Prairie Talks Rocks!

In little more than two days, Prairie Talks will descend on Rugby, North Dakota -- the Geographical Center of North America -- to host its first event, featuring journalist and author, Alan Bjerga.

Among the places Bjerga visited while conducting research for his 2011 book (buy his book!), he spent time in East Africa. So, to add visual stimulation to what will already be a stimulating dialogue about agriculture and food security, attendees will enjoy select photographs of Tanzania and Ethiopia, thanks to the talent and generosity of Rugby native Jared Mack.


The Winner-Takes-All Trivia Challenge will mean that one person goes home with two bottles of Ethiopian wine that evening. But everyone will enjoy treats and coffee kindly prepared by volunteers of the Pierce County Farmers Union.

There's no doubt about it: when people come together for something good, life is beautiful!

MPR Commentary - May 28, 2012

Here is a commentary that I wrote and was published on Minnesota Public Radio's website today.

At home on a Syrian train

The once-colleague of an acquaintance was a great help to me during my visit to Syria. The morning after I arrived in the northern city of Aleppo on a direct flight from Yerevan, Armenia, he came to greet me. I wanted to visit Damascus a few days into the trip, so he escorted me to the train station at the ungodly hour of 4:00 in the morning, where he introduced me to the director of the train.

I had no idea that there was such a position: director of the train. He certainly wasn't in charge of public relations, because he stared at me while my new friend made the introduction and nary a smile crossed his lips. But he nodded authoritatively and situated me on the side of the train with just a single seat, lest anyone get the idea that they should sit beside me.

To underscore the point that I was to be left alone, he sat across the aisle from me. I hadn't eaten and I abhor that time of day, so I promptly went to sleep.

Two hours later I awoke, famished and with no food in my bag. I used the train's restroom, drinking a bit of water, and returned to my seat. The train director sans smile made a drinking gesture, saying "shaii" (tea) with a question mark in his voice and motioning toward the train car behind us. I readily accepted and hoped that there would be food with that shaii. When I pointed to my bag in the overhead bin - the bag that held everything of import to me on this journey - he shook his head and scowled as if to say, "No one will touch your stuff or that will be the end of him." I was satisfied with the response and left my bag.

We walked back a car or two until we came upon about six train workers eating breakfast. They were all about my age, but they all had three to five children, and all but one were named Mohamed. I mused for a few moments that if five of six men in the U.S. were named Daniel, everyone in the room would laugh.

It's hard to remember the order of the food they gave me. There was tea and sugar, of course. And there was pita bread, oil, and za'atar spice mix, but I didn't know how to eat it properly. Like the ignorant alien that I was, I dipped the pita directly into the za'atar causing something of a giggle from the men. The eldest - the one with the fewest teeth - showed me how to dip the bread in the oil first, and then progress to the za'atar. Success. Everyone was happy. Then he graduated me to the lahmajoun, Arabic for "meat bread," which is a Middle Eastern pizza of sorts.

They were apologetic about the meal, describing it as a cheap "Oriental breakfast." But they were obviously pleased that I kept eating with abandon. As they talked about me in my presence, I imagined that they were saying, "Damn, this girl loves our food. She's a really cheap date."

The breakfast ended as abruptly as it began when the train director stood up and gave the signal that we're returning to our seats. Their interest in me was fueled by confusion as much as innate hospitality, but that was fine by me. Either way, it was the best breakfast I'd had in a while.

At home in Aleppo

The once-colleague of an acquaintance offered to show me the city of Aleppo during my stay there. I'd been in the country nearly a week when I returned to the city after a few days in Damascus. He took me to his church, where they'd offered me (thanks to him) a guest room for my last night in the country. We left my bag in the room and went to what he described as one of the most Western restaurants in the city. "Our cheeseburgers are better than what you'll get in America," he said with conviction, though he'd never visited the US. I appreciated his enthusiasm for the Syrian cheeseburger. I appreciate enthusiasm about almost anything.

