Briefly from Botswana

I saw nothing of Gaborone, Botswana except a nice resort and a “diamond park.” The hotel was complete with palm trees and monkeys so that checked a few boxes. From my room I could see the plains stretching as far as the eye could see with bushes, brush and rolling hills under a brilliant blue sky, which recalled for me Kenya's Rift Valley.

The “diamond park” piqued my interest. The diamonds are trucked down from mines across the country to Gaborone. They close the streets to let the armored vehicles pass. They are brought to a giant office park where each diamond company has a massive warehouse that processes and polishes the gems. It’s right next to the airport. My crazy young taxi driver, Jason, said “we don’t see diamonds in Botswana.” Hopefully the Kimberly process ensures profits for the country. Based on driving through the city, I think it does to some extent.

As monkeys and peacocks traipse the grounds of the hotel, over 200 Africans from across the continent arrived to discuss LGBTI rights. It is hard to find a braver, more inspiring group. Truly. Imagine being gay in Africa. There could not be a harder life on this Earth.

The issues discussed ranged from violence and discrimination to criminalization to HIV to gender fluid identities and intersectionality. It was nuanced and pained and progressive and, above all else, etched with extraordinary resilience.

Cleopatra “Cleo” is a transwoman from Uganda and was resplendent during traditional dress night. She wore a perfectly tailored Katanga dress of gold and red. When 200 people sang happy birthday to Aurelie, a Lesbian woman from Cameroon, she broke down in tears. Moved by the tribute, sure, but mostly by the overwhelming expression of love and support she has likely never known in her life.

During our gala evening, we sat outside in the freezing cold. While I can hardly say I know Botswana, I can confirm from the direct experience of freezing my tuckus off that it has a desert climate. 70s during the day and low 40s by night.

Roll call during the gala announced the groups from each country. It was a raucous and frenzied joy with dancing and songs from every nation that crescendo-ed with each call. We then reached the zenith and one of the most amazing moments of my life. As roll call ended, a man in back shouted, “WAKANDA FOREVER” and all of us shouted back, “WAKANDA FOREVER” while crossing our arms, hooting and beating our chests.

Viva Riviera Maya!

“Mommy, I want to live in Mexico and then we can have a pool in our backyard.”

This was Austin’s declaration on our last day of vacation. He and I spent a few moments working through the logistics of such a plan and I sadly pointed out that there are no jobs for mommy and daddy in Mexico.

It was a good trip. Our flights were perfect and once we finally left the rental car place we zipped quickly down to our boutique hotel, LiveTulum, which I found with the ease (having been past it while on my girls trip in January.) It was largely as we left it and thus pretty good. It was a little more expensive, because we were there during spring break week, so Hayden noticed things that were a little less charming when you pay more: inattentive (unresponsive?) staff who had to be reminded to make up our room, an extra fee for Austin, etc., but for the most part it remained the perfect launch point for beach and restaurants.

We wasted no time and headed straight for La Coqueta, our favorite place, which did not disappoint. Austin became obsessed with the the wooden cut out of a Mexican wrestler and proceeded to ask 400 questions about Mexican wrestling. I could answer two of them and Hayden’s reply was, "what’s Mexican wrestling?"

We started out on one beach, but were surprised to find it covered in huge mounds of seaweed. Odd, because it was not there on my trip in January. We moved to another beach which we knew, Playa Paraiso. It had the seaweed, but also a seaweed patrol who were busy lifting mounds of it.

Beach time was endless fun for Austin and pretty nice for us too. We lounged and sipped cocktails. Hayden would take Austin out to jump waves and then I would build sandcastles with him.

This was our daily routine, although we experimented with different beaches. The good thing about waiting two hours for a rental car was that Hayden got to know someone who was a frequent tourist and gave us a bunch of tips. We tried his first tip, Caleta Tankah beach. It was a 6 minute drive from our hotel and it was waaay better than the Tulum beaches. A small fee for the car and we were in a gorgeous place with stunning views and few people. This was my favorite of the week. We next went to Xpu-ha beach which was further away but was the first beach where Mexican families outnumbered tourists and that was fun too.

