The road to Mulbadaw is a rough road to travel. Tell any Tanzanian you took a weekend excursion to this rural community in Hanang district, tucked into the dry savannah about 170 km south of Arusha, and they will laugh at you, “Oh! You survived the journey?” They know we wazungu prefer cruising down Tanzania’s largely unpaved roads in hired 4x4s en route to safari in Tarangire or to trek up Kili (both of which have been my only reason to ride these roads outside Arusha so far). Any attraction to we wageni (visitors) is relatively unimaginable.
Nevertheless, our Work the World team arose at 5 am on Friday to board the Mtei Express Coach to Mulbadaw, which creaked and clunked atop battered tires and weary axles, the driver barging down dirt paths, face masked from the billowing dust clouds with a red bandana. Acquiescing to the unbearably truthful plea of Mama Janet Wema, the manager of the Hanang Orphans Support Fund (HOSF) who I met recently in Arusha, I agreed to bring our HIV Testing programme to Mulbadaw Secondary School in her rural home, as truly, “No one comes with this knowledge to us. Everyone works in Arusha, but we are forgotten.”
And certainly not with cruel intentions, I quickly realize. Though the vehicle is six times the size of a daladala, the proportion of people per square foot (approximately 2.75) remains unchanged. We are fortunate enough to have actual seats, ripped plastic upholstery labeled with black marker, but the aisles are crowded with passengers who need to get home to Katesh (riders who know that with a small bribe to the officers who stop us along the road, disapproving of the overcapacity, they can complete their journey). A chicken squawks from under the seat beside me, a woman crushes her batik-wrapped butt against my face as she shifts heavily to allow someone to pass. The rough terrain – as so many roads in Tanzania are unpaved and undriveable - makes for a 7-hour ride, our vibrating bodies racing over roads riddled with pebbles and potholes.
Despite the discomfort I am deep into Bill Easterly’s “The White Man’s Burden” and for once, defy my desire to spend the entire trip gazing out the window to absorb atmospheric details into my brain. Preoccupied with Easterly’s analysis of Planners and Searchers, and considering its application to KUVA (Kupima Ukimwi kwa VIjana wa Arusha, the HIV Testing Programme we are conducting), my brain cannot handle the sensory overload of vast savannah horizons yawning to life as the sun rises overhead. I pause only momentarily to follow Barabaig children prancing up and down the roadside; some twirling miniature herding staffs, some busy chopping grass with machetes as long as their bodies, some biking furiously with dingy jerry cans clunking haphazardly behind. (Barabaig: the most populous tribe of the area’s Datoga ethnic group) As always my mind begins to wander along with them – where have they come from, and where are they going?
But a new sense of focus puts a vice on my wonder. Instead of absorbing the world outside the cracked windows, I am fiercely conscious of my travel companions (no, not the chicken) on my side of the glass: Magda, Mat, Katie, Lauragh and Cat: our team. I worry - is Katie eating enough? Does Mat feel as though he has been able to contribute his opinions as much as these outspoken ladies? Is Madga’s unbreakable positivity a mask for any subtle insecurity? Will clearly ‘knackered’ (I’m picking up British slang too) Cat survive this painfully jarring ride? How is Lauragh coping with missing Ben, her boyfriend, for these days away from town? After even a few intensely intimate days with the team, their incredible talents, strengths, and skills are obvious to me and I cannot help but zoom in directly past this surface image they present, into the personal difficulties I can recognize and intently track. I want the best for each of my volunteers and through their own security, the best for our team and our Programme.
I had agreed to the terms of our visit to Mulbadaw knowing full well that it would be challenging, (that’s before being greeted by over 300 students in the yard) and unlike our Arusha Programme – a more daunting language barrier, no previous relationship with the students or staff, a first dive into the curriculum we have just compiled and designed. Unlike the 8 schools at which we will work with for the next 3 weeks – where we have already conferenced with teacher-mentors and selected ten student volunteers (with English proficiency) to undergo what will be peer health educator training across six planned and practiced one hour sessions - Mulbadaw represented an opportunity to get our feet wet before taking the dive. With few expectations or regulations – besides, as Easterly describes ideal attempts at effective foreign aid, “first, do no harm” – we realized quickly the day was more like taking the dive and learning to swim once we hit the water.
Doggy-paddling through introductions and initial explanations of the programme, we tried to create a comfortable social atmosphere and soon warmed up into a steady stroke. Individual students stepped up to participate in sessions and organically began to lead themselves. Though on paper we conducted the same instructive interactive role-plays, condom demonstrations, casual discussions and mini-dramas, as I have done in America, the receiving end here in Hanang is quite different. Baraki, one of my group’s natural leaders, politely pulls me aside as I try to organize students to create a mini-drama about reaching goals and adhering to values. He whispers to me, “There might be a problem, you see: we are all of different tribes – Barabaig, Iraqi, Samburu – and we all come from different traditions, and do different drama” Baraki suggests allowing students of the same tradition work together on acting teams, instead of the groups I have otherwise arbitrarily arranged. “Kabisa!” I exclaim, a bit disgusted at my unintentionally colonial behavior, “Definitely!” I sit back and watch their masterpieces, wide-eyed, as generous Michael translates for me in a whisper. With relatively minimal motivation from our team, these students have adopted our curriculum of “life-planning” – which builds up to HIV/AIDS education and encouragement of testing – and made it their own, become peer educators without having to say so explicitly. Had we tried to force this identity upon them, we probably would have failed, our agendas void of careful cultural considerations and intangible trust in another’s abilities that were realized only by getting to know these individuals and more about their lives we were encouraging them to plan.
We could have well spent this day in Arusha, diligently planning for the Arusha programme. We certainly lost valuable planning time on the long round trip, and evident in our group debriefs, lost a lot of patience with the difficulty of the day.
We dragged our tired feet back to HOSF to spend the remainder of the late afternoon – a stunning magenta sunset melting into a calm, chirping twilight - with Mama Janet’s ‘children’, 22 orphans (many from AIDS) from little Steven aged 8 up to Mary, my big sister of 21. A few of the orphans are students at Mulbadaw, and Salome (19 and reminding me of Diana) and I hold hands and chat in all the shared Kiswahili-English we can muster. She wants to be a teacher, she shows me where some of her best friends live (which means a finger pointing into the distance), and knowing her for only one day, I feel a powerful sisterhood between us, two young women, two strangers, who clearly each have some void yearning to be filled, finding fulfillment in one another.
After arrival at Mama’s modest home, the children performed two songs for our team as a welcome, and I find myself wrapped somewhere within the plait of bold, rhythmic harmonies, sweetly intentional melodies, and the beauty of their gracefully unified sway: I am overwhelmed with happiness at their unconditional hospitality. (We were never once asked to pay for food or accommodations, but certainly left a large gift with Mama) Feeling so fulfilled by the peace I have found in Salome and her siblings, I wondered if perhaps this trip was an unconsciously selfish abuse of my programme manager powers, as I am always eager to escape Arusha and see more of Tanzania. My volunteers are still so new – was it right to take them on this difficult journey only a few days into their arrival? Will I be tainting their experience of Tanzania by bringing them down this rough road?
As is customary, there is an announcement issued by Mama before we dig into the delicious chakula (food). Our traveling companion, legendary Oddo of CCF who initially introduced me to Janet, translates her welcome: “We give you pole (‘sorry’/apologies) for the long journey - bad road, a lot of dust”. Her soft, careful voice pauses to collect her next, seemingly heavier, bundle of words, “Happy are those who have a good heart for they will see Mungu (God)… One way of seeing Mungu is visiting these orphans. They wish you to see Mungu.” Just before I think I can hold myself together, she concludes:
“May Mungu give you back anything you may have lost in coming here”.
