Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Tanzania - A Lesson in Growth Capital


Heads up to those dwindling few of you who still read this that I finally posted a selection of my pictures to Facebook several weeks ago. Everything is still on Flickr but who cares? Let's get on with the story.

Leaving the smoldering asspit of Dubai behind came about as naturally to me as does a double-down on 11 or a 3rd glass of wine. While I had a good time in Dubai, I was craving something a bit more adventurous, and a lot more natural. Tanzania would prove to be plenty of each.

From Dubai I had booked a place to stay about 20 km outside Dar es Salaam, as well as a transfer from the airport to my lodging. In spite of this, my first several hours in Tanzania were spent in the airport haggling over Serengeti tour prices from inside a nondescript side room off the baggage claim area. I have a general rule that I don't buy anything from the first vendor I meet in any one place, as inevitably, a cheaper price can be found with even a minimal amount of lackadaisical effort. And I am quite proficient at putting forth a minimal amount of lackadaisical effort. For nearly two hours, I was sequestered against my will, while fending off Serengeti tour pitches. It was a good-natured exchange. Although over this amount of time, even a practiced diplomat such as myself grows understandably weary. Promises of my car arriving "any minute" were rebutted with genuinely polite skepticism and the following internal dialogue:

Polite Self: Fuck it. You're in Africa. You're going to see the Serengeti either way. Just sign up and get it over with.
Annoyed Self: Fuck THAT. I am not going to reward this imprison-and-pitch strategy.
Polite Self: Fuck this. The car isn't coming until I/we/you lay out some cash. We're all tired. What's an extra 100 euros after you see a lion decapitate a zebra? Or better yet, a child?
Annoyed Self: Fuck you, dude! I am not some bullshit rookie traveler. I'm standing strong!
Polite Self: What the fuck? Who cares what this guy thinks?
Annoyed Self: Fucking... It doesn't matter. I refuse to get ripped off!
Polite Self: Fuck it all. It's getting late. I need a beer.
Annoyed Self: Mmmmm... beer....

Evidently, my internal voice has a rather limited vocabulary. No matter who is talking.

I unhappily concede defeat, thus lending insight into which "Self" above I really am. Total price for 5 days of animals and escape from the tour-pitch prison: 700 euros. Down from 1,500. I know I'm still getting ripped, but I take solace in the fact that I am finally out of that dingy room and will be en route to the glory that is Arusha by 4am the following morning. You read that correctly. In Africa, busses commonly depart at crazy early hours of the morning, because by 9-10am, it is sufferingly hot and no one wants to do shit. In fact, all of Africa grinds to a halt in the midday sun. Animals and people alike collect under any sun cover they can find, and stasis becomes the overwhelming pursuit of all living things. Kind of like my average Sunday afternoon, without the humiliation.

My first morning in Africa began with a 3:30am transfer to the bus station. With such a brutal wake time, it was not until I reached the bus station that I realized I hadn't yet produced my pre-trip bowel movement.

Allow me to pause here and explain something about "life on the road." Especially life on the road in the developing world, where traveling 100 miles can often (and typically does) take up to half a day. In such times, one's bowels are a never-ending concern. I fully realize this is a seemingly sophomoric topic. Just shut up and listen: This has nothing to do with my unfortunate Croatian episode. Let's put it like this: You know when all the demonic pressures of hell are mounting in such a way so as to bring forth Armageddon through a wave of convulsions the likes of which only Harry Dunne from Dumb and Dumber can truly appreciate? Hardly able to contain yourself until the time you reach the stall door or your front door, and suddenly all hell breaks loose? It's like that, only this is not the covert exit to the handicapped stall down the hall in your office that you're used to. There are countless hundreds of miles to travel on a bumpy, unpaved roadway aboard a stench-filled sweatbox. With every needling jostle comes the painful reminder that you should have handled your business before you left the bus station. And by business I mean poop.

