196 Books: Czechoslovakia

Love Letter in Cuneiform by Tomas Zmeskal

Here's the Czech Republic. I think. 

Here's Love Letter in Cuneiform:
Set in Czechoslovakia between the 1940s and the 1990s, Tomáš Zmeškal’s stimulating novel focuses on one family’s tragic story of love and the unspoken. Josef meets his wife, Kveta, before the Second World War at a public lecture on Hittite culture. Kveta chooses to marry Josef over their mutual friend Hynek, but when her husband is later arrested and imprisoned for an unnamed crime, Kveta gives herself to Hynek in return for help and advice. The author explores the complexities of what is not spoken, what cannot be said, the repercussions of silence after an ordeal, the absurdity of forgotten pain, and what it is to be an outsider.
 
In Zmeškal’s tale, told not chronologically but rather as a mosaic of events, time progresses unevenly and unpredictably, as does one’s understanding. The saga belongs to a particular family, but it also exposes the larger, ongoing struggle of postcommunist Eastern Europe to come to terms with suffering when catharsis is denied. Reporting from a fresh, multicultural perspective, Zmeškal makes a welcome contribution to European literature in the twenty-first century.

Is it Czechoslovakia? Czech Republic? Czechia? Pick a name, guys! 
I could give lots of different excuses for my late entry this time, but I won't. I'm wondering when I'll come across another book that I can't wait to read each day. I haven't really disliked them, but I haven't been overly captivated either. 
As I've just come to expect with male authors, here's the obligatory sexist remark: "At first I attributed it to her women's problems, which surely God, in his omnipotence, had inflicted on them as punishment for the suffering they caused men..." Cue eye roll. 

There wasn't much else to really take note of. The story may not always be the same, but it's the countless one of people being horrible during times of war and taking advantage of those they have authority over. I think I might need to find a few books that are a bit less depressing to get my hope back. 

So that's the end of the C countries. This is a short one but I'm very tired and have to get up early, and my brain wants to be done. 

196 Books: Cyprus

Magnette by Elmos Konis

Here's Cyprus, below Turkey:

Here's the description:
A strange bet, with a vintage car at stake, results in an unlikely job for a college professor. Once a week, for an hour or so, he is obliged to drive an old man around. Almost as a hobby, the professor tries to uncover the old man's secretive past and in the meantime gets a healthy dose of his own medicine, education, from this unlikeliest of sources. Mr. Aris, the old man, proves to be a fountain of interesting though often obscure and even questionable information. All this makes for a refreshingly new perspective on life. This book is a treasure trove of fascinating facts. But it is a lot more than that. It is a tale of forbidden love and the terrible consequences of war. It is an account of abject struggle against poverty and a heart-warming love affair with a country - and a car. Adventure, friendship, romance, ancient mythology, modern history, mysterious old codes and all these against the backdrop of this beautiful Mediterranean island we know so little about..


This book. It betrayed me. Maybe. 
This is the prologue: "Perhaps only once in a lifetime for most of us, if we are lucky, we get to meet somebody who profoundly affects our lives, the way we think and the way be behave. The following is an account of such an encounter. I have tried to keep it as close to the facts as I recall them. Because sometimes real life and real people are larger than fiction. I hope I have done it justice." And here's part of the author's note at the end: "Mr. Aris is not an alias. It is the man's real name. I hope he would not mind me using it, I saw no reason to change it now that he is gone. I hope that if he could have read this he would have been able to see my deepest respect towards him." 
I was about halfway through the book when I flipped back to the title page to see when it was written. I noticed this section printed in italics: "This is a work of fiction. Apart from the specific occasions when the author explicitly states so, the names, characters and incidents portrayed herein are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental." 

WHAT? WHY? 
Why would you trick me like that? Why would you make it seem like it's real? Here I was thinking that all of this historical stuff was true...IS IT? I DON'T KNOW. EXPLAIN YOURSELF. 

So I'm really mad at Mr. Konis, but I can't lie that I really liked his book. Even though he's a jerk. But the premise of the book is so sweet, and (if I can believe it) the Cyprus history and mythological history (is it accurate to say that?) was really interesting. It's kind of led me to talk more to some of the older people at work...they have so many fascinating stories. It also reinforced me reading all these books, no matter how long it takes. There's so much knowledge and culture to be gleaned from them. 

Another really cool thing is that he put an itinerary for a Cyprus vacation at the end. I thought it was a really nice addition and way to show pride in where you live. Maybe someday I'll visit Cyprus and drive the routes described in the book, and then find Mr. Konis and yell at him for deceiving me. 

196 Books: Cuba

One Hundred Bottles by Ena Lucia Portela


Here's Cuba:

And here's the book description:
One Hundred Bottles, with its intersecting characters and unresolved whodunits, can be read as a murder mystery. But it's really a survivor's story. In a voice that blends gossip, storytelling, and literature, Z—the vivacious heroine of Portela's award-winning novel—relates her rum-soaked encounters with the lesbian underground, the characters carving up her home, and the terrifying-but-irresistible Moisés. As entertaining as any detective drama, One Hundred Bottles is ultimately made real by very rough love, intense friendship, and something small that decides to live.


Yeah, umm...this cannot be read as a murder mystery. First off, the death doesn't happen till the end of the book, and there's a question of whether it's an accident or murder. That question doesn't get answered. 
The terror of Moises is that he's incredibly abusive and sadistic. And Z basically just lets everyone walk all over her and treat her like shit. I have a hard time enjoying a character like that, which is probably very insensitive of me. 

The story overall was fine. I wasn't super excited to get back into it, but it wasn't really boring either. I've noticed a similar style of writing in many Central and Southern American authors in that they seem to put a lot of description into everyday or mundane things. Like most of the book is just her everyday life. I guess I could glean a lot of information about the country this way...maybe I should appreciate it more. But I guess you have to wonder how much of it is just made up or not the life of the average person there. But maybe that doesn't matter. Okay, okay, I'm kind of going in circles here. 

There was one really poignant line about Z's pregnancy that was put in the book a couple of times, and I loved it so much so it's what I'll end with: "Something small has decided to live."

