What I didn’t expect was that I would turn into an Egyptian. I have, indeed, become an Egyptian.

This phenomenon became apparent when I visited Jordan this past week, and the natives told me: You don’t look like an Egyptian, but you must be from Egypt.

Why this reaction?

First, I have an Egyptian accent, according to the Jordanians. For those of you who don’t know Arabic, this includes pronouncing “ga” instead of “ja,” a glottal stop sound instead of the much prettier “qa” sound, and a million other little differences in terms of colloquial words and sayings.

But my Egyptianness doesn’t stop there. Oh, no.

An avid coffee drinker since I was about three years old, I have only ever used milk in my coffee occasionally, and never sugar.

I now use more milk than coffee, and four sugar packets per cup.

There’s more:

1. I have watched approximately 20 soccer matches in the last two months. Soccer is bigger here than football is in the state of Georgia (it is huge there, by the way).

2. I eat ful (bean paste) and falafel for breakfast. Ful is amazing. I will be attempting to cook it in the fall — find me then.

3. I use religious words in daily conversation (i.e. “if God wills it,” “thanks be to God,” “oh, my God,” etc). These expressions have a million meanings. Sometimes, they are used for general emphasis. In other cases, they are actually an answer to a question, i.e., “How are you?”— “Praise be to God.”

4. I yell at foreigners for wearing inappropriate clothing. What are the hewagat (foreigners) thinking when they wear mini skirts and tank tops in a mosque, or even in the street? And, yes, I actually have yelled at them (but in Arabic, so they didn’t understand).

5. This is the best yet. I ignore lines in restaurants. Instead, I push through the crowd and scream out my order to the cashier. Any Egyptian (like me) knows that if you want food, push your way to the front and flash your money. It also helps that, while my speech is Egyptian, my looks are foreign.

Unfortunately, in addition to this lighter and funnier side of my study abroad experience, there have been negative changes in my personality. I took a lot for granted in the U.S., including my ability to walk down the street alone, talk to anyone I want, or even something as simple as smiling at a stranger.

Some not-so-nice aspects of my Egyptianness:

I never smile at people in the street; I don’t wave “thank you” when cars stop for me. I ignore hellos. I am pushy when I haggle prices in stores and markets and, the biggest difference yet, I yell obscenities (Arabic and English) at impolite men in the street.

It’s a little cheesy — but definitely honest — to admit that these past two months have changed me. But thanks to my newfound Egyptianness I am learning that I can handle this extremely different world, and in the process, I am finding a path to understanding and hopefully changing the negative aspects of my experience here— “if God wills it.”

Amidst the snows of a Middlebury  J-term I could not actually imagine myself being near enough to such creatures that I would need to worry about such things, but here I am in the Kruger National Park surrounded by many dangerous animals.  Upon our arrival to Skukuza, the main camp in the Kruger National Park, we received the most humbling safety talks I’ve ever heard. We learned what to do if confronted with elephants, white rhinos, black rhinos, hippos, cape buffalo, leopards and lions, all of which we might encounter and all of which have the capacity to kill a person. If a rhino, hippo or buffalo charges you need to have an eye on the nearest tree and climb it immediately. However, elephants can push trees over and leopards and lions can climb trees, so tree climbing is a big no if they attack. If an elephant charges, it’s best to run and start shedding backpacks and clothing as you run, as this will distract them temporarily and give you more time to escape. However, for lions and leopards you should never run. Running from them automatically makes you prey in their eyes. For lions, you should look them directly in the eyes and scream the worst possible curses at them to scare them off. Leopards you must never look directly in the eyes because this supposedly triggers an attack. Despite these worrying instructions, most often, you can back away slowly if you come upon any of these animals by surprise. While these warnings are a bit terrifying, we are yet to have any dangerously close encounters out in the field.

These warnings are necessary, though, because unlike most visitors to the Kruger National Park, we are able to get out of our game drive vehicles because we are expected to do research in the field. We are always accompanied by one or two armed game guards. We have been doing field research at sites along the Sabie river. Days in the field start early and end late and can be extremely exhausting, with temperatures reaching over 110˚F. On a recent day off, we got to escape the heat and go paddling on the Sabie river, upstream of where it runs through the park. Like most adventures here, paddling has its own dangers as both crocodiles and hippos inhabit the Sabie river. This meant no swimming except in the relative safety of the rapids.

