.  This SSBS that they spoke of was unimaginable to us, so how did they get to this point?  It's simple.  Caring about their students.  Getting to know them.  Being Fair.  Stop caning.  Josh asked why they don't cane at SSBS.  The reply was that it's against the law.  True.  But all the other schools cane.  We've heard about it.  I've seen it.  We have many students impacted by the insurgency.  Many were held captive.  Many are former child soldiers.  How many?  In some classes, half of the students.  They are still going through rehabilitation, recovery.  We can't fight violence with violence.  We never know what would happen if we caned someone that has grown up surrounded by violence.  And I suddenly have a profound sense of respect for my partner teachers.  I have to swallow it because it might come out in the form of tears.

Are you even a taxi driver?

Morocco has been an adventure. When I got in, I took a taxi to Nikki's house. My taxi driver had to stop and ask for directions and gave me a high five when we found the major intersection he was taking me to. When I pulled up, Nikki asked me why I was in a blue car (Mom, close your eyes). Apparently, taxis from the airport are white. However, when I walked to the taxi stand at the airport, there was a blue car in the line with the white taxis and it definitely had a taxi sign on the top (which, unbeknownst to me, the driver took off when we left because it wasn't actually attached). On a positive note, he did take me to my destination and did not abduct me. I immediately text Maren, as we did not fly in on the same day, to only take a white taxi. Her taxi was definitely white---but still not a taxi. Oops. Maren is still waiting for her luggage to arrive and is wearing my underwear--gross. :-)
It has been pretty great though. Saturday, Nikki and I went out to a restaurant/dance club in the basement called La Bodega. We did not make the same mistake we made in Argentina three years ago when drinking red wine--we brushed our teeth at the bar. When Maren arrived Sunday, we went shopping at the Habous and Nikki made us delicious Mac and Cheese with broccoli for dinner. Yesterday, we went to visit Nikki's school, American Academy Casablanca, and I presented to the secondary students about Invisible Children. Most of her students are Moroccan and remind me of Nepali kids, loud and vivacious. Nikki took a half day, and we had a very touristy afternoon, eating lunch at Rick's Cafe and touring the Hassan II Mosque. Today, Nikki has to work, so Maren and I are headed to Morocco Mall, obviously a big deal, it's the biggest mall in Africa(?) Tomorrow, we're heading to Marrakech. xo, jm

morocco-->spain-->england-->uganda

Whenever I am preparing for a big trip, I am usually running around like a crazy person trying to get everything done.  I forget to live in the moment but am always thinking about the place that I am going.  There is one person who can pull me back in and remind me what (who) I'll be missing--my mom.  One of the hardest things I have done in my life is saying goodbye to my mom at the airport when I am leaving for a long time.  This process is usually harder when even I am uncertain about my adventure (although I would never say that out loud).  

Case in point #1:  My first major trip abroad to Argentina, we both cried.

Case in point #2: My first trip to Uganda, we both cried.

Yesterday, I spoke in front of my church congregation (both services) to share what I am doing in Uganda.  Of course I made my mom go to both services.  At the end of every service,  we sing this song:

May you run and not be weary. May your heart be filled with song.

May the love of God continue to give you hope and keep you strong.

May your life be filled with joy!

And may the road you travel always lead you home.

I certainly believe that Case in point #3 will be my second trip to Uganda/the longest trip of my life.  I haven't even made it to the airport yet.  As excited as I am, it's always hard to leave behind my family, knowing their lives continue without me.  

So the plan is this:

Morocco with Maren and Nikki (Maren and I met Nikki in Argentina)

Spain with Maren

 London with Dana, Josh and Sarah (These are Teacher Exchange teachers who will be going to Uganda with me.  Dana and Josh both live in Denver)

 Uganda with T/EX where I will be teaching at Sir Samuel Baker Secondary School with the lovely Oola Elizabeth (and Josh and Sarah)

And may the road I travel lead me home.