I am now at said bus station, about to embark on an inevitably arduous traversing of northern Tanzania. A good log is necessary. Though in such circumstances, any log is a good log. I wait in a queue for the stall, abundantly aware that this endeavor constitutes my first real task in Africa. Once inside, I am greeted with a squatter. This I expected. What was not expected was a handleless bucket in the corner and no toilet paper. Immediately, my capability to handle Africa was under serious reconsideration. Did I really miss Dubai already, after only 10ish hours in sub-Saharan Africa? Is that how weak I am? Apparently so. My log retreated back upstream with the same force I'd have felt had it gone the other way. But it was a welcome relief, and the hope that I may make it to Arusha (11-14 hours) without stopping to extricate these demons suddenly seemed feasible. For a moment, I contemplated whether or not my mind's control over my bowels was somehow an incarnation of god's divinity. To this day, I believe it was.

I awoke 5-6 hours into my journey to find the bus overpacked with traversing Tanzanians, many of whom were forced to stand uncomfortably in the aisle. Overpacked that is, except for the seat next to me, which was conspicuously vacant. Ordinarily, this form of reverse-racism would be off-putting. In this instance however, it was immensely pleasing. I was the only comfortable person on a bus of 70+ passengers. Is this what a black person feels like on the bus from Fargo to Bismarck? If so, I'm buying. Racism rules.

Several hours later, a Massai gentleman named Nick (short for something) from the back of the bus came forward to join me. He offered insight into "the way of his people" and how their blatant avoidance of me was not discriminatory, but rather a manifestation of the embarrassment they feel when speaking subpar English. Bummer. Guess I'm back to short-selling racism.

Back in the States, I may say "Who cares? How often do you speak to someone you sit next to on a bus anyway?" However, in the underdeveloped world, this is not at all so. It is customary in the Middle East and (to a lesser extent) Africa to offer your food to the person next to you, should you be eating something, and this typically leads to pleasant discourse. Unless they're pushing broccoli. In which case, they can fuck off. That shit is nasty.

After a short conversation, Nick (who was wearing street clothes as opposed to his brightly colored traditional Maasai clothing) offers me the following: open-ended housing in his home (a rondaval) with his family, taking part in their customs, and they would be happy to feed me for as long as I stayed. An offer of this type, I've found only happens in the poorest of areas. It was not uncommon in the Middle East and Africa that I'd meet someone in town, chat with them for a spell, and then be offered room and board in their home. It struck me as odd (and romantically civilized) that the people with the least in this world, were the mostly likely to give the most. An offering of a place to stay in a dung-floored hut is actually a greater gift as a percentage of familial worth. The rondaval is all they have. Jane in accounts receivable on the other hand, can get a new microfiber sleeper sofa anytime, and yet would never be caught dead with a guest on her couch that wasn't a "top friend" on Facebook. And I think too that we can all agree that Jane in accounts receivable could use a little bit of coitus once in awhile so she can loosen up around month end.

Point is, we in the west have the audacity to view the people of these areas as being somehow less civilized, when in fact, they've managed to hold on to a most endearing humanity that many in the west seem to have lost. Then again, I've never been to DRC, where rape is about as common as a drunken brawl after a Yankees game. Hell, it's about as common as a Yankees game period, and those insufferably seem to happen all the time. Both though, are measurable deviations to the mean when charting the evolution of the human species. Then again, you wouldn't take Hunts Point as a representative reflection on New York City, so perhaps DRC was a poor example. Whatever. Just don't rape people unless they're staying on your couch, that's all I'm saying.

Unfortunately, I already had that Serengeti tour booked, leaving the following day. So my Massai friend and I would try to reconnect when I returned to Arusha. Arusha, incidentally, is commonly considered the midpoint between Cairo and Cape Town, which happen to be the two endpoints of the old British Empire. It's a smallish city of under 300,000, located near the base of Mt. Kilamanjaro whose main industries are textiles, mining, and tourism. It has an industrial feel, with an overactive, adolescent vibe of a city that can't wait to be a grownup.