My eyes well up involuntarily, my heart acting without warning my brain, at Oddo’s poignant translation of Mama’s well wishes. What have I possibly lost comparable to the loss of parental love and attention that each of these children suffer? Uncramped legs? A clean nasal passage?
Sure we have lost some time, for which there is always an opportunity cost. Our team collectively (though still considerately, I must add!) lost patience at certain points. But I rack my brain and cannot think of what else I could have possibly ‘lost’ on this trip, realizing how much I feel I have gained so much since we arrived.
On the continuum of pain that loss incurs from inconvenience to tragedy, sensitive and responsible human interaction becomes increasingly more important as we progress down the line…yet is increasingly less available, oftentimes. In NYC I lose my keys. This is an inconvenience. I can get my brain together and find them, call Vicky and borrow her set until I find mine, or quite easily call a landlord or locksmith. In Hanang, hundreds of children have lost their parents to AIDS. This is a tragedy. These orphans cannot replace their parents nor the love, security, and confidence of which they have consequently been robbed. For 22 of them, a Mama Janet might come along and transform their future. A team of wazungu might pass through and share a meal and some songs. But few people take the rough road out to Katesh, and the human interactions necessary to solve our generation’s biggest tragedies are left unsupported and as Mama said, ‘forgotten’.
At Mulbadaw Secondary, we had to create opportunities to lose parts of ourselves in order to better define and find those parts. I had to (gasp) allow sessions to run overtime to realize what the most important and crucial sections of the curriculum should have been implemented in that time. Cat had to lose a sense of security to find her creativity when sub-group session discussions grew spontaneously and had to stay solo. It’s not that the loss is necessarily the tragedy. It’s when one – whether unwilling or resource constrained - is unable to find after having lost.
A rough road should never been interpreted as necessarily having a disappointing destination, a loss never as an automatic synonym for sadness. Although the loss causes sadness, the unpredictable ways in which we will fill the loss, or be given it back, can bring the greatest fulfillment.
And so I emphasize that the road to Katesh, Hanang, is a rough road to travel. Students of Mulbadaw live 3 bumpy hours away from the nearest hospital when can raise the fare to go for an HIV test - if transportation faster than donkey or foot is even available. Mama Janet is in the midst of building a new compound on donated land to avoid currently debilitating rent payments, but must turn away Hanang’s hundreds of orphans until she has the facilities to house them and resources to support them. I correct Mama, but only in my heart, May Mungu give your children everything back they may have lost. Rather, may you and the children have every opportunity to which I am privileged to ‘find’.
31 July 2007
23 July 2007
Internalizing Externalities
“I think Africa is good for Kate!” proclaims a beaming Dr. Tekle, “You look great!”
I take a seat in his cramped office beside a bookshelf that simultaneously boasts, “Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery” and “Everything you Ever Wanted to Know about being an Alcoholic but were too Drunk to Ask”. I smile at this reflection of Tekle’s quirky sense of humor that persists through an otherwise uncompromising professionalism. His compliments renders my speech sloppy, as I begin to retort, “I think Kate is good for Africa!” quickly realizing that this is wrong and he has already said what I want to say. I am at a loss for a proper response, so my eyes turn down and I smile.
I have finally made time to check in with Dr. Tekle, who I befriended early on in my time here (the man who teased me upon first meeting when I asked him –perhaps too sternly – what time we would be meeting next. “You Americans”, he laughed, “always so concerned with time!”). A devout Ethiopian Seventh Day Adventist Christian with a charming obsession with cheesy chain e-mail inspiration, Tekle is one of many local experts against whom I check myself every time I think I have a fantastic idea. He makes sure my bases are covered as he pushes me to be on top of my game.
“You speak such good Kiswahili now!” he gushes, half in pride and praise (for he started my vocabulary back in May), and half pulling my leg – I’m approaching comfortable conversational but far from fluency! I thank him but know I still rely heavily on he and others as translators, both linguistically and culturally.
So I get down to business like a good American and catch him up with progress made on the Programme: the creation of what will be a community Event and secondary school peer education and public health initiative…(trumpets blare, drum roll, gong echo please!): “Kupima Ukimwi kwa Vijana wa Arusha”, or KUVA 2007, a youth-initiated campaign to encourage HIV Testing in Arusha.
I constructed the framework for this Programme so that my five Work the World Volunteers (WTWV) and secondary school student participants will be the true architects, and I explain the concept as I flip through loose sheets of A4 (I maintain the most glorious nature of chaotic order in so much of my work); the school workshop schedule, a copy of the Teacher-Mentor Dinner invitation, Stadium rental receipt, and a sponsorship form I threw together on a whim and need to tighten up. KUVA 2007 is no (Red) campaign, it’s no PEPFAR, it is no brilliant big plan or eternally sustainable cure for AIDS in Arusha. KUVA is a modest community led initiative to promote the recently launched Tanzania National Testing Campaign. It is an effort to translate this national brilliant big plan into action on a small scale.
[As a small child, I recall afternoons when my mom would lug the 4 Otto kids into a CVS, and once in a while (those rare days when Matthew wouldn’t bully us, Andrew wouldn’t insult a checkout woman, Diana and I wouldn’t be bickering) offer to buy us something small, something fun. I always reached for books of connect-the-dots, my favorite exercise. I’m not sure I have ever grown out of this appreciation.]
Our goal in Arusha is to link up local youth with healthcare services, specifically VCT, that exist but are underutilized. WTWV will be trained by local peer educators in a locally developed sexual health and life planning skills curriculum, and work with a Headmaster-appointed Teacher-Mentor and ten student committee at seven secondary schools and one street children’s home to train youth as peer health educators and plan KUVA into an Event on August 18th.
My first volunteer, Lauragh, arrived on Wednesday, and Tekle’s comment is not the first time this week I’ve noticed or considered personal changes. Lauragh unknowingly stood for two days as a ruler against my two months here, measuring where I began, buzzing in off my NYC high, and where I now stand, still buzzing, but in Arusha tempo.
An immediate realization as she tags along is my tendency to detour, as she playfully point out on our trip to collect pre-Programme student surveys. We walked up the long ruddy dirt road to Bishop Durning High School in Sanawari, and from the sidelines of storefronts that lined the barabara (road), a voice squeaked out loudly from atop her hill, “mZUUUngu!!” I skip up the wooden slat steps to greet baby Barbara, a child I befriended on my first attempt at finding this far-off campus. “Sema Dada Kate! (call me sister Kate!)”, I insist, but she is more stubborn than me and insists on calling me her mzungu. We buy her some caramel sweets and she giggles relentlessly as we head back on our way up the hill, waving “Kwaheri! (Goodbye!)” to her chubby smile.
I try to pay attention the rest of the day to my reactions, my mannerisms, and my assumptions, identifying behavioral luxuries that, as my role changes, I may have to give up. The Programme begins today, and my role has already changed to leader, care-taker, and customer service department as I have welcomed my team of WTWV into Arusha: Lauragh, Magda, Cat, Katie and Mathew.
I have moved out of the WTW House down to a local hostel with the team, and although I don’t mind the new inconveniences – as I type, tiny ants scramble across my keyboard, a gecko wriggles in our laundry sink, and electricity is not presently available – I remind myself that I have the added comfort of not having to mind. I am being paid, while these volunteers are paying, and have been promised certain conveniences.