196 Books: Croatia

Cafe Europa by Slavenka Drakulic

I've always thought Croatia had a cool shape to it:

The summary has a normal shape:
Today in Eastern Europe the architectural work of revolution is complete: the old order has been replaced by various forms of free market economy and de jure democracy. But as Slavenka Drakulic observes, "in everyday life, the revolution consists much more of the small things—of sounds, looks and images." In this brilliant work of political reportage, filtered through her own experience, we see that Europe remains a divided continent. In the place of the fallen Berlin Wall there is a chasm between East and West, consisting of the different way people continue to live and understand the world. Little bits—or intimations—of the West are gradually making their way east: boutiques carrying Levis and tiny food shops called "Supermarket" are multiplying on main boulevards. Despite the fact that Drakulic can find a Cafe Europa, complete with Viennese-style coffee and Western decor, in just about every Eastern European city, the acceptance of the East by the rest of Europe continues to prove much more elusive

So...they can't all be winners. Or maybe I just failed to grasp the concepts on this one. To start with my ignorance, however, this was written in 1996, when I was 11. I wasn't exactly connected to what was going on with the world, so I think I'm a little out of touch with what things were like at the time. Also I finished this book last night and I looked up some other reviews. I've been questioning my opinion since then because I couldn't find any reviews that supported it; I can usually find at least one. All the others were complimentary, saying that she asked the hard questions about how people move on after Communism. I found it critical, apologetic, and somewhat whiny all at once. And, again, maybe I'm just being naive because I haven't had to live with that sort of instability. 

There were parts that I had to remind myself the world wasn't quite as connected in 1996 as it is today. Drakulic talked about the belief that everyone in Eastern Europe is poor and everyone in Western Europe is rich; which is such a black and white, filtered view of the world. Additionally, there was the idea that those who "had," or were believed to be more well off, were obligated to share with those who didn't have as much. And those who have been helped have no necessity to be grateful or thankful. In fact, Drakulic says, "they are too busy suffering to respond." 

But, interestingly, I did find similarities to what's going on today. She gives some anecdotes about uniforms denoting power and that perceived power ending up being a problem, which made me think of police officers in the US today. Soldier refers to them as legal gangs, and I kind of agree. Later on she says, "The administrators and experts behave as though they are not responsible to anyone but the mayor...The mayor of Zagreb has evidently not learned yet that he is responsible to the citizens." Same here. Lastly she tells a story of people mourning the fall of communism, which made me think of all the "Make America Great Again" people. 

So, yeah, I was conflicted on this one...and the more I think about it the more conflicted I get. Maybe it was really good after all. 

Learned Doctors

The caring, the kind, the rude, and the smug

It's time for another life update, whether you want it or not. 

Getting back to work has been good for me, I think. On the plus side I'm getting out, meeting people, and playing a part in helping people. On the minus side I'm a glorified secretary, and sometimes I'm treated that way. I get looked down on by some of the nurses and many of the doctors, which is pretty rude...I want to yell at them that I have a also have an actual degree and that I'm not below them. Other times I'm on the phone with a doctor and he wants to argue with me about a diagnosis or reason for a consult and I'm going "look, I basically just answer the phones." I'm not sure if I've found what I'm looking for career wise, but it's been good for me overall. 

On the other side, it's been about 4 months since I wrote about what's going on with me. Recently I switched to a different rheumatologist that I really like. She had me go back to the dermatologist who was actually nice and really good this time. And it turns out I probably have psoriatic arthritis instead of rheumatoid arthritis. But of course it's not the regular plaque psoriasis that looks like scaly skin...mine is pustular psoriasis that looks like little blisters. And isn't nearly as common. Because of course. 
It escalated very quickly from there--the dermatologist wanted to touch base with the rheumatologist and switch my medications. It was a lot at once; I was trying to process this worse diagnosis and then they want to change everything right away. Which I suppose is a good thing. I was then presented with two options for medications, and I kind of had a meltdown having to make the choice. I ultimately decided to go with an infusion. Meaning I won't have to stick myself anymore, but I'll have to go in for an IV instead. 

Yesterday I had an eye exam. I have to do this every year because of another medication I'm on, it can mess up some stuff in your eyes. They called and woke me up in the morning to ask some questions. Then she said, "Since you're 7 months pregnant we won't be able to dilate your eyes today." Ouch. I've been to enough doctors that the pregnancy should not be listed as active anymore. It was a little heartbreaking. How is it, 4 months after I miscarried, I'm still having to tell them about it? 

During the exam I had to do a couple of tests I've never done before. One came back somewhat inconclusive so I have to redo it in a month. This appointment felt heavier than previous ones for some reason. It's like the gravity of what the medication can do has finally hit me. But what other choice do I have? Even with my immune system being suppressed, I wake up with swollen and sore joints and get the blisters on my hands and feet. 

But one thing that has made me feel better is how connected my doctors have been with each other. They all want to be on the same page with my care. It's reassuring and it makes me hopeful that they'll all work together to really help me get better. So, I guess that's pretty much the gist of it. Maybe this battle with myself will actually have an end someday. 

196 Books: Côte d'Ivoire

Allah is not Obliged by Ahmadou Kourouma 

Côte d'Ivoire, or the Ivory Coast, is here:

And here's your description:

ALLAH IS NOT OBLIGED TO BE FAIR ABOUT ALL THE THINGS HE DOES HERE ON EARTH.These are the words of the boy soldier Birahima in the final masterpiece by one of Africa’s most celebrated writers, Ahmadou Kourouma. When ten-year-old Birahima's mother dies, he leaves his native village in the Ivory Coast, accompanied by the sorcerer and cook Yacouba, to search for his aunt Mahan. Crossing the border into Liberia, they are seized by rebels and forced into military service. Birahima is given a Kalashnikov, minimal rations of food, a small supply of dope and a tiny wage. Fighting in a chaotic civil war alongside many other boys, Birahima sees death, torture, dismemberment and madness but somehow manages to retain his own sanity. Raw and unforgettable, despairing yet filled with laughter, Allah Is Not Obliged reveals the ways in which children's innocence and youth are compromised by war.

Before book stuff, let's do a little life update. I've started back working full time, so it's taken me a little longer to get through this book. I only get half an hour for lunch, so I don't have time to read on break like I used to, but I'm doing what I can. I'll try to get back in the swing of things and churn them out faster. I probably would have done that if I'd been more interested in the book. And here we go. 

In the description, it mentions the narrator keeping his sanity, I basically interpreted as remaining a slightly annoying preteen kid. On the second page are definitions for 3 local swear words: faforo (a father's cock), gnamokode (bastard), and walahe (I swear by Allah). I'd say about 60% of the paragraphs in this book ended with a declaration of one of these swear words. On the next page he explains that he has 4 different dictionaries to help tell his story, and that he's using them for the big words. At first I thought it was cute, that the "big words" would be defined, but that got old pretty quickly. 