When people are hosting me, or otherwise guiding me, I never really know what's going on, so I'm ready for anything. This time, as it turns out, we were meeting two of his good friends, boyfriend and girlfriend. I don't remember a thing about what we ate or discussed. I remember only that the girl kept insisting that I stay with her family that night. I declined politely about six times, saying that the church's guest room would be just fine, that it's late, that I simply couldn't impose.

On the seventh time, I paused about a second too long. My once-colleague of an acquaintance quickly said, "It'll be better for you, you'll have fun." It was 11:00 at night and the girl lived with her parents and brother, but I said yes anyway, and we arrived at her home around midnight, something I would never do in my own country. When we entered, her parents and some friends were still awake and watching another regional flare-up in the north of Israel on the Al-Jazeera news channel. They welcomed me warmly and, of course, gave me food and tea while we fretted about the state of the world.

I slept in a separate bed in the same room as the daughter. She came home from work early the next day so she and her brother could show me the town. We walked and walked, eating street food, visiting the Citadel, and enjoying the special company that comes with perfect strangers. She translated for me while in the souk (covered market). I was interested in the beautiful silk scarves and wanted to buy three of the higher end ones. By "higher end" I mean that they were about $5 each. "They must be for very special friends," she said when I explained they were gifts. I was embarrassed. She told me that she makes $100 a month. I didn't buy anything else.

That night, her mother had made a Syrian feast. There were other people at the dinner table, too. I don't know who they were - guests or relatives - but I know that the food was delicious. Later, they invited over an elderly Armenian neighbor to meet the strange blue-eyed, fair-skinned, auburn-haired girl who speaks often of Armenians (that's me). And yet later, the son, who was a hair stylist by profession, blew dry my hair straight, which I love something fierce, so I would look presentable for my arrival back in Armenia that night.

The boys took me to the airport. Since I'd raised a certain level of suspicion in the country, they figured that the officials would be happy to see me leave. While that was an inhospitable thought, I had seen what real Syrian hospitality is. And I had the hair to prove it.

At home in Ciudad Juárez

My friend Kirstin knew a nun who suggested that I stay with a family she knew in Ciudad Juárez, the notorious city just across the border from El Paso, Texas. That's how I met Raúl and Aurelia, and their daughter, Mónica, my host family in an impoverished colonia of the city. Impoverished may be an understatement, actually. After all, it was situated on the former city dump. Shards of glass sparkled in the sun and scarcely a blade of grass emerged from the ground.

I went to stay with them for a month some seven years ago, paying them $10 per day, which included three meals of beans, rice, avocado, and tortillas (every meal, every day). My purpose was to have a bit of Spanish language immersion and maybe offer some assistance to the nearby preschool and kindergarten.

It hadn't occurred to me that the eight-year-old daughter would have had more formal schooling than her parents, so my language skills would be used, but not likely improved, because they wouldn't correct any errors I made. Instead, I would learn what a privilege it is to receive an education, as Raúl described the three years he rode a burro two hours to school each morning as a child, and when I attended adult primary education classes twice a week with Aurelia.

Raúl and Aurelia had moved to Juárez in search of work from other parts of Mexico. In the '80s, he would cross the border into the US to work in the fields for $5 a day. When I stayed with them, he worked the night shift at a natural gas company, or something along those lines, for six days a week. It was never very clear exactly what he did. In any case, he would return each morning somehow full of energy to spend time laughing with Mónica before she went to school. Without fail, one or both of them walked her to and from school each and every day.

Love was one motivation for their protectiveness - fear another. Juárez is, after all, home to hundreds of unsolved rapes and murders of women and girls. It was with this in mind that I took Mónica on a bus to use the internet a couple of times during my stay. Not acculturated to the frivolous, her first search on the internet was to learn how people had been affected by the tsunami.

I was humbled by her concern for humanity when we returned by bus later that afternoon. As we got closer to her home, it looked like we'd be the last two on the bus. This was the same line on which a girl had disappeared a few years earlier, and never been found. This girl is not disappearing on my watch, I thought, so we got off and walked the rest of the way.