This of course did not stop us from having water wars as we paddled, splashing one another and tipping boats. And the feeling I got as we paddled downstream was unlike anything I’ve felt at home. It was a mixture of a fear of what was swimming about below me, a lot of excitement about what lay around the next bend, and tremendous awe at the landscape around me. This sense of awe is something I feel anytime we step into the field. It feels almost as if we are in Jurassic Park every time we hear the rustle or grunt of a large animal nearby. I half expect to see a T. Rex or triceratops lurch out of the brush.  It is humbling to know that there are creatures out that can easily overpower me. Knowing this commands an even deeper respect and awe for the natural world around me here, knowing I am a guest, very much at the mercy of my hosts.

The coordinator for the Middlebury schools in France offered us this advice the week we arrived. In order to get your visa validated, you have get a radiology exam and various other evaluations of your health. I read my letter from the OFII (Office Français de l’Immigration et de l’Intégration) and soon forgot about it. Feb. 9 or something. Whatever.

A month later, coming back late from class, I re-read my letter and discovered that it was not the 9th, but 9 a.m., on the 3rd. It had been that morning.

“Say you had gastroenteritis,” my host mother suggested.

That seemed like a little more information than the immigration office needed about my made-up illness. (I have since found out that French people sometimes use weirdly specific medical terms for more general maladies.)

I resolved to present myself to the OFII the following day, my paperwork in order, tearful apology rehearsed. I had most of the required documents — all that remained was purchasing a “fiscal stamp.” I wasn’t quite sure what this was, but I knew I had to get it. Just one stamp. How hard could it be?

I soon learned that the sort of stamp I needed was going to play a little hard to get. Fiscal stamps aren’t like regular stamps. You can only get them at the public treasury, which proved to be quite elusive as far as buildings go. I quickly got sidetracked trying to follow my host mother’s hand-drawn map, and after 15 minutes or so was already asking random pedestrians “Where is the treasury?” and being pointed in wildly different directions.

Apparently, there was more than one treasury. I inquired at the post office, the convenience store, the town hall. Finally, I found it: a practically unmarked little hole in the wall. Unfortunately, my stamp of choice was out of stock and they sent me on my way. By this time I was starting to panic, thinking the OFII might be closed by the time I got there. I ran across town until I arrived, out of breath and in a cold sweat, at treasury number two. I forked over my 55 Euro, hoping to receive something big and official, something to justify my hour-and-a-half long wild goose chase. The woman handed me back an innocent little pink postage stamp. I don’t know what I was expecting.

But the stamp was only my ticket in. I took the bus out of the city center and soon found myself wandering up and down a God-forsaken highway of gas stations strip malls, and, supposedly, the OFII.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the radiology office,” I asked random passersby, feeling more desperate and ridiculous each time I said it. I walked into a bank and asked the teller if she knew where the OFII was. “Next door,” she replied.

Readying myself for the pitiless immigration officials, I walked tentatively up the stairs and into the OFII office. I tried to compose myself, thinking this might not be appropriate behavior in front of a representative of the French government.

“Unfortunately you can’t have your appointment now.” My heart sank.

“Is there any way I can reschedule?” I asked anxiously, hoping she didn’t say anything that sounded like “deportation.”

“Oh, of course; it’s no problem. You can come back in two weeks.”

NaiNai is not your average waiguo laotaitai; she’s 83 years old and won’t let me clean my own room or dishes. Instead, she insists that I go rest. While many elderly Chinese stay inside after 70, NaiNai is always out and about. She complains that walking too slow makes her tired. She’d rather stand than sit. If she had had the training, she could have run twice as fast as I can, she claims. Moreover, while YeYe can read, translate, and explain the teachings of Confucius, the sagest advice has always come from my NaiNai.

These conversations — and the rest of family life — occur around the breakfast and dinner table. Meals are the highest expression of love in China, I find. The majority of ingredients that NaiNai puts in her meals are gifts from friends and relatives, who will drop by at any time of day to hand NaiNai gifts of fish, tofu, wine, fruits, etc.

One week ago, my NaiNai knocked on my door. She was nearly in tears. She beseeched me, “Look at all these leftovers!” Not eating enough obviously means that I am not a loving, caring or appreciative granddaughter.  “If only your brother were here,” she lamented. “He’s such a good boy. And eats a lot!” Since then, I have gone to the gym every day — in order to eat those extra five dumplings. Soon, I fear, I’ll become a dumpling myself.

While I eat her cooking, NaiNai imparts serious advice and plans my future. My future consists of three parts. The first is to study Chinese at the local university and eat her cooking. The second is tutor lazy children of rich Chinese parents in English … and eventually build up my own English school. “I know,” she says, “you not interested become teacher, but this give you very good life.” The third is to convince my parents to retire to China, so they can inherit the apartment, live more than comfortably off their American pensions, and have me nearby. Also, as I am pursuing this life path, I need to keep in mind the following instructions:

1. Find a boyfriend interested in the same thing you are.  For example, she asked me, when you move here to teach English, but have a boyfriend who doesn’t want to move to China or does not understand the language — then what will you do? You will have trouble.