I spent yesterday my afternoon chasing my landlord – loving and hospitable Mama Orpa - who does not understand an iota of my newly-developed (and uncomfortable) urgency. She chastises me, not understanding I am upset because she does not have the room availability she promised me in June. “Don’t worry! You are worried, I know your face, this is not you!” I’m not worried, Mama Orpa, I say to myself, a busy-Kate is worried, I sigh. But the problems at hand are manageable (I winced as my demand made Orpa forced a very angry Kenyan man to move out of his room) and more so than this Programme, for whose joyous challenges I am prepared to tackle for 5 weeks, I am afraid I will switch back to this busy-Kate once I leave the peaceful energy of this town (“He tries to say he will sue me,” Orpa tsks, unconcerned, “Those Kenyans are so busy busy busy…we Tanzanians, we love peace.” Imagine Orpa in Manhattan!)
The thought occurred to me late last week, that with a changed role, busy-Kate is now more likely to pass people by than Kate who is not chained to a third party schedule. [Although I do continually remind myself that this schedule is my summer job and an incredible blessing.] So with a “live-like-there’s-no-tomorrow” spirit I deliberately stopped to accept some sugarcane – despite being on my mission to pick up more surveys at Jaffery High School - from Johan, who at first I did rush by (“Hapana, asante – no thank you”). 200 shillings (about 10 cents) is an amazing deal and refreshing boost under the midday sun, and I crunched down on the cane, sucking in sticky juice as a toast to my final day ‘alone’. John flashes me a brown stained smile, clad in a faded denim shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, a dusty red polar fleece vest, and flimsy dress pants, and I use every word in my vocabulary to attempt a meaningful conversation. At age 15 he is not in school, he has a brother Albini and a sister Pensioza who live in Moshoto, and he wants to be a pilot when he grows up. Unnecessary and unrelated to the Programme, I find glorious satisfaction in absorbing such details.
Later that day, I begin to walk away from Sekei Secondary school once I realize the teacher will be very late to our meeting to pick up surveys– ‘too late’ for my schedule – but I nevertheless stay when welcomed to share some wali na maharagwe (good old rice and beans) that teachers Happiness and Rosie have graciously offered to me in the stuffy staff room, and I even get a Kiswahili lesson out of it as she refuses to speak in English, but graciously speaks slowly and repeats sentences to me to help me learn.
I am praised in many ways in NYC for being able to balance a busy schedule. A full resume, a daily life of academic and professional purpose, somewhere to be, something to do. But what’s so praiseworthy? I can’t help but wonder. Lofty plans, as personal as my endless to-do lists or public as UN Millennium Development Goals, are admirable efforts, but at the end of the day, are the easy way out. Check, check, check. But there’s so much behind those to-do list items, those grandiose Goals. So what if I can check off “surveys collected” for our school peer education Programme, but have neglected opportunities to explore why Johan might never take such a survey, or what Happiness as a Tanzanian teacher thinks of the Programme? The positive externalities of a detour, as long as the destination is kept in mind, are unpredictable and incredibly valuable. To maintain both an undeterred focus and a 360-degree view of one’s environment is more challenging and more praiseworthy.
“From before when we first met you are now so different,” Tekle raises his eyebrows, searching my face for specifics. I hope he means that working in Africa has conditioned me to be less focused on checking off an item and more interested in the item itself.
“What’s the difference?” I prod.
“Beauty.”
I am apprehensive that I may have less time for detours now that the Programme is beginning and I am no longer just responsible for myself but for others. I worry even more that I will become ‘efficiency’-obsessed again once I hit the pavement on 2nd and A, and no longer make time for detours, intentionally. I imagine this must be somewhat like getting married or starting a family – it’s not that you aren’t madly in love and live for the relationships, but when a bit of you gets locked into others it is no longer reserved for yourself. And I suppose it is part of growing up, learning to share not only what you have, but who you are.
“Let’s not waste any time,” Tekle says, switching gears back to expert advisor.
“Oh really?” I toss back at him, “You’re sounding American on me now!”
I take a seat in his cramped office beside a bookshelf that simultaneously boasts, “Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery” and “Everything you Ever Wanted to Know about being an Alcoholic but were too Drunk to Ask”. I smile at this reflection of Tekle’s quirky sense of humor that persists through an otherwise uncompromising professionalism. His compliments renders my speech sloppy, as I begin to retort, “I think Kate is good for Africa!” quickly realizing that this is wrong and he has already said what I want to say. I am at a loss for a proper response, so my eyes turn down and I smile.
I have finally made time to check in with Dr. Tekle, who I befriended early on in my time here (the man who teased me upon first meeting when I asked him –perhaps too sternly – what time we would be meeting next. “You Americans”, he laughed, “always so concerned with time!”). A devout Ethiopian Seventh Day Adventist Christian with a charming obsession with cheesy chain e-mail inspiration, Tekle is one of many local experts against whom I check myself every time I think I have a fantastic idea. He makes sure my bases are covered as he pushes me to be on top of my game.
“You speak such good Kiswahili now!” he gushes, half in pride and praise (for he started my vocabulary back in May), and half pulling my leg – I’m approaching comfortable conversational but far from fluency! I thank him but know I still rely heavily on he and others as translators, both linguistically and culturally.
So I get down to business like a good American and catch him up with progress made on the Programme: the creation of what will be a community Event and secondary school peer education and public health initiative…(trumpets blare, drum roll, gong echo please!): “Kupima Ukimwi kwa Vijana wa Arusha”, or KUVA 2007, a youth-initiated campaign to encourage HIV Testing in Arusha.
I constructed the framework for this Programme so that my five Work the World Volunteers (WTWV) and secondary school student participants will be the true architects, and I explain the concept as I flip through loose sheets of A4 (I maintain the most glorious nature of chaotic order in so much of my work); the school workshop schedule, a copy of the Teacher-Mentor Dinner invitation, Stadium rental receipt, and a sponsorship form I threw together on a whim and need to tighten up. KUVA 2007 is no (Red) campaign, it’s no PEPFAR, it is no brilliant big plan or eternally sustainable cure for AIDS in Arusha. KUVA is a modest community led initiative to promote the recently launched Tanzania National Testing Campaign. It is an effort to translate this national brilliant big plan into action on a small scale.
[As a small child, I recall afternoons when my mom would lug the 4 Otto kids into a CVS, and once in a while (those rare days when Matthew wouldn’t bully us, Andrew wouldn’t insult a checkout woman, Diana and I wouldn’t be bickering) offer to buy us something small, something fun. I always reached for books of connect-the-dots, my favorite exercise. I’m not sure I have ever grown out of this appreciation.]
Our goal in Arusha is to link up local youth with healthcare services, specifically VCT, that exist but are underutilized. WTWV will be trained by local peer educators in a locally developed sexual health and life planning skills curriculum, and work with a Headmaster-appointed Teacher-Mentor and ten student committee at seven secondary schools and one street children’s home to train youth as peer health educators and plan KUVA into an Event on August 18th.
My first volunteer, Lauragh, arrived on Wednesday, and Tekle’s comment is not the first time this week I’ve noticed or considered personal changes. Lauragh unknowingly stood for two days as a ruler against my two months here, measuring where I began, buzzing in off my NYC high, and where I now stand, still buzzing, but in Arusha tempo.
An immediate realization as she tags along is my tendency to detour, as she playfully point out on our trip to collect pre-Programme student surveys. We walked up the long ruddy dirt road to Bishop Durning High School in Sanawari, and from the sidelines of storefronts that lined the barabara (road), a voice squeaked out loudly from atop her hill, “mZUUUngu!!” I skip up the wooden slat steps to greet baby Barbara, a child I befriended on my first attempt at finding this far-off campus. “Sema Dada Kate! (call me sister Kate!)”, I insist, but she is more stubborn than me and insists on calling me her mzungu. We buy her some caramel sweets and she giggles relentlessly as we head back on our way up the hill, waving “Kwaheri! (Goodbye!)” to her chubby smile.