We found the town at Tulum beach to be just too boho-y for us this year. It was truly overrun with 20-somethings who could somehow combine scantily clad with the gauzy draped look. We did endure it long enough to head for a nice meal with great service at Cenzontle.

So we headed north to Playa Del Carmen, via the fun if too well marketed Akumal Monkey Sanctuary. Despite our fears (not security fears, tourist fears), Playa was actually quite nice. Chief amount our happy surprises was our hotel, Petit Lafitte, another boutique hotel. This time it was on the beach and this blew Austin’s mind. He instantly declared it the winner. When probed for the reason why, he explained that he never wanted to leave because this beach had shells. They were itty bitty shells, but enough that beach combing took up a large chunk of our days in Playa.

Indeed, we got pretty lazy (or settled) in our last couple of days and didn’t move from our hotel, which was very family friendly and due to the price tag, was filled with pleasant families from Brooklyn to Berlin.

Austin had his only almost meltdown at dinner one night here due to sheer exhaustion. We were able to steer him back on the path, however, with an airport purchase that became our mealtime savior: a dry erase book of games. Instead of the phone, we were able to keep him entertained with kiddie Madlibs. He broke his heart laughing as we filled in silly stories about a turtle named Robert (his best friend at school) who ate grumpy milkshakes...

Trip honorable mentions go to Playa del Carmen's downtown pedestrian walk - not nearly as offensive as I thought it would be (although the water was Jersey Shore brownish) and to a potential future destination: Puerto Morelos. We were there for 40 minutes, but it looked like it could be the best combination yet of relaxed, local Mexican vibes that would transport us away and sustain us upon reentry.

One more honorable mention to Austy on our return trip. We didn't get in until midnight. After all day sightseeing and two plane rides, Austin was great by the time we got home and handled school the next day like a champ!

Back in Africa

It’s been too long! I know this because I almost cried in the jetway when I got off the plane and smelled “Africa.” This is a smell that is at once so familiar and impossible to describe…burning fires and lush vegetation mingling together? Something like that.

Even though I was in Kenya, it still felt good to be back on the Continent. We drove out to Naivasha on my second day…a romantic and historic journey through the Rift Valley. There is a pass that we came over and looked out from the escarpment as far as the eye could see. For some reason, I did manage to see a herd of zebras, who were just chilling on the side of the road. The roads in Africa are full of life. In Nairobi, traffic is ensnared with cars and bikes and people and goats. There are sign posts like “God Saves Hair Salon” riddled everywhere, and in Nairobi for some reason, there are notices plastered every few feet for doctors promising love potions and anxiety relief. Hmmm. In the country, or “bush” as they say, there are vehicles piled two stories with god knows what: mattresses, sugar cane, you name it. Trucks going 14 miles per hour. Motorcycles, or bodas, going 114 miles per hour. It all passes by as I look out across the valley and dream.

The hotel in Naivasha was a classic safari lodge. It was pretty nice with stunning grounds of acacia trees and tropical plants. The rooms are vast, although a little worn. I love these places and they are truly a unique experience of East Africa: colonial décor mixed with safari animal motifs. We were greeted after our journey with hot towels soaked in peppermint oil and cold fruit cocktail juice – likely pineapple, papaya and passion juice. Passion juice! Why the US cannot import passion juice is beyond me. It is so delicious and I, not a juice person, cannot get enough when I’m here.

We had speeches at our opening event that went on for hours. I’m not kidding. HOURS. My patience for such things was practiced when I lived in Uganda, but it had atrophied in my absence and I found myself looking around after about two hours wondering, “isn’t anyone else hungry?!”

As usual with my jobs over the years, in Naivasha I met brave and amazing people who were fighting tirelessly for human rights. Unlike the international development world, human rights activists, whose lives are regularly on the line, have a different take on international assistance. They have to be talked into it in most cases and are uncompromising in their convictions. That is perhaps a blog for another time.

