Sarah: Papi

In Elgin, Frank and I took our cars to the same mechanic every time we needed something fixed, checked, filled up, or had any questions/comments that were car related.

And you should know...our mechanic was freaking awesome. He is a man from Mexican decent (and I suspect he was born in the motherland) and his name is Papi. Well, I doubt that's his real name, but that's what we call him. Maybe that sounds mean or stereotypical, but he calls all men (and I mean all men) Papi and all women Mommy. Seriously. When we would arrive at his shop and he realized that he knows us, he would yell out enthusiastically (and I mean he yells out), "PAPI!!! MOMMY!!!", as though we're long lost friends and he's so happy to see us.

Sometimes it was hard to communicate with Papi. When we talked, we would all try to stick with few word sentences because it was just easier that way. There was one time, when I went to Papi's for an oil change (I know, I know, I should be able to change my own oil. But I don't. So don't judge me.). And I explained rather plainly that I needed my oil changed, and he proceeded to get down on the ground to empty the old oil out. Then he came over to me, mumbled something unintelligible, and left. He just left his shop. I stood there. All I heard was "Ok? Be back." So I knew he was coming back, but I had no idea why he left, how long his errand would take, or when he was coming back. I texted Francis, "Papi just left. Don't know why..." It turned out his shop didn't the kind of oil my car needed, so he left to go to Auto Zone to get some for me. But for about 15 minutes, I was real confused as to what happened...

Papi is almost always covered in some kind of black car juice and he always has a smile on his face. I wish I had a picture of him to share with you, because he's such an adorable man, but alas, I do not. So if you're looking for a good, honest, hard-working mechanic in Elgin, check him out--'cause he's ballin'.

We miss Papi.

Sarah: Welcome to California

The other day as I was walking down the street, a silver car pulled up in front of me. A really nice guy asked me kind of quietly, "Hey, do you know where I could get some weed around here?"

When I responded with, "I really wouldn't know....sorry." He just looked at me, laughed, and drove off. Then, the very next day, another guy stopped and asked if I knew where he could find weed. We are no longer in Illinois, my friends.

I feel like I am an official Californian. I mean when some random dude stops me on the sidewalk to ask for weed, that must mean that I look like a native right? Or it could mean that I look like a pothead...I'm going with that first option.

Sarah: Where is my bookbag?

Ugandan police stole my bookbag.

Let me backup:

Frank, his sisters Tracy & Lina, and I packed into the car and headed to the airport. I slept on the way. We get to the airport, but we are stopped by the police at the checkpoint.* The passengers have to get out of the car, go to a separate "secure point" to get wanded down. Meanwhile, Tracy is in the drivers seat and the policeman is "searching" the car for any kind of threat to the tiny, tiny, seemingly unimportant to the rest of the world Entebbe airport. 

I suppose we were labeled safe by the policemen, because we were sent on our way. As we park in the parking lot, open the boot (the boot is the trunk) to get out our luggage, I ask Francis, "Honey, where's my bookbag?" I immediately saw the panic in his eyes. He asked me "What?" He came around the side of the car to get a better look at the suitcases. He said, "It was here! They took it. The police must have taken it at the checkpoint."

We piled back in the car and pull ahead to talk to the other policemen. These guys were really nice. They listened to us, they were really sympathetic, but then they called over their "supervisor" who was a whole other story. He wouldn't listen to us, he kept saying "No, that's not possible", and he was overly defensive. We didn't even tell him that we thought they stole it. We said that maybe he just took it out of the boot to get a better look at the other contents and forgot to put it back in. "That's not possible." Well sir, if that's not possible then where is my effing bookbag??? He even went so far as to tell me that I probably put it somewhere else and I should check the rest of the car. So I pulled out everything in the car (not in the boot) and I looked around. Was my bookbag there? No. No it was not.

Eventually, we go back to the checkpoint with Officer Defensive to chat with the guys there and take a look around. Those men were just like Officer defensive. They wouldn't listen to our story and they certainly were not helpful. Their final decision was that, in our rush to make it to the airport, we must have forgotten it at home. Yeah, make it my fault. I started crying. Hard. I wanted those policemen to see a mzungu cry, to feel guilty, maybe to apologize and give me back my stuff. But no. I just got stares.

I lost my new macbook pro, camera (a canon xsi), journal, ipod, and sleeping pillow. I have none of the pictures I took while in Uganda. I am in mourning.

Feel free to comment on the post. However, please refrain from talking to me about this face-to-face. I guarantee you, I will cry. 

*Why do they even need the checkpoint before people enter the airport?! People aren't driving their cars into the airport! And (supposedly) they don't even take anything out of the car! How is that effective? If I have a bomb in the car, you better be sure it's going to be under the four 50lb. suitcases just chilling in the boot. So let me ask you again: HOW IS THIS "SECURITY" EFFECTIVE?!

Dr. Shannon would be Proud

Last night, I gave my Nepali refugee friends the low-down on how to have some good sex when they get married. Something you should know about me, is that I really enjoy talking about sex. Not necessarily the details of my own sex life--but sex in general. And to be honest, I think Christians need to talk about sex more. Sex is a good thing, people!! And good sex is a great thing.

Kels and I went to visit our Nepali friends in Wheaton one last time before she leaves for UG (UG stands for Uganda, by the way). Two of our  friends, who are around our ages, are in serious relationships that are heading for marriage. In their culture, it is so not okay to talk about sex with your elders. They would never ask a friend who is 10 years older than them to explain sex, it would be incredibly inappropriate. So they talk about it amongst themselves. It's like the blind leading the blind. They have no clue what they're talking about! Consequently, I offered to answer any of their sex-related questions--pro bono, of course.

The questions started. Have you ever had to explain to someone how to have good sex? Well, have you ever had to explain to someone who doesn't speak a lot of English how to have good sex? It is not an easy task. There were lots of hand motions, giggles, and "do-you-understands". I think I communicated some things pretty accurately and well. But other things...let's just say, I only laid the ground work.

One of the funniest things to me about this entire situation is: While I was explaining and gesturing their 285 year old Bojou (grandma), who doesn't speak (or understand) a lick of English, was sitting on the bed contently watching me making a fool of myself.

This is Bojou. Isn't she beautiful?

While Kelsey and I are over at their house Bojou mostly just sits, observes, laughs, and says something to us in Nepali that we can't understand. Anyways, last night was pretty successful. And I think I would have made my human sexuality professor, Dr. Shannon, proud.

-Sar