2. Do not marry for money. Marry for money-earning ability. If you marry rich, he may be lazy or have no skills. You need to make sure he’s able to earn more than you spend.

3. Train your husband early. Within the first month of marriage, your husband must master the ability to use the dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, and vacuum. Abandon him in the kitchen and/or basement with the machines and plug in your headphones. If he doesn’t learn it within the first month, you’ll be doing that chore the rest of your life.

Thankfully, NaiNai doesn’t cook dessert. However, most nights she’ll tiptoe into my room with a big grin, holding a bowl of coffee ice cream. Luckily, by then I’ve digested five of the 20 filet-mignon dumplings she made especially for me, so I can accept the gift with a grateful, if disbelieving, smile. When she hands me the ice cream, she orders, “Study hard!” I immediately sit back down and close Facebook. Truly, NaiNai’s greatest skills are deciding what someone else needs and ensuring that they can’t refuse her.

And, of course, the ever looming question — what are you going to do after graduation?  Imagine if all those thoughts just disappeared, vanished and no longer kept you up at night.  Difficult to fathom, right?

You have now imagined yourself in Mali, West Africa (or for that matter, any number of African nations), a country where living in the moment is more important that anything in the future.

Sounds ideal, right?

Well, individually and at that moment, yes; however, it can have major consequences when it comes to economic development and stability in the long term.  In its essence, development changes the present in order to better the future or the unknown.

For many Malians, the idea of sacrificing what little they have today for something that they might have in the future sounds ridiculous.  It becomes increasingly problematic when you think about money. Yes, it is true that they have less money in general, but that does not make up for the fact that many Malians, especially youths in Bamako, the capital, “mangent beaucoup d’argent” (spend — translated literally, “eat” — a lot of money) on unnecessary things like Western clothes, “bling” and weaves.

I may be making judgments about the social necessity of these items, but when they come at the cost of healthcare and food security, there should be no contest.

Healthcare is most affected by the lack of capital.  In Mali, where no real form of health insurance exists, the sick and injured pay for their treatment before receiving it.  Even the 300 cfa ($0.60) cost to see a doctor at the public clinic is too much for many families, and that doesn’t include whatever medicine is needed and other procedures that might need to be performed.  Without saving, many people avoid care during the initial stages and end up waiting until their care is much more expensive to be treated.

This lack of forethought can also be seen at the end of the harvest season.  The director of the United States Agency for International Development told our program that Mali is a country that can feed itself and potentially other countries in the area; however, it imports a lot of food from other countries.  While the fertile land is self-sustaining, most farmers end up buying millet or imported Chinese rice at inflated prices later in the season because they sold most of their crops at the harvest.

Changing this mentality means changing the uncertainty of the future: an impossibility.  The only way to teach is through example, not through a foreigner preaching about the benefits of saving for the future.  Like most change, it can only come from inside and as frustrating as that is, the best we can do is to encourage people to take a chance and save for the future. Cultural change is not easy, nor is it necessarily the answer. However, when it comes to protecting future generations, I’d say it’s necessary.

Upon opening my mouth to speak my classroom-learned Spanish — if my appearance didn’t already give  me away — my exchanges with uruguayos quickly would shift from whether I  wanted anything else with my cafe con leche to what on earth I was doing in Montevideo.

Where are you from? What are you doing here? Studying what? In which university?

All questions to be expected for the most part. But the question I was most surprised by time and time again was:

“But why Uruguay?”

I wouldn’t say that uruguayos have an inferiority complex; they are very proud of their wonderful country, various authors and poets, outstanding soccer teams (winners of the first World Cup!), delicious dulce de leche sweets, and would renowned beaches.

But I would say they they are certainly very “size conscious.”

As a country of about three million, and half of that living in the city of Montevideo, Uruguay’s population is slightly smaller than that of the greater Boston area, in a country the size of North Dakota.

I was truly confused as to why so many Uruguayans didn’t understand why I would want to come live in their “little” country to study of all reasons, and not just to party in Punta del Este.

But Montevideo’s manageable size was exactly the reason I turned down the potentially overwhelming bustle of Buenos Aires on the other side of the Río de la Plata. Having never lived in a big city before, I was drawn to the opportunity to speak and study Spanish in a midsized city that still offered no shortage of travel options, with the many benefits of a beautiful beach boardwalk, a maté culture, and a prestigious university where I could continue to study international politics and environmental issues.