On Sundays, Raúl's only free day, he wouldn't sleep a wink, because that was baseball day. We piled into a bus to cross town for a day of ball. Que bonita, he would say to describe the beauty of that day for him. I'm not a sports fan, but even I can appreciate what a day of rest and joviality meant for this man.

He had built their home over a period of 10 years. We entered through a metal gate into a courtyard. On the right was the main part of the home, straight ahead to the left was a spare room, and straight ahead to the right was another spare room where his niece and her family lived. I felt awkward displacing Aurelia and Mónica from the main bedroom, but that was clearly what they felt was best, so I acquiesced.

Separating my room from the living room / dining room / kitchen was a curtain in the doorway. "Se puede?" they would always ask before entering. As usual, I was surprised at how little it takes to carve out one's own private space in a new world.

At night I could feel the pink paint chips fall softly on my face from the ceiling. Questions about lead poisoning crossed my mind each morning as I brushed them off of myself and my bed. The desert is cold at night, so I was in my sleeping bag underneath the substantial bed covers. A few days into the stay, stiff from shivering much of the night, I offered to buy a space heater, which we used inefficiently with the door wide open for the rest of my stay. I left them with more money for the heating bill.

The greatest luxury, without a doubt, was the running water that had been connected just a week before my arrival. Not because of my arrival, but because the municipality had finally installed the system after delivering barrels of water each week for over nine years. Raúl, ever the tinkerer, had managed to create a shower of sorts. If given advance notice to turn on the water heater, warm water would shoot out of a pipe into the dark gray bathroom with a floor drain. To avoid appearing high maintenance, I managed to temper my inner princess and take a shower just every two days.

They later shared a story about a couple who they'd hosted for several days, but who never once used their bathroom. It was clearly confusing and hurtful, leaving them to wonder why their bathroom is somehow inadequate for such a basic need. After hearing that, I resolved to not be shy about enjoying this ingenious shower.

Abundance, after all, is a malleable concept.

When You Least Expect It

"At the market in Vanadzor, Armenia’s second-largest city, I was certain the apple seller was trying to over-charge me. I wasn’t exactly raised to drive hard bargains, let alone a argue about the price of a half a kilogram of apples. I remember a new world opening in my mind when I saw a man pay for a marshutni ride with a fish. The driver protested at first, but gradually realized that his compensation was to be that, or nothing at all."

This is from my most recent column for The Armenian Weekly.

Home: Then and Now

Fillmore is in the middle of nowhere, to be sure. It's 1,747 miles from New York City, 1,267 miles from Dallas, and 466 miles from Minneapolis. But it's in America, and I still call it my home. The town developed with the railroad 100 years ago this year. By the 1920s, the town had grown to some 100+ people. A dedicated committee of residents in the area is making preparations for the Fillmore Centennial & All School Reunion to be held this summer over the weekend following the Fourth of July.

Growing up, I used to tell strangers that we lived in the suburbs of Fillmore. At that time, there was a thriving population of about 10 people, and we lived just a mile away. I was such a proud kid when my dad was the president of the township board, the closest thing we had to a city council. I told people that he was the mayor of Fillmore.

Postcard mailed by my grandfather in 1914

During the summers, I would drive the three-wheeler into town to get the mail and buy milk. (We drink milk by the gallons in the country, so special trips are made.) The post office and grocery store were both in a trailer and run by the same woman, Lois. This is the place where we'd receive our boxes of bees each spring. The door was never locked and the individual mailboxes were always set to open. Every once in a while a kid would twirl all the dials and chaos ensued because no one knew their codes.

On the store side of the trailer, there were a few shelves, a refrigerator, and a counter. On the counter rested a notepad and a pen for customers to write down what items they'd taken so they could be billed each month. More importantly, the counter was also home to a bin of Tootsie Rolls. And I love Tootsie Rolls.