I try to pay attention the rest of the day to my reactions, my mannerisms, and my assumptions, identifying behavioral luxuries that, as my role changes, I may have to give up. The Programme begins today, and my role has already changed to leader, care-taker, and customer service department as I have welcomed my team of WTWV into Arusha: Lauragh, Magda, Cat, Katie and Mathew.
I have moved out of the WTW House down to a local hostel with the team, and although I don’t mind the new inconveniences – as I type, tiny ants scramble across my keyboard, a gecko wriggles in our laundry sink, and electricity is not presently available – I remind myself that I have the added comfort of not having to mind. I am being paid, while these volunteers are paying, and have been promised certain conveniences.
I spent yesterday my afternoon chasing my landlord – loving and hospitable Mama Orpa - who does not understand an iota of my newly-developed (and uncomfortable) urgency. She chastises me, not understanding I am upset because she does not have the room availability she promised me in June. “Don’t worry! You are worried, I know your face, this is not you!” I’m not worried, Mama Orpa, I say to myself, a busy-Kate is worried, I sigh. But the problems at hand are manageable (I winced as my demand made Orpa forced a very angry Kenyan man to move out of his room) and more so than this Programme, for whose joyous challenges I am prepared to tackle for 5 weeks, I am afraid I will switch back to this busy-Kate once I leave the peaceful energy of this town (“He tries to say he will sue me,” Orpa tsks, unconcerned, “Those Kenyans are so busy busy busy…we Tanzanians, we love peace.” Imagine Orpa in Manhattan!)
The thought occurred to me late last week, that with a changed role, busy-Kate is now more likely to pass people by than Kate who is not chained to a third party schedule. [Although I do continually remind myself that this schedule is my summer job and an incredible blessing.] So with a “live-like-there’s-no-tomorrow” spirit I deliberately stopped to accept some sugarcane – despite being on my mission to pick up more surveys at Jaffery High School - from Johan, who at first I did rush by (“Hapana, asante – no thank you”). 200 shillings (about 10 cents) is an amazing deal and refreshing boost under the midday sun, and I crunched down on the cane, sucking in sticky juice as a toast to my final day ‘alone’. John flashes me a brown stained smile, clad in a faded denim shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, a dusty red polar fleece vest, and flimsy dress pants, and I use every word in my vocabulary to attempt a meaningful conversation. At age 15 he is not in school, he has a brother Albini and a sister Pensioza who live in Moshoto, and he wants to be a pilot when he grows up. Unnecessary and unrelated to the Programme, I find glorious satisfaction in absorbing such details.
Later that day, I begin to walk away from Sekei Secondary school once I realize the teacher will be very late to our meeting to pick up surveys– ‘too late’ for my schedule – but I nevertheless stay when welcomed to share some wali na maharagwe (good old rice and beans) that teachers Happiness and Rosie have graciously offered to me in the stuffy staff room, and I even get a Kiswahili lesson out of it as she refuses to speak in English, but graciously speaks slowly and repeats sentences to me to help me learn.
I am praised in many ways in NYC for being able to balance a busy schedule. A full resume, a daily life of academic and professional purpose, somewhere to be, something to do. But what’s so praiseworthy? I can’t help but wonder. Lofty plans, as personal as my endless to-do lists or public as UN Millennium Development Goals, are admirable efforts, but at the end of the day, are the easy way out. Check, check, check. But there’s so much behind those to-do list items, those grandiose Goals. So what if I can check off “surveys collected” for our school peer education Programme, but have neglected opportunities to explore why Johan might never take such a survey, or what Happiness as a Tanzanian teacher thinks of the Programme? The positive externalities of a detour, as long as the destination is kept in mind, are unpredictable and incredibly valuable. To maintain both an undeterred focus and a 360-degree view of one’s environment is more challenging and more praiseworthy.
“From before when we first met you are now so different,” Tekle raises his eyebrows, searching my face for specifics. I hope he means that working in Africa has conditioned me to be less focused on checking off an item and more interested in the item itself.
“What’s the difference?” I prod.
“Beauty.”
I am apprehensive that I may have less time for detours now that the Programme is beginning and I am no longer just responsible for myself but for others. I worry even more that I will become ‘efficiency’-obsessed again once I hit the pavement on 2nd and A, and no longer make time for detours, intentionally. I imagine this must be somewhat like getting married or starting a family – it’s not that you aren’t madly in love and live for the relationships, but when a bit of you gets locked into others it is no longer reserved for yourself. And I suppose it is part of growing up, learning to share not only what you have, but who you are.
“Let’s not waste any time,” Tekle says, switching gears back to expert advisor.
“Oh really?” I toss back at him, “You’re sounding American on me now!”
15 July 2007
Summit II: July 8 – July 15
I write to you in endless gratitude after a challenging and exhilarating week on Mount Kilimanjaro. The terrain became less forgiving every day, transforming from lush rainforest below the cloud line, to barren heath and moorland above 3000 m, all the way up to the glacial Uhuru Peak, which my team and I reached around noon on Friday, July 13th. I have never before relied more upon prayers or more powerfully felt the presence of loved ones from afar – I cannot find a more sincere and true way to say that you were with me the entire way. As promised I brought a list of names up to the top with me and thanked you, tears freezing on my cheeks, for giving me the strength to reach our goal. THANK YOU!!! I will report back with a final count on funds raised for KCA by the week's end, and remind you that it is never to late to join in this effort!
Chizme - or “Cheeseman” as we playfully called one of our nine faithful porters – woke me in my pup tent on Summit morning as he did every morning, with a plastic cup of hot, black tea and a bowl of warm water for washing. 4 am, and I shivered in delirium after another night of tumultuous slumber, fumbling for my daypack and dressing quickly. I uneasily stuffed down a small bowl of porridge, head pulsing a bit from the altitude (4600 m), stomach churning from a combination of swallowing malaria meds, pounding a liter of water, and easing tense nerves. 4:30 am, headlamp clicked on, lighting only a small patch by my feet, and we’re off: myself, Suzie and Liz, led by our guide Bongo and faithful Cheeseman.
After we had emerged above the cloudline after Day 1, at 3500 m, we were witness to delightfully freezing 6 am wakeups with the sun; she peeked over Kili, and as she rose, chased us up the hill on our daily ascents. We retreated back to our tents every night after a delicious meal of rice or pasta and vegetables, hot soup, and fruits, prepared by our cook Nesto, beneath a dazzling galaxy, every tiny star so prominent at this high altitude. Each day seemed more enjoyable than the last the farther away I hiked from Arusha, from work, from life. The ascents all seemed impossible at first glance, up toward Lava Tower, down into Karanga Valley, up and over Barranco Ridge – but with my second-hand bartered boots, warm thermals, cargo shorts, sunglasses, wide brim hat and trusty Red Sox tee, I waked for about 8 hours a day, uphill, one foot in front of the other, over and over. I was shocked at how whole and fulfilled I felt at the end of each day, as I normally thrive on multitasking and juggling responsibilities, deadlines and tasks. All I had to do was eat, sleep, and walk, for 5 nights and 6 days.