Before departing for Lake Manyara the next morning, I opt for a haircut. One thing I had decided way back in Croatia was that while yes, cutting my own hair was certainly cheaper; the chats with the townsmen in a barber shop was typically an experience I'd happily pay far more for. This particular barber shop in Arusha was nothing more than a thinly walled stall in a marketplace off the center, with two decrepit looking barber chairs, and a sandy weight in the air that characterizes many an inland African city. I'm ushered into a chair, and I offer nary a glance at what I'm sure is the rusty clipper blade about to narrowly miss giving me tetanus.

Until this point, my declaration of being from New York was always met with wonderment and a street-cred badge that I'm sure only new maximum-security prisoners with teardrop tattoos enjoy. I was always granted club membership. But as with any other club that professes any level of exclusivity, nonmembers attach (completely justified) labels of affluence and desirability to those already admitted. Put differently, if I had the money for a flight to Tanzania, I already had far more than the guy who was about to overcharge me for my haircut. And with such social and socioeconomic inequality comes the delicate dance the altruistic traveler must dance when faced with the assistance-seeking market merchant.

With me strapped into a barber chair, this guy now had a captive (imprisoned?) audience for the duration of his pitch. Arusha, being a popular jumping off spot for the Serengeti, Maasai Mara, and Kimanjaro, has a vibrant tourist trade. Therefore, the best paying jobs in town involve English-speaking tours into these areas. However, in order to get these jobs, one needs a minimum of two years of education in order to learn the local flora and fauna well enough to answer the many (and often inane) questions of the largely Western travelers that patronize these tours. After some enjoyable conversation that meandered from reggae music, to George Bush (a popular topic in Arusha for reasons relating to his arrival to sign a $700 million grant later that week), to reggae music, to ganja, to white women, to reggae music, to the Champions League to reggae music, my dreadlocked haircut vendor asked me if I would read a note he was going to give me. I comply happily, thinking it is most likely a love note from a Dutch or German woman to whom he'd given a very different kind of tour. Instead, he begins writing the note himself, with careful diligence. Now I'm not quite sure what kind of love note to expect, but I worry now it will be a note asking me for something I wish not to give, be that money or anal.

"Mr Iddy
My call no 075297****
The aim of this letter is wanting to know how are you doing I hope that you are well and also I am well thank God. Please my friend
I need your company
I want to learning Collage of tourism guide but for now I haven't pay money of tourism
Every After 1 months 50,000/= of Tanzania help me my friend
I wan't to learning 4 1 year
Go May God bless you for Every thing."

Now, I can appreciate a market vendor who is slick enough to make me think I'm really getting a "special price" for that $10 screen printed rag I've seen in literally every marketplace throughout southern Africa for $3. However, I can *really* appreciate the slickster who has the stones to ask for a years worth of education in a single shameless mouthful. I was even offered my haircut gratis. Which is kind of like donating $1,000 to a charity and getting back a thank you letter along with that useless stack of printed address labels.

And to be honest, I've spent $410 in far worse ways. More than a few overserved club nights in New York come to mind. And furthermore, the idea of completely changing the course of one man's, one family's life with just the swipe of a debit card was more than a little appealing. It felt like a Sandra Bullock movie that didn't suck. Except that this was real, and all of her good movies are still being made in a dimension in which none of us will ever live.

Rather than fork over the cash to this guy, ultimately never knowing where it will go, and also recognizing that a country that at the time boasted (?) an 11% unemployment rate (or about 10% worse than New York State today), I didn't see the need to help a guy who was already running his own business when there were clearly others who could use the help a bit more. It did give me an idea for a not-for-profit, however. But I'll speak on that later.

