Tanzania: Epilogue

The last night's dinner was lovely - three of us were leaving, and eleven were staying another week. The three of going said a few words to each other volunteer, and then the eleven said something to us three.

Turns out, I was appreciated mainly for being sarcastic, and funny, and calling shit "shit" when it was needed. I was also given what I think of as a blessing... told that Meggie and I are seekers, and for seekers, the journey and the experience are often the whole purpose, not the destination. I was admired for being in a marriage that "allowed" me to travel alone, to complete my heart's calling, that it was ok it was not John's heart's calling. Meggie and I were solemnly toasted as a model of a beautiful friendship, a model others said they're going to strive to emulate.

We were up in the dark Friday morning - but Mamatony was too, with a little green onion omelette and toast for our journey. This time, we drove all the way to Dar in one push - stopping only for lunch, and for more "surprise!" experiences with public toilets. (You never know what you're going to get, but I learned one thing - check the faucet first, see if there's running water. It's just good to know before you see what the stall has to offer.)

We got to Dar in the dark, and went to one of those food-court strip-mall places that you see and read about it in the developing world. Attached or near a shopping mall, they're bad food in a safe setting, they're places the middle class socializes with itself, and shows off as members of the middle class. Meggie and I had burgers - she had beef, but I wasn't quite ready to let go of the flavors of coastal Tanzania, and had a chicken tikka masala burger. I tried to get a photo of the sign across the street - we make fun in America of "any excuse for a sale" but this was pretty well on par:

(That's "Pay only 80% during Eid!" I think 20% off is smarter than pay 80%, but there must be a learning curve up to American standards of marketing.)

We stayed at the same hotel from two weeks earlier; this time, we comfortably strolled around the market area, got an ice cream, had a glass of wine at the oceanfront restaurant and felt perfectly at ease with the currency, the people, the music. This time we knew to expect a Ramadan party all night, and put in ear plugs. And oh - the shower. The long, hot shower. To be honest, I showered first, and Meggie said, "How'd it feel!?" And I said, "Just OK. That shower was getting the grime off. Tomorrow's shower will be one I can enjoy."

(Me after 6 days without even attempting a hair wash, and just a couple half-bag half-warm sun showers from the safari in Ruaha, up through the last week. My hair was so fantastically matted, I could shape it into any style.)

The next day was Saturday, and all flights leave Dar for Europe at night - so we spent the day shopping, buying trinkets and thank you gifts for our supporters, trying some candy and Saudi Arabian dates. We learned a new tradition from a volunteer... when people leave, don't wave. Don't say goodbye. Dance them off, and then you can dance them home again when they return. So we danced off the first of us to leave (she sent this ridiculous picture later, and note I am still snug as a bug in a rug in my hiking boots:)

And then we went for an early dinner. Note the Sprite - I'm considering it medicine still, at this point.

And after a long, dusty trip to the airport, after buying Cuban cigars for John at the duty-free, we got to our waiting area at the airport - where the plane was late, there were no updates announced, and only Meggie's French managed to get us an explanation from the Swiss Air steward! We took off about an hour late, first for Nairobi and then for Zurich. One last photo at the airport....

And then we slept - sort of - but flew in relative silence. The guy in front of us puked the whole flight. The woman in the aisle over had malaria and was cutting her trip short.

Arriving in Zurich, our lateness meant Meggie had to run to catch her plane to Paris. I was to have my two nights in Zurich... and realized I had no idea how to get to my hotel, where it was in the city's districts (beyond an address), or how to use public transit. We squeezed hands and I shrugged and laughed, "I 'm sure I can figure it out!" Calmest I've ever been. I mean, there were clean toilets and drinking fountains I could use. How bad could it be? Meggie provided me with a few French phrases to use, and I wandered through customs (they thought it was very odd that I was staying in Zurich under 48 hours) and then up to an information booth. I got some Swiss Francs, I brushed my teeth, and I left the airport, determined not to take a taxi but to figure out the buses and trains, to get to Hotel St. Georges on my own, and ate my very last nutrition bar. 

It took three hours to do it - and should have taken about 40 minutes - but I got there. Zurich on a Sunday morning, with the church bells vibrating my skull, and hardly a person out, with all the shops closed, was as other-wordly as a Tanzanian dirt path. My room was miraculously ready for an early check-in. I opened my third floor window. I looked out on this:

I took a long, long shower and put on a podcast of The Splendid Table. Then I headed out to see Lake Zurich with the Sunday revelers. 

It's all in the journey. 

Taking the Advice

I've been trying to figure out the best way to wear a bike helmet and not be annoyed about sweaty, matted, swinging-into-the-eyes hair. I looked at bike helmets with a ponytail cut-out. I looked at bike helmet airbags that you wear around your neck like a scarf, and they sense unusual/extreme motion like a car's airbag (or your MacBook's internal drive-saving-device) and pop out when needed. I read Bike Portland's advice for new riders forum, their women's forum, and various cycling fashion forums.