Day 5, Summit day, was the final stretch. The moon hung as a bright silver sliver, but up in that heaven, the entire sphere was visible, faded craters like dimples on her smiling crescent. In the harsh morning wind, I prayed that my poor circulation would not keep me from the top, and in those few early hours it was the warmth of those who were wishing me well that kept me distracted. I imagined Diana and Andrew sprinting across the field at MBC to dive onto a makeshift slip and slide; I thought of Leigh and the KCA crew laughing with Sandile and Simphiwe at Ikageng; I hoped Matthew, Katie and Erin were not letting the hustle of NYC catch them up and were enjoying the sweltering city summer. My body was clutching clammy rocks and maneuvering up a steep stone obstacle course, but my mind was reeling from soul to soul, and soon enough a fiery orb appeared on the horizon, spreading her flame across the ocean of cumulonimbus below. I had made it to sunrise, and although my blood began to defrost, our path was no longer hidden in the night. Kili towered above us as we approached the snowline, Uhuru Peak feeling farther away than ever.
This summit presented an entirely unique challenge. We walked past and were passed by fellow trekkers of all ages, sizes, and physical abilities. I think that anyone can handle the physical pressures of Kili. Summit Day is intense, aside from a relentless uphill hike where the peak seems to tease you and rise higher with your every step, aside from the shortness of breath and lack of oxygen, aside from thirst and aching. Because you can keep lifting your legs and digging in your walking poles, you can monitor and keep steady your breathing by singing or praying rhythmically and you can take a break. What makes it so intense is the mental fortitude absolutely necessary to reach the peak.
I imagined Mom and Dad at either side of me, lifting me up, and whether it was mild altitude sickness or true answered prayers, I became lighter, and I kept marching up. I heard my Papou bragging about his granddaughter who made it to the top (“She gets her athleticism from me”), I heard my Yiayia telling me to be a “tough cookie”, I heard Dee Dee’s questions that always transform my trips into adventures, I whistled through pursed, chapped lips like Pop Pop used to do. I kept going.
The hours dragged on, the terrain a monotonous blinding snow (from which I sustained my only ‘injury’, a wind and sun burnt face, exposed below the cheeks). Liz stopped to heave and vomit, Suzie to nurse a pounding headache. I breathed with a religiously steady pace and thanked Bruce Calvert and dearest G for demanding such breathing diligence through years of swim practices and chorus rehearsals. I found myself the only one of the trio to have kept my health at this altitude, now over 5000 m, and assumed position at the back of the line, trying to soak up some of their struggle with every breath in and channel out positive energy with every breath out. The crew collapsed at Stella Point, an hour’s hike from our final destination, where many hikers call it quits from altitude sickness and are forced to retreat. But Bongo bolstered our spirits, and step after step, a last grueling uphill stretch, chanting an Agios o Theos out loud and imagining an army of loved ones pushing me from behind, shoving with the wind…we did it.
A continent spread out below us, but all I could do was thank you for helping me reach this height. Twenty minutes of rest, during which Liz spun into further delirium and Suzie into fatigue, and we were off the peak, and all to suddenly my journey seemed to have come to a close.
The mad scramble down to give the girls proper altitude to recover before their condition worsened was a mix of concern and comedy, slipping and sliding through pebbly alpine desert dirt, practically skiing, avoiding boulders at all costs. Gravity was almost a nuisance, pulling me down so forcefully – sure, I was getting to my destination faster, but I had no time to absorb the beauty around me, no mind space to think beyond my next quick step. I immediately preferred the natural gravity that existed between the peak and my heart, so full of loved ones all helping me ascend. It was a force I had a large part in creating and although it was more difficult, I had to find energy, focus, and determination in faith – it was infinitely more fulfilling.
I couldn’t help but think the entire 5 hour descent on Saturday (5 days up, 5 hours down!), how much this necessarily speedy descent twirled me back to my transition back from Ghana last year – the same fears, confusions and discomforts emerging as I planted foot after foot with effortless momentum, pounding my toes painfully into my boots, which as my feet de-swelled from altitude, had more room for banging around. I started thinking about work. About the insane amount of calories and carbs I had consumed in the past week. About silly things that did not matter when I had my goal, my journey so clearly on the horizon. I felt distracted, alone, and unmotivated. I slid and slipped down, disheartened.
We finished a day ahead of schedule and had the option to return home to Arusha on Saturday night. Liz took the offer and rode off in a 4x4, but I needed to stay and sort myself out. How could I allow my mentality to change so quickly? I let myself fall into confusion last summer, but I refuse to do this again!
I woke up to a pattering of rain at 3:30 am and read another chapter in my book Nouno gave me by headlamp light. Nesto prepared a final breakfast of fruits and porridge for us, but Suzie and I looked at the line of women and children waiting to load construction supplies onto their head at the park gate, getting maybe 6,000 Tanzanian shillings ($5) for this day’s work, sloshing uphill in this rainy mess sans boots or raincoats. Our stomachs dropped in unison and our hunger disappeared. We asked Bongo if we could give all the rest of our food to these workers and he helped us distribute the meager portions out to grabbing hands. Suzie and I bit our chapped lips, trying to not let useless tears cloud our last visions of Kilimanjaro. But we were back down from heaven, back into reality, and now had to handle this injustice in our minds (“Justice delayed is justice denied”, rings through my head from Nairobi) as well as with our hands. I realized what a vacation from reality Kili was, allowing me to build my strength – my calves and my patience – to develop focus and concentration, to prove that persistence and prayer does produce results. There is still so much work to be done.
6 weeks left in Arusha, the last 5 dedicated to carrying out the HIV Outreach Programme with volunteers who arrive this weekend. I feel reenergized and full of potential, and incredibly thankful for the help up. I know I can accomplish nothing without the energy of others, many others, and I imagine how our secondary students in Arusha and British volunteers can mutually benefit from this small partnership in public health. On this steady breath I look forward to the Programme ahead, looming like Kili on the horizon.
Chizme - or “Cheeseman” as we playfully called one of our nine faithful porters – woke me in my pup tent on Summit morning as he did every morning, with a plastic cup of hot, black tea and a bowl of warm water for washing. 4 am, and I shivered in delirium after another night of tumultuous slumber, fumbling for my daypack and dressing quickly. I uneasily stuffed down a small bowl of porridge, head pulsing a bit from the altitude (4600 m), stomach churning from a combination of swallowing malaria meds, pounding a liter of water, and easing tense nerves. 4:30 am, headlamp clicked on, lighting only a small patch by my feet, and we’re off: myself, Suzie and Liz, led by our guide Bongo and faithful Cheeseman.
After we had emerged above the cloudline after Day 1, at 3500 m, we were witness to delightfully freezing 6 am wakeups with the sun; she peeked over Kili, and as she rose, chased us up the hill on our daily ascents. We retreated back to our tents every night after a delicious meal of rice or pasta and vegetables, hot soup, and fruits, prepared by our cook Nesto, beneath a dazzling galaxy, every tiny star so prominent at this high altitude. Each day seemed more enjoyable than the last the farther away I hiked from Arusha, from work, from life. The ascents all seemed impossible at first glance, up toward Lava Tower, down into Karanga Valley, up and over Barranco Ridge – but with my second-hand bartered boots, warm thermals, cargo shorts, sunglasses, wide brim hat and trusty Red Sox tee, I waked for about 8 hours a day, uphill, one foot in front of the other, over and over. I was shocked at how whole and fulfilled I felt at the end of each day, as I normally thrive on multitasking and juggling responsibilities, deadlines and tasks. All I had to do was eat, sleep, and walk, for 5 nights and 6 days.