I spent that night eating dinner with the guy who met me at the Arusha bus station (all transfers were a negotiated inclusion in the 5 day tour purchase) and his absurdly fat, absurdly drunk, yet absurdly sweet Dutch girlfriend. Philip, Annika, and I complete dinner, and Annika insists on paying. I'm not sure if she's looking for a zebra-coat gangbang, but i'm willing to let her pay for dinner if I can buy drinks afterwards. After all, the Euro at the time was 50% stronger than the USD, and she certainly looked as though she was about to eat 50% more than this US citizen. Furthermore, it is a foregone conclusion that I'd be drinking far more than twice as much booze as she would all night anyway, so an exchange of this kind seemed the most logical. As a reward for bequeathing these good people with my presence and the good times that inevitably come with it, I get a ride around town to the nightspots of their choosing. Not a bad deal. For them.

After a stop at a billiard hall where we play for shots (and I lose often), we go to a large sports bar located on the outskirts of town. It is a bi-level bar with a capacity of around 800, not unlike most sports bars we in the West are familiar with; save for the smattering of prostitutes who would blend into the crowd if not for the 1,000 cock stare that is the unmistakable trademark of a prostitute no matter what country she blows guys in. What is truly unique however, is the scene. It is the Champions League semifinals match between Liverpool and Chelsea. In other words, we're watching white people. I am one of about five white people in a packed, frenzied crowd of near 1,000 black people. It is like the negative from a photograph taken at every other sports bar I'd ever been in. And at this moment, the perma-smile overtaking my face says only one thing: I am in Africa. And this is why I travel.

I will preface all my references to "Africa" as being those of someone who was keenly aware of the lure of Africa as a spiritual frontier for the lonely traveler seeking adventure. Having been through much of southern Africa, I can now say that each country in Africa is starkly different from the next, though at this stage in my African journey, simply "Africa" was a place I wished to feel. Looking back now, I can say that the Western labeling of Africa as one place is precisely why I believe it is allowed to be exploited and why people with shit-for-brains like Sarah Palin thinks it is just one country. Then again, if you haven't picked up a periodical since Alaska was a Russian territory (1867, or when Africa was being colonized), then I suppose I can understand. What I can't understand is how that chick has a book deal, and I'm still hoping to get one. But I digress.

Early the following morning, I join the small group with whom I'll be seeing the Serengeti, Ngorogoro Crater, Lake Manyara, and lord knows what else. I say that because for some reason after the night before, irrespective of the fact that nothing boastful occurred, I truly felt as though nothing but unexpectations awaited me on the dark continent. This is akin to the moment when most people who say their dream trip is a "an African safari" realize their fantasy. For one thing, it's illegal to enter any protected area in Tanzania without a guide. So at the moment I met our guide Tom, who was proudly wearing his "Endangered Feces t-shirt, in front of a fully-packed 4WD, I wore a glow that was evident even through the iron veil that was the intense hangover Philip and Annika left me with about four hours earlier.

Along with me would be an Aussie girl named Maggie and a British girl named Ronda, an asian girl from San Francisco, and an older Dutch woman. But before I get to know these people, I'm going to need some sleep. For one thing, it's not a short drive out to our first stop, Lake Manyara. And besides, the loathsome traveler's pleasantries I'd grown to avoid were not at all as important as making sure I wasn't passed out when a leopard was dragging its catch into the treetops. As a devout animal lover, a frequently stoned Discovery channel watcher, and a harbinger of all things wildlife, I wanted to be as close to peak condition as 10+ shots of konyagi and another 7-8 Kilimanjaro beers the night before would allow. And let me just say that "peak condition" is a term used in relativity to the bristling sobriety of my safari compatriots.

I awake at the park entrance. It's time to see some shit! Already I see a few baboons poking around outside the main gate. I can hardly control myself, and my enthusiasm is equalled by everyone else in my group. We have not even entered the park, and already our cameras are clicking like a stuttering Zulu. Pausing at the entrance for long enough to visibly exasperate Tom, we finally enter the park. It is immediately apparent that this is not a park that harkens images of Africa at all. There is lush soil, trees thickly packed together, and the symphony of running water underscoring the rhythmic chatter of the forest. Upon seeing the first of each animal species, we pause for a photo orgy that even a picture whore like Kate Gosselin would be shamed by. In front of a group of five impala, Tom's expression says everything.