And in the end, I just took the overriding advice, and went for what people kept saying will work every single time, no rider excepted, for beating helmet hair, helmet sweat and helmet crankiness:

That said, there were honestly more reasons, bigger ones, that I decided to go for The Chop. But with each passing day (it's been a week now!) I love it more, and on the warm bike ride to work this morning, I was rewarded with a perfect coif at 8 AM and no need to carry brush/gel/pins/elastic bands. No matter how cliche it is, this is liberation.

Usually it will.

Prepare for a month more of undecided obsession about the hair Chop. I have an appointment one month from today with a edgy, hipster, artistic stylist; will we go for it!?

In the meantime, last night there was much support around the Memorial Day s'mores snack for embracing a big dramatic change, and the safety mantra was repeated yet again: "Remember, it's just hair, and it will grow back. It will grow back. It will grow back."

Though an honest point was then made, to much laughter: the man in the room with ever-slowly-thinning hair said, "To be fair, that is not always true."

A first time for everything.

I am a person who wears her hair in a ponytail, or bun, or sloppy bun, every day. Every. Day. On my wedding day I did not; on M.A.'s 30th birthday I did not. If requested for an event, I will straighten and wear it down. I will then take a lot, a lot, a LOT of photos on these occasions, to trick you - and everyone on Facebook - into thinking I wear it down regularly.

Part two of this story: I am trying to live more in tune with my intuition. On items big and small, I'm trying to stop and check in with the soul, the spirit, the perfect little human voice inside me (that we all have), and hear what it is I should do next. Do I sense someone is in a bad mood and I should leave my question until after lunch? Done. Should I watch this documentary rather than read ten more New York Times articles, and allow some comfort and cuddle in my life, rather that sitting at a screen for even more hours? Done.

Or this week... should I go get my hair cut? On the way home from work? On a whim? Without worrying it to death for weeks? Perhaps at a walk-in salon on the way home, on this fine sunny Tuesday? I think I should. I think today is the day that I explain what I find so challenging about my hair, and explain that I wear it up everyday because I get too hot and sweaty, and because it gets too triangle-y and poufy, and then trust a professional to cut it as they wish. Let a little control go.

And guess what? I have worn my hair down, with the new cut, for two days IN A ROW. And I mean: all day. From leaving the house before 8 AM all the way until bedtime - through work, through cooking, through driving with the windows down. This, my friends, is a good haircut. Quite possibly my first one.

And no, I can't post a picture now; it is currently post-Zumba-workout hair and won't do justice to Ellie at Bishops salon on Alberta. Who was unknowingly a wonderful part of my let-it-go-and-let-intuition-guide-the-day day.

Hangover.

Not the usual kind, but the kind from too much (mental) cotton candy... also known as "Sex and the City" on DVD.

In the way that traveling and eating only junk food eventually inspires cravings for spinach salad and sauteed beet greens; in the way that too many Netflix'ed documentaries means a viewing of "Blue Crush" becomes required... this is the way that watching too much "Sex and the City" makes a person uninterested in any number of normally fun things: high heels, having sex, telling people "I'm a writer", drinking at morning brunch, talking about men.

But never cigarettes or curly hair. If there are two things the inimitable SJP can do, it's smoke a cigarette sexily (making even this never-again-smoker want a Parliament) and rock the curly hair (making this new-to-embracing-her-curls woman want to wear 'em au naturel).

Good Thing Friday (tentative).

I may have found the curly hair expert of Portland, Oregon! Amie at Wack Salon, which is in/near the Jupiter Hotel. I am hopeful, for reasons outlined below, that good hair days lie in my future. Look!


Look at those! They're not gel-covered and crunchy! They're not wet and revving to frizz any minute now! And I lost about ten pounds of hair, yahoo!

The things that are currently contributing to conversion to PDX curly hair expert Amie...

1. It was like a first time hair cut. Rather... it was like I'd never had my hair cut before. Honestly. All that pulling and trimming at angles, and making layers? Apparently, NO, this is not how one does things with curly hair! It was a totally new experience and very counter intuitive.

2. Dry cutting and a shampoo after. This is genius. My hair looks amazing when wet or damp. It has great layers, looks full of body in the right places, a Pantene commercial. This is how stylists cut it. But then it dries and it's a pyramid. Of puffiness. And ledges. And weirdity. Amie cut it dry and THEN washed and styled. Win!

3. The styling process was these steps: rub in a single product and pull the hair away from the scalp. Tousle and go. They always say, "oh you can do this at home" but seriously, this time, if I can't do this at home, I must be incapacitated for some dark reason.

4. I wanted to buy the product and not only she did ask if I was running low on other things at home - if it was a good time to invest - but she guarantees it. If I can't get it to work, I can return it! (Plus she is understanding and accepting of those who cut their hair every 3 months. Or 6. Or, gasp, even 12.)

Ladies and gents with wavy or curly hair, and mothers of unruly frizz bombs, I beg you... get thee to a curly hair specialist! If I can make it look half this good tomorrow, that's twice as good as any other haircut I've ever had. Good Thing Fridays from here on out!