Day 5, Summit day, was the final stretch. The moon hung as a bright silver sliver, but up in that heaven, the entire sphere was visible, faded craters like dimples on her smiling crescent. In the harsh morning wind, I prayed that my poor circulation would not keep me from the top, and in those few early hours it was the warmth of those who were wishing me well that kept me distracted. I imagined Diana and Andrew sprinting across the field at MBC to dive onto a makeshift slip and slide; I thought of Leigh and the KCA crew laughing with Sandile and Simphiwe at Ikageng; I hoped Matthew, Katie and Erin were not letting the hustle of NYC catch them up and were enjoying the sweltering city summer. My body was clutching clammy rocks and maneuvering up a steep stone obstacle course, but my mind was reeling from soul to soul, and soon enough a fiery orb appeared on the horizon, spreading her flame across the ocean of cumulonimbus below. I had made it to sunrise, and although my blood began to defrost, our path was no longer hidden in the night. Kili towered above us as we approached the snowline, Uhuru Peak feeling farther away than ever.
This summit presented an entirely unique challenge. We walked past and were passed by fellow trekkers of all ages, sizes, and physical abilities. I think that anyone can handle the physical pressures of Kili. Summit Day is intense, aside from a relentless uphill hike where the peak seems to tease you and rise higher with your every step, aside from the shortness of breath and lack of oxygen, aside from thirst and aching. Because you can keep lifting your legs and digging in your walking poles, you can monitor and keep steady your breathing by singing or praying rhythmically and you can take a break. What makes it so intense is the mental fortitude absolutely necessary to reach the peak.
I imagined Mom and Dad at either side of me, lifting me up, and whether it was mild altitude sickness or true answered prayers, I became lighter, and I kept marching up. I heard my Papou bragging about his granddaughter who made it to the top (“She gets her athleticism from me”), I heard my Yiayia telling me to be a “tough cookie”, I heard Dee Dee’s questions that always transform my trips into adventures, I whistled through pursed, chapped lips like Pop Pop used to do. I kept going.
The hours dragged on, the terrain a monotonous blinding snow (from which I sustained my only ‘injury’, a wind and sun burnt face, exposed below the cheeks). Liz stopped to heave and vomit, Suzie to nurse a pounding headache. I breathed with a religiously steady pace and thanked Bruce Calvert and dearest G for demanding such breathing diligence through years of swim practices and chorus rehearsals. I found myself the only one of the trio to have kept my health at this altitude, now over 5000 m, and assumed position at the back of the line, trying to soak up some of their struggle with every breath in and channel out positive energy with every breath out. The crew collapsed at Stella Point, an hour’s hike from our final destination, where many hikers call it quits from altitude sickness and are forced to retreat. But Bongo bolstered our spirits, and step after step, a last grueling uphill stretch, chanting an Agios o Theos out loud and imagining an army of loved ones pushing me from behind, shoving with the wind…we did it.
A continent spread out below us, but all I could do was thank you for helping me reach this height. Twenty minutes of rest, during which Liz spun into further delirium and Suzie into fatigue, and we were off the peak, and all to suddenly my journey seemed to have come to a close.
The mad scramble down to give the girls proper altitude to recover before their condition worsened was a mix of concern and comedy, slipping and sliding through pebbly alpine desert dirt, practically skiing, avoiding boulders at all costs. Gravity was almost a nuisance, pulling me down so forcefully – sure, I was getting to my destination faster, but I had no time to absorb the beauty around me, no mind space to think beyond my next quick step. I immediately preferred the natural gravity that existed between the peak and my heart, so full of loved ones all helping me ascend. It was a force I had a large part in creating and although it was more difficult, I had to find energy, focus, and determination in faith – it was infinitely more fulfilling.
I couldn’t help but think the entire 5 hour descent on Saturday (5 days up, 5 hours down!), how much this necessarily speedy descent twirled me back to my transition back from Ghana last year – the same fears, confusions and discomforts emerging as I planted foot after foot with effortless momentum, pounding my toes painfully into my boots, which as my feet de-swelled from altitude, had more room for banging around. I started thinking about work. About the insane amount of calories and carbs I had consumed in the past week. About silly things that did not matter when I had my goal, my journey so clearly on the horizon. I felt distracted, alone, and unmotivated. I slid and slipped down, disheartened.
We finished a day ahead of schedule and had the option to return home to Arusha on Saturday night. Liz took the offer and rode off in a 4x4, but I needed to stay and sort myself out. How could I allow my mentality to change so quickly? I let myself fall into confusion last summer, but I refuse to do this again!
I woke up to a pattering of rain at 3:30 am and read another chapter in my book Nouno gave me by headlamp light. Nesto prepared a final breakfast of fruits and porridge for us, but Suzie and I looked at the line of women and children waiting to load construction supplies onto their head at the park gate, getting maybe 6,000 Tanzanian shillings ($5) for this day’s work, sloshing uphill in this rainy mess sans boots or raincoats. Our stomachs dropped in unison and our hunger disappeared. We asked Bongo if we could give all the rest of our food to these workers and he helped us distribute the meager portions out to grabbing hands. Suzie and I bit our chapped lips, trying to not let useless tears cloud our last visions of Kilimanjaro. But we were back down from heaven, back into reality, and now had to handle this injustice in our minds (“Justice delayed is justice denied”, rings through my head from Nairobi) as well as with our hands. I realized what a vacation from reality Kili was, allowing me to build my strength – my calves and my patience – to develop focus and concentration, to prove that persistence and prayer does produce results. There is still so much work to be done.
6 weeks left in Arusha, the last 5 dedicated to carrying out the HIV Outreach Programme with volunteers who arrive this weekend. I feel reenergized and full of potential, and incredibly thankful for the help up. I know I can accomplish nothing without the energy of others, many others, and I imagine how our secondary students in Arusha and British volunteers can mutually benefit from this small partnership in public health. On this steady breath I look forward to the Programme ahead, looming like Kili on the horizon.
Summit I: July 4 – July 7
I waited two hours for the bus to Nairobi to leave Arusha. I waited another two hours for the bus to pass through customs at the Namanga border. I waited another collective hour for random road stops by armed soldiers checking the passports of everyone on board. It’s not that I appreciated the consequential dump onto unfamiliar urban streets at midnight. But I wasn’t particularly bothered by the wait, as I knew I would eventually arrive in Nairobi, and pace was beyond my control.
I arrived at the International Women’s Summit on HIV/AIDS the following morning not knowing what to expect or how I would be able to participate, on this typical sporadic-Kate-adventure, unregistered and unaffiliated. Before I could reach the security checks the Kenyatta International Conference Centre, I was greeted by angelic voices of a rejoicing Kenyan choir. Guards and gates loomed ahead but in the courtyard immediately before me, a choirmaster’s arms bounced rhythmically, leading dozens of joyous performers and bystanders. He grabbed the dainty hand of a woman in a kimono and slippers who joined his hip shaking. A South African woman jumped into the circle, followed by a wrinkled Irish grandmother, who later comically whispered to me “That was outside my comfort zone!” A veiled Egyptian woman is pulled in, reluctantly at first, but soon willingly grooving along with the rest. We are all together, moving, shaking, singing. This interactive morning ritual became more unbelievable to me each morning I returned (with a smile, sense of purpose, and $90 I somehow finagled a three day pass), as I realized who these women around me are. These are mostly HIV-positive women, from incredibly diverse societies yet facing the same harrowing daily challenges. I came with curiosity, they came with courage, and the intent to share their experiences and make change – policy change, behavior change, reality change.