But let me backtrack a little. I was hesitant about this book because it doesn't solely take place in the Ivory Coast. But then I had to remind myself that in some parts of Africa and Europe, going to different countries is as simple as going to different states here. That was reinforced in the book as he talked about the tribal wars that seemed to span across a few countries, and as they traveled they just switched to joining whatever faction was strongest in that particular area. 

There were a couple of things that I did find interesting. Firstly, he made a point of saying that the native Africans and the descendants of American slaves who had gone back to Africa had a lot of conflict. It makes sense, but it wasn't something I'd thought of. Also the first tribal leader that the narrator encounters seems to encompass all the main African faiths: he uses a Q'uran, a Bible, and grigris (a kind of amulet believed to keep the wearer safe). Also at one point he uses both American and European ways of writing the date. That might have happened in translation, but whatever. 

But he also used the n-word a lot, which made me super uncomfortable. Maybe it's not as big of a deal in other parts of the world? I dunno, I still don't like it. 

This one just fell a little short for me. Maybe it's because I've read some books that are actual accounts of the awful reality of war and this fictional account seemed like a punk boasting about his exploits. I mean, it's not like I enjoy reading all that horrid stuff, but I think it's important to know the history of it. Or maybe I'm just not that into reading child-based stories. 

196 Books: Costa Rica

Cadence of the Moon by Oscar Nunez Olivas

Here's Costa Rica, in Central America:

And the book summary:

A series of murders committed with dreadful sadism by a psychopathic killer shakes Costa Rica like one of the earth tremors that periodically bedevil Central America. The police and press compete to uncover the murderer's grisly trail - leading to a passionate encounter between a detective and an astonishing female reporter whose charms are her most powerful investigative tool. In a groundbreaking work of fiction that explores the sharp dilemmas faced by both policemen and journalists alike, Costa Rican writer Oscar Nunez Olivas explores just how close - and how far - from the truth reporters and detectives on the trail of a lunatic can be.Published by Aflame Books, "Cadence of the Moon" is a tale of intrigue and human frailty based on the real story of Costa Rica's first ever case of a serial killer. Nunez Olivas draws upon the details of a notorious unsolved crime that horrified this small country to weave a plot that examines the dilemmas faced by journalists driven by a professional ethic yet living by the rules of the real world. Translated by Joanna Griffin from the Spanish-language original ("En clave de luna"), "Cadence of the Moon" explores how the police and press investigations reinforced and contradicted each other and the political and financial pressures that compromised both. Nunez Olivas says: "Objectivity in journalism is a vacuous concept. There does not nor has there ever existed objectivity in the act of scrutinising, interpreting and transmitting human experience.

Ok. Let me start out by saying, the "charms" of the investigative reporter are, of course, her looks. Because apparently there is not a single male author who can write a damn book without objectifying the female characters. Get. It. Together. While each of the female characters had a thorough description of her body, the only description of a male I can remember was an "athletic build" and "cold eyes." WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK. COME ON. 

In the first like 4 pages the reporter's lips or mouth are described as "luscious." Seriously? That's just kind of a gross description. And just after that we start off with some workplace sexual harassment. Classic. Basically her boss tells her he'll give her the big story for a kiss. When she threatens to sue for harassment, he gives a "confused laugh" and basically tells her she has no sense of humor. Because that's very funny. UGH. Going back to these parts and writing about it is making me livid again. 

Alright, if you can manage to get past the objectification of all the women, the story is really interesting. And it seems he wasn't too far off the real story; I of course had to look a little into the actual Psychopath.

But here's another part that's infuriating, this time true life: rich, famous, powerful people being untouchable. There was question in real life if the murderer was part of a powerful family, and Olivas took the story in that direction. Towards the end of the book, one of the policemen comments, "There's heavy pressure from powerful people who want to find whoever is responsible, at least during the elections." Sad but true. Politicians are so far removed from the general public and really don't care about justice or what's best for the common people. It's all about staying in power. 

Man, this is bleak. I was gripped by the actual story but now I'm just angry. How many times do I have to say it...do better, world!

196 Books: Republic of the Congo

Johnny Mad Dog by Emmanuel Dongala 

Yes, there are actually two Congos. As expected, Republic of the Congo is right next to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. 

The book:

Set amid the chaos of West Africa's civil wars, Emmanuel Dongala's striking new novel tells the story of two teenagers growing up while rival ethnic groups fight for control of their country.

At age sixteen, Johnny is a member of the Death Dealers, a rebel faction bent on seizing power. Even as he is drawn into the rebels' program of terror, Johnny Mad Dog, as he calls himself, retains his youthful exuberance-searching for girls, good times, and adventure. Sixteen-year-old Laokolé, for her part, dreams of finishing high school and becoming an engineer, but as rogue militias prepare to sack the city, she is forced to leave home with her mother and brother-and then finds herself alone and running from the likes of Johnny.

Acclaimed in France, Johnny Mad Dog is a coming-of-age story like no other; Dongala's masterful use of dual narrators makes the novel an unusually vivid and affecting tale of the struggle to survive-and to retain one's humanity-in terrifying times.

First off, I loooved the dual narrative. I know it was fictional, but it felt real and terrifying. There were times where the stories overlapped, or Johnny's section would begin witht he same sentence Laokolé's ended on. One thing that kept taking me out of the book, and this happens in movies too, but the rebels had a seemingly endless supply of ammo. I read one part and just stopped and said "where the hell are they getting all these freaking bullets?!"  They were shooting into the air and mowing down crowds and emptying whole clips into one person. It annoys me when the do that. With that nit-picky complaint, on to the rest of my thoughts. 

There are a couple of books I've read about coups, and they're just so strange to me. One group is just like, "Alright, we're done with this. We're taking over and ravaging everything, and now I'm a general or colonel or what have you, and we're in charge. And you of course love us, because we liberated you." Maybe that's me simply being ignorant and privileged. Then the "liberators" do the exact same thing as the previous administration. But there's a really poignant quote from the book: "...we were the grass on which two elephants were engaged in combat."And so much rape. I almost find that to be the worst thing. And by Johnny's account, it's just a part of the spoils of war. Johnny describes the spoils this way: "There had to be a reason for looting, just as there had to be a reason for drowning one's dog; well, instead of saying we were eliminating rabies, we had decreed that every person owning a likeness of that "tribalist" and "regionalist" president was a traitor. Especially if the person had valuables worth looting." And there's so much apathy that he later says, "Too bad for the other people in the district--they should have known better than to be born Mayi-Dogos." 

Yeah, I know, I'm writing like these are real people and this is a real account. But I can't imagine it's that far off from a lot of thinking during wars like this. The world is distressing. DO BETTER, WORLD. 