Digital cameras, and their costless incremental use of file storage, as opposed to their now-ancient predecessor, the film camera, have created a monster that can only be fed by the utter lack of attention span of the 21st century tourist. It used to be that one would travel with four rolls of film, containing 96 total exposures, and that amount of pictures would have to last until the next time you got to a store selling 35mm film. And in Tanzania, that can be quite some time. Instead, with the transportability of the digital age, and the immediate need for gratification that comes with it, people inevitably spend half of their time experiencing the very wonders they've traveled around the world to enjoy through a 2.5cm LED screen. Which frankly, is worse than watching it on television. For the first day or two in Africa, I was no different. After probably 15 minutes in front of these five impala, Tom calmly says "These are everywhere. Let's see a lion!"

Sure enough, 2 km down the road, a herd of over a thousand impala are nibbling at the short grass in a plain that stretches towards the horizon, where a flock of tens of thousands of flamingo pinken the wavy haze that blurs the line between the horizon and the enormous blanketing sky. At three degrees south of the equator, the sky is as big as it is going to get without the help of a serious hallucinogen. At this moment, I have never felt so insignificant and blessed at the same time. There is a colliding reality that comes with knowing that your place in this world is both one of banality and influence. On that truck, even with those people, I was so alone, and yet so blissfully pleased with what I'd accomplished already, that I wished I could be that alone forever. The accomplishment I speak of is nothing as tangible as having put more pins in my map than most others dream of; and it was not just an understanding of what it is like to partake in the human experience. Rather, it was *feeling* what it was like to partake in the human experience, and taking note of it as it is happening. So often, I feel these moments happen for people in retrospect. They look back on their wedding day, when the person they love affirms that their love is none unrequited; or they remember the birth of their child, or they watch the video of when they win the Tony Award they've worked their entire lives to achieve. For me, I felt blessed (quite a weighty word for someone who professes Atheism) to have felt the moment, absorbed it, and smiled at it; awaiting more.

In my younger years, I had a dislike of Asian people that to this day makes me physically ill to acknowledge. I didn't hate them, but at a glance, I had decided I didn't want to be around them. I still cannot fathom why. Which frankly, is probably the worst part. It's not as if an Asian person robbed me at knifepoint, or I was ever gang-raped in a Thai restaurant and at a young age had declared they were all somehow barbaric or threatening. No. I was just a close-minded suburbanite who thought I had some bazaar supremecy. Maybe it was the German in me? Now, several stages of personal development later, I was seeking to experience people of differing ilks, to broaden my own universe beyond that of the silly child in Kinnelon, NJ. Hell, I hadn't even been on a plane by the time I was 23 (save for a flight to the Grand Canyon at 11 months).

For some reason, Africa defined this ultimate transition. I'd been to southeast Asia, sure. But that trip was taken with friends over the course of just a few weeks, and was footnoted with credit card swipes at the finest restaurants and hotels at each stop. Fun; definitely fun. But hardly the growth I was seeking, and more importantly, in need of. This moment, looking over the steppe in the direction of Kenya, was the moment I knew I needed when I decided to leave New York and "see the world."

I am shaken from my daydream when Tom spots an aging lion male stalking a herd of buffalo. He is discernibly visible only through binoculars, and is breathing heavily as he walks determinedly through the herd. This lion, even to my untrained eye, can be seen as no threat to even a young buffalo. He is alone, as is customary for an aging male after being ousted by a younger, more virile male from his own pride. My first lion! His mane is magnificent, and his massive paws strike the ground in unison with my quickening heartbeat. And I think my penis moved. Not sure if that makes me gay for lions, but if it does, I can certainly live with that. They rule.