This celebratory morning enthusiasm deflated through opening remarks from ‘acclaimed' international guests: an enormous balloon of hope punctured by dangerous political sound-bytes. Dr. Margaret Chan of the WHO asked, “How will we catch up?” as she reconfirmed that for every person put on antiretroviral therapy (ART), six more infections occur. She frames WHO’s next massive goal - universal access to ART by 2010 – with an obvious warning that “we do not have the luxury of time”. Dr. Peter Piot of UNAIDS laments that “We are moving too slowly” towards 2010 and that “the queues for ART are only getting longer”. “I am an optimist” he says, unconvincingly, throwing out a few feeble quips that with “zero-tolerance for injustice” we will see “catastrophes in opportunities” and he “ will do everything in my power…” but “we can do better”.
“Preaching to the choir”, I cannot help but quip back. These are the tireless grassroots workers who are doing better everyday out of necessity, not your comrades at WHO and UNAIDS who have the resources and leverage to speed up bureaucracy and service delivery…and too often do not.
Warren Buckingham, the Kenya PEPFAR representative, who has been living positively for nearly 20 years, pleasantly reversed my cynicism. He testified to women being vessels, vectors, and victims of HIV and his voice trembled in humility, “I know you don’t need me to tell you that men have perpetuated these three V’s. ‘Buck’ proposed a new history, “one of Victors”, taking the blame and proposing a joint male-female strategy – how refreshing.
But this inflation fizzled as the national government issued their formal statement. A minister introduced Honorable President Kibaki to the audience, who wishes us “fruitful deliberations” - as if this is merely an exercise in political exchange and not a real ask for change? - “And a warm stay in our country”. Reading blandly off his script of a “vision of a society where girls and women live fulfilling lives” I doubt he realizes how unacceptable it is that he reigns over a country where they cannot. “AIDS can no longer be ignored,” he blurts out. Thanks for the tip, the audience throbs.
Kibaki’s closing remarks transport me back to BDM lectures on the logical corruption of countries with a small “winning coalition” (amount of people who truly have a say in who rules). Here at the first ever Summit of Women and HIV/AIDS, he looks up from his script and with a smile suggests we, “I see many of you have come from very far away. Sample our tourist attractions, for adventure, holiday, wildlife, safaris, culture and sport tourism. I encourage you to take some time. I don’t think anyone will worry you about taking 3 or 4 days. I think it will be a long time until you return. See more of the country around you!” His fear is so palpable, practically dripping off the podium: He is afraid we’ll come and go without dumping dollars into an economy out of which he creates his paycheck.
A ping-pong match of politician’s empty promises of politicians and urgent pleas of working women structures the Summit, but unlike other large conferences I have attended, the latter largely generates the energy and agenda. Every room contains rows of tables lined with microphones and translation headsets, thoughtfully allowing all participate. I join in workshops with my peers from around the world (although I do get asked if I am 16 on several occasions), where among many specifics of the pandemic, I learn about diverse Prevention strategies: a death penalty from the Netherlands, the role of mothers in sexual health in Burundi, gender-based conflicts facing Trinidad and Tobago, and the struggle in Taiwan to balance increasing condomisation with more abstinence and faithfulness. Later in a breakout session women like Susan are free to address the entire Summit, or rather her interpreter. : “I am a woman, I am deaf, and HIV positive,” she signs madly, “Considering this triple discrimination, I am lucky to be alive.”
Sessions overflow with passion and for hours on end I am all ears. I cringe at the incredibly inaccurate portrait of a visionless, dying Africa that my society at home has crafted. Previously silenced women demand, “How can we afford a conference if we can’t feed our families? We shouldn’t have to choose.” Africa is here, not as the international image, not as Kibaki, but as these mamas working together to improve their reality. Africa tells me, “It’s not just about sitting at the table, it’s about setting priorities.” Africa tells me, “You must be able to articulate your vision and passion.” Panelists do not have time to fully address the multitude of interrogations that follow their presentations, but there is satisfaction having released concerns into the atmosphere, purging the worry out of the body, expressing it into the political environment, and realizing so many share your struggle, and your will to survive. Africa tells me, “Know your rights. Identify what you have and pursue it relentlessly- Be Specific.” Wisdom pulsates through every word, and I think, experience is clearly the best teacher. Africa tells me, “Justice delayed is justice denied.” Women know that testing is the way forward, but cannot test compulsorily because the rate is so high among police and military forces.
Africa tells me, “Don’t internalize negative messages, or else they will become reality.”
We can shape our reality. This energy of possibility teems over at four packed public Town Hall meetings where - despite a huge photo of President Kibaki looms overhead under fluorescent lighting - the Kenyan coat of arms, hangs on the wall and speaks truth to the Summit: “Harambee” emblazoned across a shield, proclaiming in Kiswahili, “We are Together”. I lean over and ask a woman to translate the Kiswahili on a t-shirt for me that decorates so many at the forum on Sexual and reproductive health and rights for positive Women. “Haki za kimapenzi ni haki za ki inadawu”. She ponders for a moment and whispers, “Wherever you are you need a lover.” I accept this but will try for a second opinion, until she lean over again and changes her mind, “The truth of love is the truth of human beings.” I eventually learn the ‘actual’ translation to be “Reproductive rights are human rights”, and prefer the poeticism of her more honest expression.
Presenters spoke urgently, unlike the politicians who opened the Summit, and I found it difficult to catch everything, so heavily accented to my ears at a fast pace. They speak madly, knowing that the 2.5-hour time limit is far too restrictive for such an incredibly expansive issue – their survival. Here I feel Dr. Chan’s comment; there is no luxury of time to speak slowly and clearly, like those who aren’t really saying anything.
I witnessed legitimate conflicts and women arguing productively, not the endless pendulum of male-dominated international affairs. A representative of the Global Campaign for Microbicides and a minister of the Kenyan government go head to head on Female-Initiated Prevention Options. After an explanation of the promise of microbicides (gels and creams with the ability to prevent the sexual transmission of HIV when applied topically. Dr. Ruth Oniango counters back, voice powerful under strong, shining cheekbones, “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about these pills and creams when my people need food. How about food prescriptions first?”
I am continually tripped up by my attempts to explain the power of this conference to you without sounding like another aloof ad campaign. “HIV is a challenge for me to be a better person and everyone else to be better people”, says Marie Bopp Allport, of the Pacific AIDS Foundation. I am asking you to join me in this challenge, and complete a small exercise with me. I ask this not to convince you to care, for I assume you already do. I’m asking you to do this to refresh your insight and reenergize your compassion, active, as I know it already is. (I hope you’ll always challenge me to do the same.)
Think of a time you have been insecure. Not just unsure of how to act, but also confused, alone, and in pain. Maybe college students can associate with a night of passing the limit – all you want is for this to be over, to be sick and fall asleep in your bed. Business-people perhaps have been in a plane in heavy turbulence? Please God, let me just get through this, let this be over. Children facing their first frightening solo lap of a swim lesson. Taking a test in exhaustion, making a deadline in rushed time, paying a rent or tuition under tight cash.
How did you succeed? Did someone help you, or did you figure it out yourself?
I fell incredibly ill on Friday night after eating reheated rice and beans from the hostel canteen. Voluntary guarding kicked in and I wrestled away excruciating abdominal pain for 8 sleepless hours, praying for morning, praying my appendix was not exploding, praying for comfort. None came. I wished to be home where there are doctors on duty, medicines in stock, and enough toilet paper in my bathroom that I didn’t feel the need to ration it out, as I got sick again and again. I wished for assurance, to know exactly what was wrong, or mom to tell me it’s going to be OK.
Whether this pain was heaven sent or a fortunate coincidence, I realized quickly what it meant as I dragged myself to the last day of the Summit. I think too often we assume resource-constrained communities will figure it out themselves. They have to, after all, right?