196 Books: Democratic Republic of Congo

Full Circle by Frederick Yamusangie

Democratic Republic of Congo is this bigass country in the middle of Africa:

Here's the overview:
'"C'est l'arrivee,' someone said. These were the first words the boy heard when the lorry on which he and the others had been travelling at last turned into the parking lodge at Bulungu, their final destination after a two-day journey from Kinshasa. The boy was impatient to find out more about this place, which might soon become his permanent home. With his little brain he had imagined that people everywhere lived like the people at his birthplace.'The idea of clashes or differences between cultures didn't make sense to the young boy who is sent by his international parents to a country village for his social education. For him, everybody, everywhere, had the same family structures, the same moral values, the same needs-the vision of different cultures was elusive if not beyond his grasp. But the impact of this new cultural environment, this formative excursion into the heart of the African darkness, will change his life-and destiny."

This is the second book I've read from Africa where the parents send the kid away to a remote village to get life experience or something. Is this a thing that really happens? Is it like boarding school? It seems kind of mean to send off a 10 year old like that. Also these kids were very much in the seen but not heard world. Nobody asked or cared about their opinions, and they were not allowed to speak unless someone invited them or allowed them to. Kinda bullshit. 

The story picked up, but the first couple of chapters read like a textbook for me. There were also a few times where Yamusangie wrote the same thing, three different ways, in three sentences. That got a little annoying. But, like I said, it did pick up. At first this kid hates where he is, but he makes some friends and really starts to like it. And then, after he's there for what seems like 2 weeks (granted, it's a really short book), something really tragic happens and his whole time in this village is basically shattered. Then there's even more tragedy; this poor little boy has to deal with way too much. (Okay, yes, I do realize it's just a fictional character...but I still felt bad.) 
After all this super awful, heavy stuff happened, he couldn't stay in the village anymore. For one thing a lot of the villagers thought he had something to do with some of it. But also his dad was a big important person and after all that happened, everybody knew about it and he'd never be able to be just a regular kid anymore. 

So, he's going to leave the village and go to a different school. And after all this crazy, terrible shit happens, he's just fine. He sits in the car thinking about when he arrived in the town and is just like "lol this is weird, I'm starting and leaving from the same place." And I was kind of flabbergasted. But I guess you don't know how you're going to react to bad things happening and, in a child's brain, maybe they just can't handle processing it all. 

And then it was over. I wouldn't have minded it being a little longer with a little more closure. It left some loose ends and I hate stories that leave off that way. This book was 83 pages. You couldn't have added a few more to bring about a real conclusion? Rude. It's rude, sir. Alright, I'm going a little overboard. Anyway it was a cute little story but, come on, give me a proper ending!

196 Books: Comoros

The Kaffir of Karthala by Mohamed Toihiri

So, I'll be honest, I had literally never heard of Comoros before this. But, it turns out it is a country, and it's located off the southeast coast of Africa:

Here's a small summary from the interwebz:
Though Mazamba knows he only has a few days left to extract most out of the world, and though he is married, Mazamba "embarks on an affair with a French woman, Aubéri, and comes to look at the world around him with new eyes." He is met with a society of racism, a nation of corruption and a globe of preconceived notions. But he still undertakes the quest to "challenge the status quo while he still can." 
And here's a little bit from the back of the book that I found helpful:
"'Kaffir' here can mean both infidel, or 'unbeliever'-as referred to in the Koran-as well as a derogatory term for 'black' Africans, including in the Comoros. This is a key to understanding the symbolic and literary richness as well as the moral challenges of this, the second novel by Mohamed Toihiri. 

The book starts right off the bat (in the first sentence) by telling you that Idi, the main character, has cancer. He's given a year, maybe less, to live. He keeps his diagnosis to himself and kind of goes about his life for a while. While he's at the mosque, the...umm...clergy person...imam, I guess? I'm going with imam. Anyway the imam is doing his thing and Idi kind of looks around and thinks about how most of the people there didn't understand what the sermon was about. Then is written, "For his part, Idi, despite his degrees, or perhaps thanks to them, thought that knowledge is the mother of unhappiness, while ignorance gives birth to beatitude." A fancier way of saying ignorance is bliss...which I liked. 
Then the imam goes on to talk about sin: "Among the gravest sins are avarice, the seizure of another's objects, the stock piling of alimentary provisions for the purposes of speculation, looking at a woman beyond the face and hands, taking pleasure in a woman during her period, asking in marriage a woman or a girl who is already betrothed, men wearing jewelry or silk." He goes on, "By contrast, the following sins exclude the sinner from Islam: associating Allah with someone else, lending or borrowing with interest, believing that a being has the power to make it rain, to stop the rain, to make someone die, to give him life, to have knowledge of secret things..." Which, I'm definitely not the most knowledgeable about Islam, but what a freaking random list of things. I had to stop and read it aloud to Soldier, who wasn't as amused as I was; he just shrugged it off. 

Shortly after this passage, Idi's friend Issa comes to visit him at home, at lunchtime. Issa is off-put by Idi's wife and daughter eating at the table with them. "It constituted an attack on Comorian uses and customs. A provocation. The women's place is in the kitchen. It is their world. ...The woman is of course permitted to appear every so often in the living room, but only to serve the man, to clear up, or to receive an order." And I am so fucking sick of reading variations of this. I try to remember these are different cultures, and this one takes place in the 90s, but good Lord, women are not servants. Uuuugh. 

Next, Idi receives an invitation to a conference in South Africa. This part starts off by talking about Idi's medical practice, and gives this description: "Here the term "general practitioner" took on its true sense. With the basic general education that Dr. Mazamba and his peers received, they were meant to transform themselves into pediatricians, cardiologists, urologists, dermatologists, gynecologists, leprologists, stomatologists, chiropodists, cancer specialists, specialists in tropical diseases, ENT specialists, and sometimes even into surgeons, exorcists, and tooth-pullers." This really rang true for me with Dr. Father in Law. Basically any medical question or malady I have, I ask him first. It's amazed me more than once that he just seems to have all the answers (and a few times I've trusted his answers more than the actual specialists.) I've also, many times, wondered how he can possibly keep all of that knowledge in his head. 
So Idi goes to this conference in South Africa and I was really struck by this part of the book. Apartheid, or very slightly post-Apartheid, seems like it may have even been worse than post-Civil War in the States. They went so far (according to the book) as to have separate sidewalks for whites and blacks. Idi and Aubéri are trying to spend time together and there's nowhere for them to go, because literally everything is separate: hotels, sidewalks, restaurants, EVERYTHING. It's so sad to read about. Even the areas that were supposed to be integrated were still so filled with tension and contempt that they couldn't handle it. 