Back in its heyday, the town hall was home to basketball games between Fillmore and other tiny-opolises like Esmond. My neighbor, who went by the name Georgie then, and I would meet to shoot hoops with the deflated basketballs that were left there once upon a time. It was the first place I ever pretended to be athletic. Perhaps if those balls had actually been filled with air I would have joined a team and led it to victory. Or maybe I would have lost interest after 10 minutes as I did then.

Pete's Bar (left) - Photo courtesy of GhostsofNorthDakota.com

When I wanted a treat, I would take the three-wheeler to get a pop at Pete's Bar. "I'll have a Coke and you can put it on the ol' man's tab," I said once, getting tsked by Pete or a customer for my impertinence. This dilapidated delight had beer and a pool table, but no plumbing. The outhouse was probably just one reason Pete only kept it open during the summers those last few years.


It was a psychological shift for everyone when we lost our zip code in the '90s (yes, that happens). The sign indicating Fillmore's elevation disappeared around then, too. Suddenly we all received addresses with street names in the thousands, and a 911 system was implemented. I'd barely graduated from high school, but I was experiencing an identity crisis. One day I'm from Fillmore, the next I'm from... Esmond?

Looking back, I can't imagine that this experience is replicable and I find myself nostalgic. Sure, progress has its perks, but my childhood wasn't half bad.

At home in Akunk

As they called out names to meet our host families for the next three months, I looked around anxiously to see who it would be. A man with several gold teeth (which I would later learn represented a family of some means) beamed at me and his wife grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door. I had moved to the other side of the planet to Armenia with the Peace Corps just before my 22nd birthday, and I didn't have a clue what was going on.

My host mother continued to grip me as we walked through the food market, looking for any signs that I might like one thing more than another. My palate was much more limited then, having been intimidated by the menu in a Mexican restaurant just a few months prior. It seems like I might have taken that into consideration earlier, but fortunately I hadn't, otherwise I might not have left the confines of my meat-and-potatoes life.

The family lived in the village of Akunk. When we got home that first day, two boys came out to greet me excitedly. One was 10 years old, and the other 13. I would learn quickly that these boys were my greatest allies in studying the Armenian language, what with their ability to repeat themselves endlessly to make sure I could distinguish between letters that simply don't exist in English. Who knew that children could make for such necessary companions?  If it weren't for them, those first months could have been dreary indeed.

Akunk, by the way, means "spring" and the village was aptly named for its 10, 15, I don't remember how many springs. There was even one in my host family's yard, which was something akin to a pot of gold during those days when running water was not available much of the time. They'd cleverly rigged it up to their home plumbing, so there was water for washing and bathing. Every day or two, my host mother would place an immersion heater in a bucket of water. An immersion heater is just a tiny bit of metal at the end of a cord that plugs into an outlet and thus miraculously turns ice cold water into the most precious of things: a bucket bath.

And so continued my time on the lush green flatland that is the Kotayk region of Armenia. Surrounded by kindness, I spent my days talking, eating, playing, learning, bathing, sleeping, doing things that people do. Sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. Nothing new, yet everything new.

Fragile Peace of Mind

It's a rainy day in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Some would call it gloomy. Others would call it the perfect environment for reflection. And so I will reflect on a gloomy topic.

Just six months ago I was in Lebanon in the northern port city of Tripoli. The city was relatively tranquil then, or so it appeared on the surface. When I wasn't meeting with our partner, I did regular things. Things like buying a bag of za'atar, a delicious blend of herbs, in the market. Like drinking countless cups of tea, delighting in how the servers quickly realized that they should find the largest pot available. Like eating until it hurt.

The news from Tripoli this past week tells another story. Sifting through the hundreds of headlines about the violence and travel warnings, I'm reminded of the Lebanon I learned about when I first went there some 13 years ago. I stayed with the family of a friend from Bourj Hammoud, a suburb of Beirut that is heavily populated by Armenians. They told me how they'd repaired the wall after a bomb came through it during the 15 years of civil war. My friend had been sent to study in Italy during that time, because people never knew whether school would be held from one day to the next.

The world is a fragile place. Looking out my window today, I see overcast skies, yes, but more than anything I see peace. And I do not take that for granted.