I find myself returned to Africa after several years overwhelmed in every sense. Many of the stories and myths I have carried back to life in DC have been confirmed. Other memories have not done justice to this place. And I haven’t even gotten to Uganda yet!

#MeToo

Tarana Burke, Rose McGowan, Asia Argento and many more women have ridden the year long rebuke of gender inequality in the US and razed one of the most vile, cancerous cores of it: sexual harassment and sexual assault. These brave women and so many others are felling titans of various industries left and right. In a year that everyone wishes we could forget, but likely will remember for the ages, the Metoo movement is a silver lining. It is a concrete, albeit harsh, step towards justice that women (and our allies) promised ourselves at last year’s Women’s March.

I have been fortunate to have escaped sexual harassment mostly unscathed and am not a survivor of sexual assault. I note that from my teenage years, I have, like most girls, constantly navigated through incidents. These have ranged from head down scurries through catcalls on the street, which, although common, still feel TERRIBLE to just knowing to get out of or preempt certain situations. I am not a survivor, but have felt the ever-present threat, which is palpable and scary.

While working at the UN, I used to tell interns that came to work in my office each year, “Listen, there’s a lot of dirty old men here at the UN. Most have diplomatic immunity. If you find yourself in an uncomfortable situation let me know and we’ll figure out how to handle it.” This advice served me well too. However, there was the time I was delivering a statement about child soldiers in northern Uganda to members of the UN Security Council and one member (of the UN SECURITY COUNCIL) caught my eye, smiled broadly, held up his hand like a phone and mouthed “call me”. My instincts told me that he didn’t want me to give him the latest statistics on child mothers…I always say that I became a feminist when I turned 30 and found myself on the frontlines of sexism for the first time in my life at the UN.

Alas, I am irked by the growing pushback on the MeToo movement. There are valid criticisms, like why did Taylor Swift and not Tarana Burke make it on to the cover of Time magazine? Indeed, the sensitivity around intersectional feminism, while difficult, is a welcome struggle that women are facing. But I’m also seeing articles in my social media feed about the “inevitable blowback”, the need for a clear direction, the need to crown an infallible leader, and the failure to recognize victims who are not celebrities or in some other position of power. I know these questions are part of the struggle, but some of them unfairly eclipse the burgeoning movement.

Underscoring all of these questions is my frustration with our culture in general: why do we need to know the end at the beginning? Our addiction to instant gratification is selling progress short. An example from another recent movement: when the Occupy Wall Street Movement happened, similar questions were asked and it was condemned as a failure when the actual occupation ended. And yet, two years later “the 1%” is an established and damning criticism in our lexicon and I would even say some of the current resistance began to get “woke” during this time.

As for the celebrity figurehead, of course this is problematic, but these women truly suffered and since our culture worships celebrity, this is likely the best way to finally name this thing that happens or could happen to every woman I know. Rose McGowan is far from perfect. Some of her tweets make me cringe. But we don’t need perfect leaders; they don’t exist. I also disagree profusely with the idea that we’re only dealing with famous peoples’ experiences. They grab the headlines, sure, but I bet there’s a whole lot of decision-making by men in power outside of Hollywood that has changed profoundly. Whether it’s the rot of Hollywood and politics that EVERYONE knows about or the office park in suburban Dallas or the pizza joint on the Jersey shore or the hospital in Boston, women know two things: they are not alone and people FINALLY believe them.

The tide is turning and the impact is being felt. “Feminism” has gone from a badge of the militant fringe to a rallying cry for all women. Well, except for the seemingly impenetrable block of white conservative women – come on sisters! Danica Roem and the Virginia elections show us that the movement is real and the resistance to inequality is not going quietly into the night. The brave women who continue to come forward have changed the workplace forever. They have torn down one of its largest, most invisible but viciously tangible obstacles. The restoration of workplace order and women’s ascension to power is happening.

“Sometimes people try to destroy you, precisely because they recognize your power - not because they don't see it, but because they see it and they don't want it to exist.” – bell hooks