As the story goes on, Idi comes to terms with his death sentence and decides to just live like he wants to. No caring about what other people think, no worrying about customs or traditions. Have you ever wondered if it would be better to know or have an idea when you're going to die? I have. I always thought it would be better to know, because then you can do the things you want to do, spend time with those you love, and get more of a chance to say goodbye. But I kept thinking of that during this story and another thought came to mind: what a heavy burden for everyone involved. I suppose it's only better for the dying person if they come to terms with their mortality and leaving the world. But the last little bit I want to leave you with made me smile: "He would have no regrets in leaving this world. ...Yes, a few all the same: dying without ever having seen his back...never having discovered the smell of a look, the color of a sound, nor the taste of a song." I reread it a few times and, I'm not entirely sure why, but I loved it. Now I'm going to try to discover those things. 

196 Books: Colombia

Delirium by Laura Restrepo

Here is Colombia, in South America:

And here's your about the book:
In this remarkably nuanced novel, both a gripping detective story and a passionate, devastating tale of eros and insanity in Colombia, internationally acclaimed author Laura Restrepo delves into the minds of four characters. There’s Agustina, a beautiful woman from an upper-class family who is caught in the throes of madness; her husband Aguilar, a man passionately in love with his wife and determined to rescue her from insanity; Agustina’s former lover Midas, a drug-trafficker and money-launderer; and Nicolás, Agustina’s grandfather. Through the blend of these distinct voices, Restrepo creates a searing portrait of a society battered by war and corruption, as well as an intimate look at the daily lives of people struggling to stay sane in an unstable reality.

Reading through this description again, I would not say I was given a searing portrait of a society battered by war and corruption. Why do book descriptions always make it much more grandiose than it is? That's my slight gripe. But I really liked this book, and it was intriguing enough to make me forget about other stuff going on in my life. In fact, it got me through Memorial Weekend with the in-laws. 

HERE BE SPOILERS PROBABLY

So the story really centers around Agustina and her just...going kinda crazy. Aguilar and Midas's parts of the story still revolve around Agustina, and Nicolas is her grandfather who was also crazy. There weren't chapters or anything, just snippets where one part of the story would be narrated by one or the other of them, and then the snippet would be up and another would begin. It did get a little frustrating at times because you could only get a bit of information at a time, but I guess maybe that kept it more exciting. 

The whole time I was trying to figure out what was going on with Agustina and why she went a little insane; if there was a family history of mental problems or there was some traumatic event and she had a psychotic break. The grandfather did have some problems, and his kind of seemed like dementia, but hers were kind of inexplicable. It almost seemed like a skewed version of bipolar disorder, but from someone who doesn't know a whole lot about the disorder. So she snaps, gets belligerent, aggressive, and despondent at times...and then stops after a while. That's it. There's no explanation for why it began or why it ended. And maybe there are some disorders where this happens, but it just seemed like kind of an exaggerated or skewed version of a mental health issue. 

Ok, it seems like I'm bitching about the book and didn't like it. I did, it was interesting and exciting even if I didn't get all the answers. And, like I said, it took me out of my world and put me in this crazy little mystery. Which I will always welcome. 

196 Books: China

Red Dust by Ma Jian

You probably know where China is. It's big. The US is mad at it. 

Here's the summary from the book cover:
"In 1983 Ma Jian, a photographer, painter, poet, and writer, set out for the most remote and toughest parts of China. Dispirited and fearful, accused at work of having 'a sluggish mentality,' confronted with a failed marriage, an estranged young daughter, and a girlfriend involved with another man, he abandons Beijing and a life he can no longer endure. Red Dust is the account of his travels, a remarkably written and subtly moving journey toward understanding. 
A dropout, a fugitive from the police, a Buddhist in search of enlightenment, Ma Jian embarks on a three-year trek that takes him from the deepest south to the western provinces and Tibet, journeying across deserts, over mountains, through icy rivers. And as he travels to increasingly remote areas, his circumstances become increasingly strained: he stays in filthy inns, sleeping four to a plank bed, learning to wait until his companions fall asleep and then lying on top of them. To support himself, he buys a pair of scissors and becomes a roadside barber, sells scouring powder as tooth whitener, lives by his wits posing as an enlightened religious man. 
His sense of humor and sanity keep him intact-'Danger is not exciting,' he tells a friend, 'it's just proof of your incompetence.' The greatest hardship he faces is disappointment-or perhaps his own honesty. Tibet offers no enlightenment ('Is Buddha saving man or is man saving Buddha?' he asks); his own restlessness undermines his yearning for love. Ma Jian's portrait of his country provides no understanding of its enigmas, no neat generalizations, no sweeping predictions. It simply reminds us of China's scale, its shadows, and, ultimately, its otherness. 

China is interesting. I know it's still communist, but I wonder if it's as rampant and obvious as it is in the book. Anyway, here are some tidbits I picked up from Ma Jian's account. So he decides he wants to run away and travel, because his job and the powers that be are, well, communist. But you can't really just go. Everywhere he stays he has to have like an invitation or a letter saying he's allowed to be there. So in going travelling, he's basically running away and it seems like he could have been put in jail for it. Or maybe the jail part would have been because he forged a bunch of the introduction documents. Anyway it's bananas that you had to go through all that to travel. I wonder if it's still like that. Also it seems like China is one big, gross smell, or it was in the 80s. 
So even though he had to have these letters to go anywhere, people's hospitality was amazing. They would just let him stay in their homes and feed him and get him into culturally interesting spots. And they would give him names of family or friends in other cities to stay with and those people would be just as hospitable.   
I thought this was a really interesting point: "I recount my thoughts after leaving the desert. 'Walking through the wilds freed me from worries and fears, but this is not real freedom. You need money to be free.'" And, at least in a city or "civilized" culture, that's true. This was another good one: "When man's spirit is in chains, he loses all respect for nature." Is that what's happening now? 

One of the last accounts Ma Jian gives is of a sky burial, which kind of grossed me out. I just had to look up more information on it to see if people still do it. They do. So they take the dead body to the top of the mountain, and this one had some sort of contraption they set the body up on. Then they like cut up or bashed the body for vultures and wild animals. And they hang out there while the body is being eaten. I mean, I also think burial like we do in the US is super wasteful, so this is better and more environmentally friendly than that. But it's still so gruesome, and to sit there while your loved one gets ripped apart and devoured by vultures seems awful to go through. 

This was a pretty cool book. It's awesome to read about people who are just like "fuck this, I need something new." But it also goes to show that you can't run from yourself. Eventually he grows tired of his nomadic lifestyle and decides to go back to Beijing and stability. End of page, end of story, gooooodbyyyye.