Sneak Peek: Photo Exhibit at Upcoming Prairie Talks

This beautiful image from Easter in Ethiopia and other photos from Tanzania and Ethiopia will be on display at the upcoming Prairie Talks, courtesy of the photographer, Jared Mack. The photos will provide visual context for East Africa, where the speaker, Alan Bjerga, conducted part of his research for his book "Endless Appetites: How the Commodities Casino Creates Hunger and Unrest."

Perfect Strangers

For years I've said that I might like strangers more than I like my own friends and family. That's not really true, because I adore my friends and cherish my family. Well, as much as my family says words like "cherish." But you know what I mean.

Anyway, the point is that I love to meet people, and it doesn't much matter how or where I meet them. For example, last month I met an Armenian woman in the Schipol airport bathroom (but Armenians are a special case with me). This randomness is why it makes perfect sense that two people with whom I've been communicating regularly these days are, in fact, two people I've never met in person.

There's a woman who's the friend of the wife of a guy whose sister I went to school with. It's convoluted, but true. She's a delicious mix of races and ethnicities, languages spoken, and interests pursued. Who knew that I would stumble upon someone who actually finds my dissertation topic "exciting" and who is able to provide insightful, relevant advice on how I approach it? This accident of fate is most welcome indeed.

The other is the former yoga classmate of the ex-girlfriend of a Greek-Cypriot guy I met on a plane between NYC and Moscow about 15 years ago. The guy now lives in Japan, the ex lives in NYC, and the woman I met just a few months ago, but didn't really-really meet, moved back to her hometown in Mexico. It's even more convoluted, but true.

We meet on Skype a couple of mornings each week, eating breakfast and drinking tea while we talk about ideas and passions under the guise of strengthening my Spanish language skills. Herself a PhD, she is also excited about my dissertation topic and sends related articles in Spanish for us to discuss.

Thinking about these two inspiring women, the phrase "perfect strangers" has rather taken on a whole new meaning for me.

Keep Your Line in the Water

When I was a kid, we went fishing at all times of year. Boat fishing, shore fishing, ice fishing. For bait we used trolling spoons, worms, minnows, and smelt, depending on the time of year and type of fish we hoped to catch. I also used marshmallows if I wanted to attract a school of perch just to watch them. I'm pretty sure my dad never used marshmallows, more a purist than I. Leeches were out of bounds though. Gross.

Fishing is considered a leisure activity by many. After all, the view is great, you're on the water in one way or another, and you get to bring snacks. The surprises count for more after you've been waiting for a passing fish for hours. One time a bear climbed into our boat in Manitoba (we weren't in it). Another time I caught a snapping turtle in the Souris River and some guy across the way came to ask if he could have it. Yet another time I didn't even know I'd caught a fish because it was entangled in the mess of weeds I'd snagged.

But fishing is also about mosquitoes, baking sun, and frigid temperatures. On Devils Lake, I would cover as much of myself as possible with a shirt or jacket to fend off the insects and prevent a painful sunburn, while keeping a hand on my fishing rod. During the era of moon boots, foot devices that soak up every drop of water within two yards, I stepped into an ice fishing hole -- twice in the same day -- with no spare socks or boots to be found. My dad roasted my sock over an open fire built on the ice until he burned a hole in it (the sock, not the ice).

What's interesting about the good and the bad is that the lessons aren't about fishing. The activity taught me something I didn't realize until now, until this afternoon to be exact. It taught me to weather things. The weather may be good, so you can bait your hook, enjoy your snack, and wait for the fish to bite with the faith that they eventually will. Or the circumstances may be unpleasant, so you can do the same, but take precautions to prepare yourself for the possibilities.

Either way, you keep your line in the water.

Jury Duty

Jury duty: a time-honored tradition. Or is the tradition actually avoidance of it? “Tell them you believe in jury nullification,” someone told me, “you’ll get dismissed right away if you say that.” But I was excited to see what it’s all about, so I left for the courthouse with my laptop, a copy of The Economist and The New Yorker, my Kindle, and a notebook, eager to fulfill my civic duty.