And just then, three more trucks like ours pull up. Typical. All the aloneness I had been enjoying was now drowned out by the gurgling idle of the other tour groups and most disturbingly, the thick southern accents of the couple in the truck next to ours. It seems that even in Africa, alone time will likely be fleeting, lest I pack a bag and a tent and head into the bush on my own. Call me a pussy, but that's just a little more self-evolvution than I'm prepared for. Possibly ever. Though who knows...

Lake Manyara was great as an introduction to African wildlife. Giraffes, elephants, buffalo, and all kinds of monkeys wandering around, all as curious about our truck as we are of them. Tom was an excellent guide. He knew everything by the book, no matter how pointed our questions were. He truly made the experience a lot more enjoyable, from the standpoint of someone who was not just looking to see stuff, but learn about it. Next however, after a six hour drive, was Serengeti. We camped outside Serengeti the night before, and planned to head in the next morning around 5:00 am. Like I said before, everything in Sub-Saharan Africa happens before 9:00 am. If you want to see a lion maul one of god's creations, you're going to have to get up crazy early, and you're going to have to shut up about it.

That night I, Tom, Maggie, and Ronda all stay up drinking the vodka I'd bought at the Dubai duty-free. Nothing, I've found, assists in popularity quite like the foresight to have booze out in the desert, and the willingness to share it. Tom, a Masaai educated by the tourism board (essentially the education my barber was seeking), is a pleasant man in his early 40s, with a smile as big as his face could stretch. It's clear he likes Maggie a lot too, and I'm sure in that part of the world her big boobs are seen as an ample food supply with which to raise a large brood, thusly making her more attractive still.

The next morning, we drive into the Serengeti. The Serengeti is special: It has no fences, and is a massive desert steppe, where only animals and Masaai are permitted to dwell. Additionally, inasmuch as it was the tail end of the wildebeest migration (though nothing like the Planet Earth documentary), we were treated to the symbiosis that zebras, wildebeests, and impala share. Wildebeests and zebras migrate together, eating the same types of grass, each consuming different parts of the plant. It's kind of like how white people eat the shoulder, knuckle, flank, and delicious bacon portions of a pig, and then Asians go ahead and eat the ass and elbows. Wildebeests also depend on the superior hearing and smell of zebras; watching them for signs of alarm. I tend to believe this is why Asian women pair up with Jewish white dudes so often, as with the breadth of our noses and with eyes that actually open, we must innately be seen as supreme detectors of danger. Little do Asian women know that upon detection of such danger, we are quick to toss them into the lion's mouth if only to give us a few spare moments with which to escape. Little known fact: Did you know that Hanukkah is actually a celebration of how many days a lion was kept at bay with the body of one Vietnamese child? A girl, obviously? It's true. How did a Vietnamese child end up outside a cave in the Negev, you ask? That, my friend, is the miracle of Hanukkah.

The Serengeti, being so expansive, provides one the opportunity to experience nature in a way that is as close as the layman can get to natural authenticity. Irrespective of the omnipresent whir of the overworked engine of the 1981 Jeep Terrain, the clatter of camera shutters, and the intermittent gasps of awe climbing from slackened jaws, you really feel as though you are immersed in a nature that god intended, invented. When people who have been places (having not yet truly achieved the distinction of "traveler") describe a particular sight or event as being "amazing", it is the feeling of timelessness and exception that a place like Serengeti should conjure. Instead, an iteration of the typical resort hotel and its adjacent half-kilometer of white sand beach littered with jet ski operators and polished shell salesmen is sadly what is most often being conveyed.

