Here's the thing...

In my book there are three types of achievements. The first is the type that you can be proud of because out of sheer determination, sweat, hard work you have achieved it on your own. A university degree, completing a marathon, founding an organization fall into these categories, in my mind. The second type is the type that is slightly harder to tout because it is given to you for absolutely hardly any/no reason at all. A honorary doctorate, a knighthood, getting to speak to the Security Council on Darfur (apparently) fall into this category. The third is, by far, the most glorious. These are the things that are thrust upon you, the bizarre accolades that you had no idea that you were up for, that you did nothing to deserve, and of which you’re not sure whether you’re supposed to be ashamed or proud. I’ve had one of these given to me a couple of weeks ago. Unbeknownst to me some friends put together a ‘Darfur Babe Calendar’ for 2007. (Let it never be said that we don’t have our fun in

I was listening to Alabama 3 sing, ‘Ain’t Goin to Goa’ which I think is appropo because I am not - going to Goa, that is. I am going to Jinja and I have not slept for 36 hours. Sleep deprivation plays with my mind in strange ways. It is as if memory has taken all of my memories out of a file cabinet and strewn them all over the floor of my mind. I have been to Goa, several years ago, and I remember standing out on the edge of the Indian peninsula with my feet in the sea looking at all the millions of bright stars. Jinja also sits on the edge of somewhere, of Lake Victoria, and the source of the White Nile that runs right up into Sudan. Everything on the road to Jinja reminds me of something else. Kampala reminds me of Pristina. The Ugandan countryside reminds me of Thailand. The smell of the forests along the road reminds me of Indonesia. The rolling hills reminds me of driving in Missouri with my brother listening to Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing Cars’. ‘Let’s waste time…I don’t quite know h

The world is a cruel place. I have a friend whose citizenship I just discovered last night.Well, not citizenship so much as lack of one. He’s what we call an a-pat. Ex-pats are those of us who are expatriated from our countries – by choice we live somewhere else. In-pats are those who choose to live within their own country but away from their homes. A-pats are those without a country. By sheer virtue of being born somewhere that the rest of the world doesn’t recognize they have no country of origin. They don’t have passports. They are offered little protection. If things got ugly the U.S. government might go to bat for me. If I go to jail sooner, or later, someone might show up to find out why. When push comes to shove they might even evacuate me. A-pats have nothing. Isn’t it strange that by simply being born on one side of a line you can have so much handed to you on a platter and if you’re born on the other you get nothing but a shrug, maybe an apology, but you aren’t going to be o

Anna Politkovskaya has been found murdered. BBC LINK I cannot recommend her book, A Dirty War: A Russian Reporter in Chechnya, highly enough.

For the biographer writing the history of the epic battle between me and the ants I would like it noted that: I won.