While an uruguayo would sometimes be a bit convinced by my list of reasons for landing in his country, he was usually still a bit, well, confused by me.

I do think that because of Uruguay’s size, its citizens are especially conscious of the goings on outside their border. Watching the news with my familia, there was rarely a night in which I didn’t see Barack Obama’s face or hear about new policies overseas. I was frequently embarrassed by my lack of familiarity with U.S. news in comparison to that of my host padre. One of the most interesting conversations I had with him (of course relating to politics) had to deal with U.S. foreign policy.

He was incredibly curious to hear what I had to say about troop increases in Afghanistan, the Bush years, the Conference in Copenhagen and everything the US was doing both domestically and internationally.

For a country that is not enormously impacted by the U.S. wars in the Middle East, uruguayos still care, are still interested, and certainly still have an opinion on the topic. I was incredibly impressed by that.

How often are U.S. citizens, obviously of a very large country with a profound presence in international affairs, interested in the policies of another country that don’t really affect them? How much of our nightly news has an international perspective?

How many Americans can even name and locate a few counties on the map that don’t share a border with the US?

The US is big, yes, but it has nothing comparable to dulce de leche, chivitos, or weekend ferias, or the national pride you’ll find in el estadio centenario during a World Cup qualifying match. I would probably never miss an economics class for the Superbowl (even if I liked football) but I, along with 95% of my class, was absent the night Uruguay beat Costa Rica to go to South Africa in 2010.

So although Uruguay may be a small country, it has taught me an enormous amount of Spanish, and as corny as it is to say, captured a huge part of my heart. I don’t think I could very eloquently explain that to the curious server at my favorite beachside cafe, but I think that Uruguay’s “smallness” was a huge contributor to my love for the country, and I am enormously grateful for the opportunity to spend time there. A giant beso y abrazo to the other little place that is hugely important to me; I hope J-term is wonderful for you all at Midd.

The funds were eliminated last year as part of campus-wide budget cuts to combat the economic crisis. Though a small group of dedicated students associated with the Middlebury Mountain Club (MMC) were able to develop and enact an outdoor orientation program for freshmen this past fall, called OINK, the program was much smaller than in the past.

MMC and the Middlebury Outdoor Programs have been key advocates of reinstating MiddView. Pier LaFarge ’10.5, an MMC board member, explained students’ enthusiastic support of restoring the MiddView program based on comments on the MiddView survey given last November.

The program “provided a healthy social context within an academic orientation,” he said, which includes a group-based social format that provides teamwork and cooperation.

Because of the College’s rural environment and the tendency for students to stay within the Middlebury campus bubble, “the MiddView program [helps] connect Middlebury students to their landscape immediately and broadens their sense of place.”

Additionally, the program would give “younger students the opportunity to interact with older students, who can provide their experience and have the ability to promote a culture within their groups.”

LaFarge said that in his years as an orientation leader, “I’ve got around the campfire and was being peppered by questions for hours and hours. After a long hike in the woods, everyone is sharing their common fears and it feels like the transition to Middlebury is suddenly easy.”

The initiative will cost $50,000 per year over the next three years, and will cover half of the MiddView programs, with the other half coming from participant fees.

Though the bill itself was controversial in the context of the numerous budget cuts, the SGA will fund this program from their own budget and will not have to decrease funding for other clubs and organizations. SGA members have decided to forego their annual SGA retreat along with other unnecessary expenses in order to fund programs like this.

They hope that a strong positive student response to the MiddView program in the next three years will inspire the administration to find a way to fund it for the long-term.

The SGA also set goals for the coming semester. Cook Commons Senator Riley O’Rourke ’12 pushed for improving transportation to and from Middlebury. He recommended that SGA examine the possibility of hiring student drivers to drive student passenger vans to and from Burlington and other locations over breaks.

This would enable students to get to and from the Burlington airport at a price much more reasonable price than those offered by Middlebury Transit and Jessica’s Vital Transit currently.

Another goal set by the SGA was to provide steady wireless internet service across campus, a project taken on by Library Information Services (LIS) in the fall but one that has shown little tangible results.

SGA also wants to simplify party registration on campus. There would be comprehensive workshops for students on safety and liability issues. Ad-hoc committees were formed for all three goals, all of which the SGA plans to accomplish by the end of the current school year.