For one thing, human nature is comprised of a relentless search for new startling impressions. If it's not, then you're just another monkey looking for the next banana. Put simply, as we grow older, it takes more and more to impress us. And as humans, it damn well should. As a child, a simple ball bouncing was enough to captivate me for hours. Many years later, some ornate church in Eastern Europe would underwhelm me for three long minutes. What's worse, these three minutes were more of a conscious homage to the many toiling workers who risked (and often lost) their lives for its construction than it was a compelling appreciation for its pulpit or archways. Although this callous reaction to what can only be described as an extraordinary human achievement may be a result of having seen so many extraordinary things, that the world simply takes quite a bit more to impress me than it used to seems like a very real human characteristic. It's akin to the first time a caveman discovered fire. Pretty freakin' awesome, right? Seriously, fire is FUCKIN' AMAZING! But once that shock wore off (it still hasn't for me), he no doubt got down to figuring out how many other things, animals, children he could burn. Just as I'm more akin to ignoring the demographics of the Church of the Blessed Eucharist, and instead am fascinated far more by learning why a typical Ukrainian male is perfectly at peace getting drunk all day with his friends and passing out on a monument erected to celebrate one of Lviv's greatest scholars. More gripping still, I am fascinated that the typical Ukrainian female is likely to be studying at the local university all day and afterwards prancing past any and all willing onlookers wearing the world's sexiest designer knockoffs. This study in particular is ongoing. And going. And going. Oh my god.

Where was I?

One such impression occurred on my first night while camping in the Serengeti. I awoke at what must have been around 3 in the morning with a familiar drinking pang to urinate. As I stepped out of the tent into a symphony of wild coos and howls, I was staggered by the moon's brilliance, its grandeur, its divinity. Hanging low in the vast night sky of the desert, was a perfectly round spotlight draped with a halo that carved out greater than a third of the sky's intense blackness. On the ground, everything was illuminated as if under a low wattage terrarium lamp; no shadows, nothing unseen. If nightclubs were this well-lit, my friend Kris wouldn't have semiannual herpes outbreaks.

I stared at the moon for awhile, mesmerized the way I'm sure ancient tribespeople were before assigning it holy qualities. Alone with a moon this big, in a sky this big, allows one some big thoughts. Such as, an examination of one's possibilities. Ask me, if at any time before I took my first flight at 23 years old, if I'd ever have stepped foot into Africa. Ask me if I'd ever dreamed about writing a book. Ask me if I'd ever considered going anywhere further than a particular city's limits on my own, without a close companion. Ask me if I'd ever have dreamed about meeting exotic people from exotic lands, who tell exotic stories that color my own tales of adventure, triumph, and relative failures. Ask me if I thought I had control, if my life could follow a storyline written by my imagination, and not the imagination of my parents or the path traveled by countless others [college, job, promotion, promotion, marriage, children, suburbs, retirement, death]. The shadow cast by these musings stretched deep into my past, back to the inception of the life I would live and find more fulfilling than the lack of imagination I found in the lives of my parents and nearly everyone else. In that sense I suppose I too was attaching sacred meaning to the moon. Or maybe it was all the bush weed I'd been smoking.

It's interesting. To this point in the book/trip, I'd been feeling that the experiences and stories had more or less written themselves. This format, thus far being one of loosely linked anecdotes in the largely false pretense professing a theme of inner betterment and growth has to this point been aptly and rather simply achieved. At this juncture however, getting into the more densely packed sinews of a tight and underused muscle, I am finding my words more grandiose, more difficult to speak, loosen, and just plain take seriously. Examining oneself out from under the safety of humor and snark allows a bit more opportunity for criticism, and I suppose it is at this point my writing will probably adjust its focus somewhat. Though who knows, I'm about to suffer a crippling stomach virus and get robbed twice in one day, so there are plenty of good times ahead.

This ends Part 1 of my Tanzania story. Feeling like starting fresh on a Part 2.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