Life

Death

A week or so before we set sail on our cruise, I started to feel a little different. To rule it out, I took a pregnancy test: negative. Cool, on with life. But the differentness didn't go away, and I started to get a little more panicky as vacation time got closer. So two days before we left, I got up and took another test. I don't think it took 30 seconds before the little plus sign showed up. I looked at it, said fuck, and sent a text to Soldier: "Well, guess what." Finally I got his response: "You're pregnant" (actually, he isn't great at and doesn't care about spelling and grammar so it actually said "your pergnant" which I laughed about later). I said, "Yup. I'm kind of freaking out." What he said next made me absolutely lose it. It was simply Me too. The thing is, Soldier doesn't freak out. He's one of the most even-keeled people on the planet; he barely ever even gets mad. So I called him, crying and hyperventilating. I was aware that this wasn't the response I should have to a positive pregnancy test, but there's a big difference in wanting a child and that becoming a reality. At least there was for me; it's a terrifying prospect being entrusted with another life. 
We looked up false positives, I took another test to be sure, and we finally conceded that this was happening. I was able to cancel my drink package for the cruise, and we made sure our parents were the first to know. I've already written about the cruise, so I'll only say that not drinking wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. Virgin mojitos were the ticket for poolside, and the boys really only got annoying later at night when they were pretty sauced. 

We had the first OB appointment at 8 weeks. It was kind of surreal, and I asked if they routinely do a blood test just to make sure. The doctor seemed to think it was a weird question, but I really didn't feel pregnant. I mean, I was tired and hungry a lot, but no morning sickness or any of the bad parts. So I got home and took another test: still pregnant. We then told our siblings and started to tell friends as we talked to them. 
Earlier this past week one of my sisters sent a onesie and another sent a journal to chart the baby's growth. On Thursday, we decided to do some yard work, which was a little more exertion than I'm used to (don't judge me). After we finished my back hurt, but I didn't think much of it; we'd been moving dirt that was wet and heavy. As I was filling out the growth journal, I started to feel some cramps, so I decided to take a nice soothing bath. 

I'll warn you now: from here on out it's not pretty and it doesn't have a happy outcome. If you don't want the grisly details or are uncomfortable with the workings of the female body, get out now. 

The bath felt great; I was reading a good book and the warmth took away the aches. I perched back on the couch to watch tv with Soldier, and the cramps came back a bit. A while later when I went to pee, I noticed blood in the toilet. It unnerved me a little bit but I tried not to overreact. Throughout the night, the cramps kept up and I kept seeing blood dripping when I peed. To make it scarier, the blood looked kind of like clots, but it wasn't free-flowing so I held on to some hope. 

Early Friday morning I wasn't feeling any better and we considered going to the hospital. I took a shower and Soldier got in touch with Dr. Father in Law, who didn't seem overly concerned. He said we should just call the OB's office and see what they recommend. They also didn't seem to think it was too bad, and told me to just take some Tylenol to see if it helped. It seemed to temper the cramps a bit, but the blood was still coming. It seemed like a lot to me, but I have no idea so (again) I tried not to overreact. We talked to Dr. FiL again, and he said he didn't like that I was still having cramps, and that it probably wouldn't hurt to get an ultrasound to make sure everything was okay. Around midnight, we decided it might be time to go to the hospital. Soldier called to see if we might be able to just schedule an ultrasound, and we were shuffled around to different people, before being told we should talk to the OB's office and see if they could schedule one. So I called the on-call doctor and told him what was going on. He told me I would just have to wait until Monday and call the office; that they couldn't schedule it then and I just had to wait. He added that if it was a miscarriage they couldn't do anything anyway. I started crying while trying to say thank you. He quickly said "I'm sorry dear" and hung up. His callous reaction to my having gone through 36 hours of pain, terror, and confusion were more than I could handle. This asshole was what broke me. I threw the phone down and sobbed. I told Soldier I just wanted to go to sleep. That night, the bleeding seemed to have stopped, which I thought was good. 

Saturday morning, I was still in pain, and Soldier took a stand and said we were going in. I agreed, hoping that we would have an ultrasound, see everything was fine, and maybe have some tips for the pain. At 10 weeks, the fetus would be about an inch long, so I figured I would know if it was expelled. 
Blood and urine were taken, and we waited for the ultrasound. The tech came and I watched the screen as she took what felt like a thousand pictures. And there was...nothing. So she did an internal ultrasound (a wand that went up my hoo-ha), but she turned the screen so I couldn't see it. I had a feeling she knew, and I spent the whole time watching Soldier's face while he looked at the screen. He hadn't seen anything. At that point, I really knew. When I got up to pee a little later, there was a bit of a rush of blood and possibly tissue. The doctor finally came in and asked how I was feeling. I somehow still had a tiny shred of hope that things were okay; I wanted it so badly to be okay. 

She didn't actually call it a miscarriage. She called it a probable miscarriage, as if there was a question. I really tried to be strong but I started crying, and I felt so bad for her having to give people that news. 

Today I'm trying to process. The pain is pretty much gone. I'm crying a lot. And it almost seems stupid to be this sad; I didn't hold it, I didn't see it, I never even felt it move. It was only two and a half months, and it was over so quickly. To be honest the whole pregnancy almost feels like a fantasy I made up. It was too easy, maybe it was doomed from the start. And I keep wondering if I could have changed something. But I took my prenatal vitamins, I stopped drinking, I added more fruits and vegetables to my diet, I tried to get more exercise. It's hard not to think I did something with the yard work. (Before you start texting me, Mom, I do know that it's not my fault.) I know logically that it's random and common but, if I just had a reason, I could do something differently if I get pregnant again. 
I have to get another blood test tomorrow to check the hcg levels and possibly get another ultrasound to make sure everything's out. I know it's necessary, but it almost feels like adding insult to injury. I know what the hcg levels are going to mean. I know an ultrasound is still going to be empty. I want to stop crying and I can't do that with it being shoved in my face. But I guess I keep crying anyway so it doesn't matter. Soldier's at work and I feel lonely and empty. I wish we had a pet. I'm dreading the bloodwork. I'm dreading having to tell people that the baby's gone. 

The bright spot in all of this is Soldier. He's been so supportive and I think he's just been trying keep me from completely losing my shit. It doesn't seem like he's having a hard time with the loss, but of course I don't know all his inner thoughts and he's not overly communicative with emotions. I think he's mostly worried about me. I'm trying my best to hold it together for him...I know it's going to be okay. I know that lots of women go through this and go on to have healthy babies later. Hopefully I'll be one some day. 