In Arabic, the English phrase “Welcome to [country]” is translated as “Ahlan wa sahlan fii [country].” The literal translation back from Arabic is, “Welcome in [country].”  Therefore, when we receive our daily greetings from those Egyptians whose English comes from watching the widespread subtitled Hollywood action movies on satellite TV, we mostly hear the “Welcome in Egypt!” variety (instead of our grammatically accepted “Welcome to [country]”).

I say “daily greetings” because these salutations are indeed a daily occurrence, and daily of a magnitude that I did not expect. I knew before coming here that I was not going to blend in — as blondes studying in China or South America also would not blend — but I didn’t expect to be vocally reminded so much. (But hear me out, for this is more than a typical tale of a white male from homogenous New Hampshire finally having to deal with “being different”).

To our credit, I believe that this phenomenon in is trickier than in many other study abroad locations, even others in Egypt and the Middle East. Simply put, unlike Cairo or Beruit, Alexandria does not see a lot of foreigners.

I also believe that our study abroad group was foolish for not expecting attention like this. We had all listened to the lectures on female harassment in Egypt, and while shouts of “Welcome in Egypt!” do not qualify as harassment, it’s a similar product from the same environment.

And, of course, the Egyptians greet us with more than just “welcome” — we also hear “how are you?” and “hi” — but “welcome” sticks with me, because as a classmate said, “I’ve been here two months and they’re still welcoming me.” But of course the Egyptians in the street cannot know how long we have spent here. To them, we are foreigners and in Egypt — and especially Alexandria — foreigners are temporary. Foreigners are tourists, and most of the ones the Egyptians see are still in their opening — and closing — week in Egypt, still fair game for “welcoming.”

But as noteworthy as we are being foreigners, we are even more worthy of note because we speak Egyptian, at least to an extent. This makes the average Egyptian much more interested in us, but more importantly, it lets us hear something other than “welcome.” A lifeguard on the Mediterranean coast talked intense politics with me for over an hour. A group of 10 year-olds led me around the zoo. A family in a park told me that I absolutely must sing for them (because all Americans are good singers).

The fact that the calls of “Welcome in Egypt!” have become slightly annoying is testament to the fact that we have passed through the “welcoming phase.” We have had meaningful connections with people here, and thus the seemingly meaningless, Middle Eastern-accented greetings just seem silly. But if anyone looks truly silly on Egyptian turf, it’s us, and if they want to point that out, that’s okay by me. As long as they’re still welcoming us.

Basically, in a sentence, it is every rule of politesse that we are taught as kids in the United States systematically turned on its head. Eating on the floor? Check. Eating with your hands? Check. Actually, that’s a lie; you may only eat with one hand: the right. The left is reserved for other, dirtier tasks. (Use your imagination to fill in the blanks.) Spitting food on the floor if you don’t want it? Oh yeah, baby.

You can steal other people’s food from across the bowl, you can lick your fingers and you can leave the “table” whenever you want. It’s truly a glorious system.
Okay, but really. Eating around the bowl with my host family each night is something that I’ve come to love. Actually, I might have fallen in love with it at first sight. It’s amazing how truly shared everything is.

My family eats with spoons sometimes, but my host mom always uses her hands and it is her job to divvy up the vegetables and meat so that everybody gets some. If we’re eating ceebujën (the national dish of Senegal, which translates from Wolof into, literally, “rice and fish”) she makes sure that I get enough fish and carrots. I’m still sort of shy around the bowl, although my endless search for any kind of vegetables has encouraged my assertiveness.

I’ve developed a different sort of relationship with food here. Sometimes I think they put vegetables in dishes simply for decoration. A dish is unveiled and it looks perfect for about 12 seconds, then all of the vegetables are put swiftly put in another bowl. The rejection pile is what I thrive off of. Oh, the vitamins. And fish? Simply a synonym for protein. Rice is there just because it’s tasty and makes one feel full. We all huddle together on the ground … arms entangle, knees bang together, bread crumbs flutter around like confetti. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m eating. Usually I ask but sometimes I quietly accept ignorance as the better option.

Sometimes I contemplate what the Senegalese would do if faced with something like the food pyramid. It’s nearly always amazing. This onion sauce that my sister makes that we put on practically everything? Absolutely bomb. She knows what’s up. And who wouldn’t want to finish a meal with their family with mangoes, watermelon, bananas, and bissap juice? Approximately seventeen cups of sugar per ounce of delicious berry juice, I would guess — oh yeah.

By the time dinner is done at about 10:30, I am ready to crawl into my little mosquito—netted bed, make a bedtime wish that the electricity will stay on throughout the night to allow the fan to continue to run, and fall asleep to the sound of the call to prayer from the mosque down the street. It’s a beautiful thing.