An Effective Cover Letter


Brian A******
New York, NY 10009

ABC Capital, LLC.
New York, NY 10017

RE: Job listing #17441G7 advertised on Careerbuilder.com


To Whom It May Concern, and Those Nearby to Whom It May Not,

I am writing to introduce myself for consideration for your assistant controller role advertised on Careerbuilder.com. As my included resume will clearly indicate, I have a stout accounting background that unequivocally qualifies me for the advertised position. However, it is likewise clear after an ongoing five month job search that I will not be getting this job in spite of my qualifications, insofar as my background is a mess of inexplicable job moves and gross half-truths. Why did I leave Position A at Firm X, you ask? Probably because it offered me the same miserable future that your firm similarly promises, and for a brief period I saw an alternative to the soul-sucking dismal existence I am sure to enjoy at ABC Capital. But the real question is: why would we bother wasting each other's time to meet one another, when instead you can go ahead and interview 21 more cardboard widgets pumped out from the Teloitte & Douche machine, each bringing nothing more to the table than the ability to mindlessly book journal entries and not send personal emails from work? That was a long sentence; although I think you'll agree that the punctuation was a thing of beauty. I digress: The answer to the above question is simple: I have an extremely high X-factor.

The X-factor is defined as follows:

X = (S^U)*(C/K) + I*T

where
X = Value to your firm.
S = # of Skills that pay bills.
U = Unexplained job moves, as depicted on resume.
C = Coolness, defined as the inverse of a typical 5 year Ernst & Young financial services auditor on a scale of 1 to douche bag.
K = # of times the candidate considered Killing themselves on all-night audits at Blackrock.
I = Intelligence as defined as the ability to communicate in everyday written discourse without the use of absurd shorthand variants of the word "you."
T = # of Times the candidate has slept with a coworker. Double this number for conquests taking place on company property.


That math was rather simple, even for an accountant. Had I been able to integrate integrals (word play) with a qwerty keyboard, it would have likely been much more fun for both of us. Interesting though, how in that last sentence I flexed my calculus muscles in such a fashion so as to simultaneously draw attention to my humility. It is precisely this encompassed attack to problem solving from which your firm would benefit should you decide to hire me at a modest premium over the obviously inflated salary figure I already provided via your online application form.

The choice is yours. You can either interview another head-down accountant who ends his sentences in prepositions because he's on an H-1B visa and experiences difficulty communicating in terms not used in financial statement footnote disclosures, or you can interview a diversely talented accountant like me who ends his sentences in prepositions ironically because of. Just think of all the exciting banter that awaits us as we mercilessly ridicule Jiang "Bruce" Chung behind his back when he leaves each day for his lunchtime piano lesson.

I recognize that the chance exists that you may be one more dirty-kneed supplicant looking up at the long hard dick of Corporate. In this case, what I suspect will happen next is you will walk into your boss' office carrying a copy of this cover letter so the two of you can share a laugh at my gracious expense. And let's face it; this cover letter, if not funny, is at least worth the walk to his office past his assistant Brenda-- the busty aspiring actress-by-night who hates your double-pleated guts by day. And when your boss does laugh as you suspected, you will think to yourself "Wow, we really connected there. Perhaps I should take this opportunity to invite him to my lame Super Bowl party." And he will once again politely decline your sycophantic attempt to ingratiate yourself into his personal life. You'll then walk away dejectedly, which is much the same feeling I will experience when my follow-up email to you in one week's time goes unreturned and I lament the time I wasted researching your lousy firm.

Don't you see how much we have in common? I feel like we really connected there. Want to get lunch today? Oh, you're busy? What about tomorrow? What about never? I miss the days when we would laugh about stuff together.

Finally, I encourage you to refer to my enclosed resume. Upon meeting me, I am confident that the value I would add to your firm will become clear, unless of course you are beholden to applicants who look as though they were raped by a Ralph Lauren Chaps discount rack. I don't even know where people buy Ralph Lauren Chaps anymore. Then again, I don't shop for clothes in stores that sell portable CD players and deck furniture. Though I am happy to pick up some Haggar slacks and an oversized Gap poplin dress shirt for the interview if it better qualifies me for the assistant controller position, thus showcasing my adaptability when faced with unfortunate circumstances.

I thank you immeasurably for your time and consideration, and very much look forward to meeting you and learning more about the assistant controller employment opportunity and how I may fit into your depressing firm during your next scheduled group suicide.

Blow me,


Brian A******