My last thoughts are for any healthcare providers that may be readers. Don't ever forget to have compassion. You may have seen something a million times and it's just routine, but that's not true for the patient. They're vulnerable, scared, hurting, confused, and they're entrusting their or their loved one's health to you. Feelings need just as much care as bodies. (I know, my inner bleeding heart social worker is showing). I guess that's a whole other rant. 

I've run out of steam recounting it all. I suppose I may need to get more of the hurt and sad out at some point, but I'll try to keep it to a minimum. For anyone who's made it this far, thanks for reading. This was a terrible few days. But I do know it will get better. 

196 Books: Chile

The Postman by Antonio Skármeta 

I've always liked the shape of Chile (it's the part in color, for anyone who's not super familiar with South America. I'm not.) 

Suuummaryyyy (from the back of the book):
"The inspiration for the Oscar-winning movie Il Postino, this classic novel established Antonio Skármeta's reputation as one of South America's most beloved storytellers. Set in the colorful, ebullient years preceding the Pinochet dictatorship in Chile, The Postman tells of the hapless postman Mario and his desire for the lovely Beatriz. Boisterously funny and passionate, it is an unforgettable story of young love, ignited by the poetry of Pablo Neruda."

First off, every time I picked up, looked at, or thought about this book, the song Please Mr. Postman by The Marvelettes started playing in my head. And whenever I read Pablo Neruda's name, it switched to the line from Rent's La Vie Boheme that basically just says his name. Those ear worms were slightly distracting trying to read, but fun in general. 

This was yet another book where a male author apparently has no experience with a real life woman. Let me unveil this cringy description of Beatriz: "She had curly, wind-tossed brown hair, melancholic yet self-confident brown eyes as round as ripe cherries, a neckline that swept into breasts sadistically oppressed by that white blouse two sizes too small, nipples that took their stand even when covered, and one of those waists fit to grab and dance the tango with..." For God's sake, is she a Barbie doll?! Then later on there are sex scenes that end in screaming so loud that the whole town hears. I mean come on. It's ridiculous. As much as I enjoy reading these books from different countries, I'm so sick of women being written about as nothing but one dimensional sex objects. 

Another part that was weird about this book is that the prologue and epilogue make it seem like Mario and Beatriz were real people that he met, but I guess they weren't. Rude, Skármeta. I believed your logues. And there also may have been an original movie that the book is based on that led to another movie? I can't keep it straight. 

Lastly, it had a really unsatisfying ending. I hate endings that leave you hanging; I want a resolution. This ended with Mario getting in the car with some of Pinochet's people. Did they kill him? Did he switch to their side? WHO KNOWS. I sure don't. When I first started the book I thought that maybe I'd want to watch the movie after, but I don't think I will. I'm also not that into poetry, I don't really get it. Luckily there wasn't a ton of it in there, mostly metaphors. Hmm. It's also interesting to me when I read a book that has won a bunch of awards and is hailed as such an amazing classic and I just think it's kind of meh. Are they just not my style? Am I not deep enough to get them? Are the books really not that great? This challenge should not give me this question of confidence. Now I'm mad at it. No worries. The next one should be pretty good. 

Cruising

Somewhere, beyond the sea...

I'm a little slow on posting, but I went on my first cruise recently. We were invited by one of our friends, we'll call him...Arthur. He brought along his friend...Gary. The trip was a bit of a point of contention for me from the start; I'm not really a group vacation person, the cruise was real expensive, and I'm still trying to visit DiploSister in Africa. But we signed on and paid up, and as it got closer I started to get excited for the sun if nothing else. 
So, luckily, I found out that I don't have lupus. The biopsy came back as folliculitis--your hair follicles get inflamed and kind of infected. Needless to say I was pretty relieved that all it would take is some antibiotics. So I was armed with my steroids and antibiotics and ready for the tropics.

Pre-Cruise
Arthur arrived at our house around midnight on Thursday, and the plan was to leave around 7am on Friday. We did pretty well--left around 7:30. And most of the day was spent in the car uneventfully. Theeen we got to the DC area. It slowed us down for like 2 hours before we made it to Virginia and our friend's house. Our friend has 4 girls, and his girlfriend (who just moved in) has 2 girls, so for once it wasn't me stuck with a bunch of guys. And I really liked it. The girls warmed up to me pretty quickly and I loved hanging out with them. We ended up staying too late for wanting to leave at like 5 in the morning, but it was pretty fun. The guys also took care of all the driving so I was able to doze in the car all day. The day again passed unremarkably (what? Is that not actually a word?). We finally made it to Cocoa Beach, Florida, in the evening and checked into the hotel. Shortly after, Gary arrived. He was fine at first. At first. But more on that later. We went out to eat, by which time I was freaking starving. Then back to the hotel where I went to bed pretty quickly.
The next morning, we went to Waffle House (which is an abomination. Don't @ me. It's where dreams go to die.) We packed quickly and grabbed the shuttle to the port. There were obviously a ton of people in line but things went fairly quickly and very smoothly. Before long, we boarded what was essentially a floating city.

On Board
We got on the ship and looked around a bit. Holy freaking huge! We finally made our way to the top and snagged some chairs to lounge in until we could get into our rooms. We may also have discovered the pizza shop that we spent a LOT of time enjoying. We finally got to our rooms and it was really nice. Not anything huge, but we got balconies so we could go out and look at the water; Arthur and Gary were two doors down so we could lean over and talk across balconies too. We spent the day exploring and hanging out in the sun. There were all sorts of restaurants, bars, and shops (including the likes of Tiffany, Coach, and Kate Spade.
Then it was back to lounging by the pool. As I took off my tee and shorts, Gary wolf whistled and told Soldier that he's got such a hot wife, he might hit on me later, etc. I'm sure he thought he was being complimentary but...no. I think that was the point where I started to feel a bit uncomfortable around him.
The rest of the day was spent sunning, eating, drinking. It was a pretty good start.

Nassau, Bahamas
Day two was our stop at Nassau. We got up kind of early, had breakfast, and were off. We just kind of wandered around, mostly past all the tourist shops. (Small gripe about the Caribbean cruise stops vs. Juneau: most of the shops were the ones owned by cruise ships. Juneau had a lot more shops with local art and souvenirs. It was a little disappointing.) After a while of wandering through the town, we found a beach to relax at for a few minutes. Soldier and I waded into the water (too cold for me) and before long we were on our way back to the ship. We finally did find a souvenir shop to grab a couple of shot glasses but that was it.