As I walked out of the parking ramp that first morning, I fell into step with someone who turned out to be an attorney. “I always cross at the light,” she said a little obsessively as we waited for the walk signal, “it makes a big difference in cases of liability.” How apropos, I thought, as I entered the land of parsing and interpretation.

Some 150 unhappy people waited in silence in the jury room, many slouching with listless looks on their faces. My phone didn’t work in the basement, and they hadn’t yet provided the password to get online. I began to mentally twiddle my thumbs even before I sat down. I’d forgotten to pack a snack, so I’d have to chart my course to the snack machine STAT.

I found an empty seat next to a guy who looked like he worked with his hands. He must be going nuts just sitting here. He confirmed as much, and I handed him my magazines. The short film about jury duty service was played, a saving grace for those who looked ready to lose their minds at any moment. Unexpectedly, the video tapped into my inner patriotism something fierce. This is an imperfect country, I know, but its traditions of participatory democracy are spectacular. There’s no other way to put it: my heart swelled.

Now united in public service, half-reading and half-talking, my neighbor and I traded stories for an hour. I laughed uncontrollably when he recounted a time he’d seen a hung-over veterinarian give a post-mortem on a cow that had died of bloat. The veterinarian had cut into the animal, he said, and due to the overwhelming stench from its bowels, the guy vomited for 10 minutes straight. On the cow! I couldn’t get over the indignity that this cow had endured. Or that I heard this story within my first hour of jury duty. I knew then that it would be an awesome week.

When I moved to the back room where I could plug in my laptop, I saw a small, round table where four people sat talking and laughing, nothing like the rest of the dismal crowd. I sat on the perimeter of the room for a while, moving to the table once they’d invited me. It had the feeling of Happy Hour, but we didn’t know each other and no one had a drink.

Tony, an artist and a smart-ass, had come to jury duty thinking that he’d put his nose in a book for the week. No such luck. Both he and I became the eager audience of our jury duty mates – Jim, John, and Jody. Tony with his stylish glasses and I with my bag of mixed nuts.  

Jim was the friendliest guy you’ll ever meet. He’s a 30-something guy of Hmong background who offers kindnesses like no other. He would arrive early each day to reserve the table, and eat there over the lunch break to keep it. “I miss you guys,” he wrote via Facebook the other day.

John was the middle child of 16 children (!). His family moved to the U.S. from Mexico when he was five years old; half of the kids in his family were born in Mexico, and the other half in the U.S. His sincerity was unparalleled. When the topic of embarrassing moments came up, John immediately said he’d never done anything that he was embarrassed about. Wow, the perplexed looks on my and Tony’s faces clearly expressed, where had we gone wrong?

Jody was the main show. Her life was like a reality television show that had gone off the rails, if that's possible. After 28 years of managing a public housing complex, 12 of which she lived there while raising children, I can’t imagine how she gets up in the morning. As she tossed back candy bars and bags of Funyuns, she told stories of SWAT teams and dead bodies and restraining orders and drugs and mentally ill tenants and subpoenas and lawsuits. As she talked, Tony and I leaned further and further over the table, incredulous that someone with her buoyant personality could be navigating such murky, dangerous waters. Life seems a precarious venture indeed.

I was never called for a trial in the end, not even to be interviewed. We spent four days together, telling stories, going out for lunch, trading contact information. People who would never have known each other were it not for a summons that I’d once considered untimely and inconvenient. The county’s pay of $10 a day didn’t even cover my parking expenses, let alone my lunches, but the best compensation packages have nothing to do with money. The best compensation has everything to do with human connection.

A few photos



Chişinău, Moldova

 


Brčko District, Bosnia & Herzegovina
(with the intrepid traveler, Flat Stanley)

 


Voinjama, Liberia

 

Monrovia, Liberia





Monrovia, Liberia



Somewhere, Liberia



Sri Lankan Breakfast

A repeat of this meal cannot come too soon.