The next day was a sailing day, which we again spent sunning, eating, and drinking. By this time I had already gotten a bit of a sunburn despite being vigilant with sunscreen. See, judgy dermatologist, this is why I wanted to do a tiny bit of tanning before the trip. I just did my best to put on even more sunscreen so it wouldn't get way worse.
That night was the first formal dining night. I was pretty excited to get all gussied up and, if I do say so myself, I slayed. Gary again felt the need to go off a little too long about how hot he thought I was. After dinner we made our way to Tiffany. I got my shinies cleaned and a couple more to add to the collection. Gary bought an expensive necklace for his girlfriend, then spent the rest of the night complaining about how much he spent. That was fun.

Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas
Arthur and Gary were supposed to be going scuba diving here, so Soldier and I planned to go to Coral World. (Think SeaWorld, but more conservationist. I do enjoy some sea creatures!) However, the day before, the boys were going to get prepped and they asked Arthur how much weight he needed. He accidentally responded that he didn't know because it'd been so long since he'd gone diving. Well, PADI *recommends* that you dive every 2 years or get re-certified, so they told Arthur he couldn't do it. It was a bummer, but they decided to find a local shop or go with us if plan b didn't pan out. The ship got into port mid-morning and, as I was watching it dock, I got really tired. So it was naptime. We couldn't find the other guys when we got up, so we figured they had rushed off to find a dive shop.
Just off the ship there was a music class playing steel drums, which I loved. I made Soldier stop for a few minutes. Then we jumped in a cab for the ride across the island. We saw a lot of shacks and dilapidated buildings just a couple of miles from the cruise docks. It's sad, but I think it's important to see that stuff; that there's a struggling community just outside the tourism area. I mean, maybe this is just a shallow thought because I didn't actually do anything with that information, but whatever.
We got to Coral World at the perfect time. Minutes after our arrival was a fish feeding (giant tarpon), then sea turtle feeding, then a sea lion demonstration, then stingray feeding, then a dolphin demonstration. After all that (and of course some observation of the animals) I'd had more than enough sun and was worried I was going to be sick or pass out, so we called it a day.
Back on the ship, the boys asked why we'd left without them. Apparently they had been banging on our door and figured we were just gone when we completely slept through it. So they mostly stayed on the ship and drank all day.

Philpsburg, St. Maarten
We started the day by walking...a lot...from the port to the beach. Finally we sat on the beach, then moved to a bar. I'd heard that there was good shopping on the French side of the island and we decided to check it out, even though it was a holiday for them. (I just tried looked it up and couldn't find what it was though). When we got to the French side, we didn't see anything that struck our fancy, so we asked the cab driver to just give us the island tour. It was pretty cool, we got to see a lot, and we made a stop to see a bunch of iguanas. After the tour we moseyed on back to the ship. I was able to get a couple of local, authentic souvenirs here so I was happy.

Days 6 and 7 were spent at sea, on our way back to Florida. Day 6 was the second formal night. For all of Gary's talk about how he only wears fancy, tailored three piece suits, he wore the same one both nights. Yes, I judged him. After dinner we went to see one of the shows. It was fine. I thought it would be more like Cirque du Soleil, but it was more about some cheesy musical numbers. But, they were talented.
Day 7 we just kind of wandered around. We were able to catch the absolute last showing of Cats. It's definitely not my favorite musical, but it was something to do. The guys were thrown off that there was no real plot, which I'd kind of forgotten about. But hey, we got to see a Broadway musical in the middle of the ocean.

And just like that, it was over. We got off the ship, picked up the rental car, and were on our way to the Kennedy Space Center. I was a little taken about about the $60 per person entrance fee, but we sucked it up. On top of the expense, each exhibit herded you through these dumb videos and every building was fucking freezing. I got REALLY grumpy. All the old space ships and stuff were interesting, but I didn't really feel like it was worth the cost, especially with the forced herding.
Our last adventure was to have dinner with a lifelong friend of Soldier and Arthur. It was actually a really nice way to end the trip.

196 Books: Chad

Told by Starlight in Chad by Joseph Brahim Seid

Here's Chad, in Africa:

I like this image. It's neat to see it on the globe. 

Here's the summary:
"In the evening, there are traditional games. Excitement fills the air; a tumult is unleashed. The drums reverberate, roar, summon to the dance. Their staccato boom echoes through the savannah and over the rolling, sandy hills. The young perform war dances, competing in strength, agility and skill. Simulating combat, they brandish their assegais, crouch, rise up and face off in rapid succession. They stamp the ground furiously with their feet: a cloud of dust envelops them in a tremendous halo of glory. All this time, the tom-toms are vibrating, their frenzy marvelously matching the dancers movements. Rhythm of life, captivating, lyrical, spellbinding magic! With fertile, protean imagination, griot and bard recite the prowess and deeds of their distant ancestors or sing of the beauty and charms of their betrothed." 

Romantized scenes from Seid's boyhood, like the festival depicted here, as well as stories from the golden age of empires and other timeless tales in this collection evoke positive images of Chad and Africa more generally. African readers, young and old, regardless of locality, will hear echoes of the folktales, fables, and legends narrated by their grandmothers of an evening under the stars or by the fireside. In the literature classroom, at secondary and tertiary level, Seid's imagery should resonate and appeal to the sensibilities of African learners from similar socio-cultural and historical environments. This same imagery can, in turn, be used to introduce non-African learners to Africa. On a continent grappling still to forge new beginnings out of hope and deep despair, cruelty and great humanity, reminders of the past that evoke positive affect and historical figures and events that inspire a sense of pride about being African can enhance endeavor.

Picking this book up I knew it wasn't going to be my favorite. I've mentioned (probably more than once) that I'd rather read something that follows and develops characters. Even Daba's Travels, though it was essentially a series of short stories, followed the same boy and his life. I'm not sure if I wasn't able to find anything else or if I was just too lazy to look, but this is what I ended up with. 
Anyway, ta-da! I was able to get another book down before vacay. It was kind of nice that each little story was only about 4 or 5 pages long, so I could do things in between stories. And they were cute; stories of how things came to be or why things are the way they are in Chad. But really, that's about all I have to say about it. Only a couple of the stories stood out--one with a girl who was super awful to a boy and then they get married and live happily ever after anyway. Which is dumb. The other one had two kids-a boy and a girl-and little pieces of their story kept reminding me of little pieces of other classic fairy tales. They were entertaining enough. 

So there's Chad, and I'm about to head off for some sunshiiine! I'm bringing SO. many. clothes. But there's actually a fair chance I'll wear most of them. And...yeah. I'm ready for sun.