I endured one night if insecurity. My pain was without a definitive end. I did not have the assurance of a doctor, nor of my mother. But I could survive one night. What about the millions for whom there is no mom? Pain isn’t temporary, pain is reality.
I duck into Room 2, the end of a session on “Children and HIV”, and catch the moderator asking 14-year old Dorothy, slim and HIV positive, what we can do to help her, because we too often try to help others without asking what they need first. She sits, a pile of bones, and collects her words; “I need a better house, better clothes, and food so I can be stronger than I am.” Her simplicity sends a chill through my body.
Her 16-year-old guardian Caroline is asked to speak as well. Caroline sighs and bites her lip hard; she is clearly making every effort not to lose it in front of this large audience. An audience of mothers, of women, a massive whisper of “Pole ” (sorry) breathes forth from the crowd. Caroline looks down and between jagged breaths states strongly, “What we need is help. Things we cannot afford. Food.” She stops, breathes, restarts, “I also need to go to school. I need a guardian, a person to look after me.” She needs Mom.
Africa tells me, “we’re talking about the survival of a generation – we are losing an entire generation”
These are 2 of 15 million AIDS orphans many running “child-headed households” – children robbed of the security and love of parents so crucial to human development. I leave the conference with new inspiration but new concern specifically for the terminology with which we now speak of AIDS issues, words that mask the harsh reality. “Conflict situations” masks the woman gang raped by 21 soldiers at once – the soldiers who are meant to protect her. In the midst of so many inspiring words my one concern, walking away reluctantly from the same singing choir on the closing ceremony, are the words. We come up with terminology for tragedy and we automatically distance ourselves from it.
However, the Summit left me reconsidering why I have chosen this work. I always say because it’s the only sensible thing to do; AIDS is 100% preventable and 100% treatable and the pain it is wreaking worldwide is a reflection not of a lack of resources or knowledge, but a failure to disseminate information and distribute resources. Unlike the pace of the bus that brought me to Nairobi, we DO have control over the tools that will stop the AIDS pandemic. If there must be a wait, it should always be FOR something. Specific. To which the promising party will be held accountable.
Unlike conference and summits where promises and pledges are make and then historically broken, many women took to their soapbox specifically to point out that we are not here to make promises. These women know full well promises mean nothing. We are here to share, they say. We all must share our experiences, our expertise, our ideas, our advice, and then bring it home to our communities and families and share with them. May I be doing my small part by sharing the experience with you, so that it is not a stagnant pledge to promote justice, but an active pledge of promoting justice. Present tense.
I arrived at the International Women’s Summit on HIV/AIDS the following morning not knowing what to expect or how I would be able to participate, on this typical sporadic-Kate-adventure, unregistered and unaffiliated. Before I could reach the security checks the Kenyatta International Conference Centre, I was greeted by angelic voices of a rejoicing Kenyan choir. Guards and gates loomed ahead but in the courtyard immediately before me, a choirmaster’s arms bounced rhythmically, leading dozens of joyous performers and bystanders. He grabbed the dainty hand of a woman in a kimono and slippers who joined his hip shaking. A South African woman jumped into the circle, followed by a wrinkled Irish grandmother, who later comically whispered to me “That was outside my comfort zone!” A veiled Egyptian woman is pulled in, reluctantly at first, but soon willingly grooving along with the rest. We are all together, moving, shaking, singing. This interactive morning ritual became more unbelievable to me each morning I returned (with a smile, sense of purpose, and $90 I somehow finagled a three day pass), as I realized who these women around me are. These are mostly HIV-positive women, from incredibly diverse societies yet facing the same harrowing daily challenges. I came with curiosity, they came with courage, and the intent to share their experiences and make change – policy change, behavior change, reality change.
This celebratory morning enthusiasm deflated through opening remarks from ‘acclaimed' international guests: an enormous balloon of hope punctured by dangerous political sound-bytes. Dr. Margaret Chan of the WHO asked, “How will we catch up?” as she reconfirmed that for every person put on antiretroviral therapy (ART), six more infections occur. She frames WHO’s next massive goal - universal access to ART by 2010 – with an obvious warning that “we do not have the luxury of time”. Dr. Peter Piot of UNAIDS laments that “We are moving too slowly” towards 2010 and that “the queues for ART are only getting longer”. “I am an optimist” he says, unconvincingly, throwing out a few feeble quips that with “zero-tolerance for injustice” we will see “catastrophes in opportunities” and he “ will do everything in my power…” but “we can do better”.
“Preaching to the choir”, I cannot help but quip back. These are the tireless grassroots workers who are doing better everyday out of necessity, not your comrades at WHO and UNAIDS who have the resources and leverage to speed up bureaucracy and service delivery…and too often do not.
Warren Buckingham, the Kenya PEPFAR representative, who has been living positively for nearly 20 years, pleasantly reversed my cynicism. He testified to women being vessels, vectors, and victims of HIV and his voice trembled in humility, “I know you don’t need me to tell you that men have perpetuated these three V’s. ‘Buck’ proposed a new history, “one of Victors”, taking the blame and proposing a joint male-female strategy – how refreshing.
But this inflation fizzled as the national government issued their formal statement. A minister introduced Honorable President Kibaki to the audience, who wishes us “fruitful deliberations” - as if this is merely an exercise in political exchange and not a real ask for change? - “And a warm stay in our country”. Reading blandly off his script of a “vision of a society where girls and women live fulfilling lives” I doubt he realizes how unacceptable it is that he reigns over a country where they cannot. “AIDS can no longer be ignored,” he blurts out. Thanks for the tip, the audience throbs.
Kibaki’s closing remarks transport me back to BDM lectures on the logical corruption of countries with a small “winning coalition” (amount of people who truly have a say in who rules). Here at the first ever Summit of Women and HIV/AIDS, he looks up from his script and with a smile suggests we, “I see many of you have come from very far away. Sample our tourist attractions, for adventure, holiday, wildlife, safaris, culture and sport tourism. I encourage you to take some time. I don’t think anyone will worry you about taking 3 or 4 days. I think it will be a long time until you return. See more of the country around you!” His fear is so palpable, practically dripping off the podium: He is afraid we’ll come and go without dumping dollars into an economy out of which he creates his paycheck.
A ping-pong match of politician’s empty promises of politicians and urgent pleas of working women structures the Summit, but unlike other large conferences I have attended, the latter largely generates the energy and agenda. Every room contains rows of tables lined with microphones and translation headsets, thoughtfully allowing all participate. I join in workshops with my peers from around the world (although I do get asked if I am 16 on several occasions), where among many specifics of the pandemic, I learn about diverse Prevention strategies: a death penalty from the Netherlands, the role of mothers in sexual health in Burundi, gender-based conflicts facing Trinidad and Tobago, and the struggle in Taiwan to balance increasing condomisation with more abstinence and faithfulness. Later in a breakout session women like Susan are free to address the entire Summit, or rather her interpreter. : “I am a woman, I am deaf, and HIV positive,” she signs madly, “Considering this triple discrimination, I am lucky to be alive.”
Sessions overflow with passion and for hours on end I am all ears. I cringe at the incredibly inaccurate portrait of a visionless, dying Africa that my society at home has crafted. Previously silenced women demand, “How can we afford a conference if we can’t feed our families? We shouldn’t have to choose.” Africa is here, not as the international image, not as Kibaki, but as these mamas working together to improve their reality. Africa tells me, “It’s not just about sitting at the table, it’s about setting priorities.” Africa tells me, “You must be able to articulate your vision and passion.” Panelists do not have time to fully address the multitude of interrogations that follow their presentations, but there is satisfaction having released concerns into the atmosphere, purging the worry out of the body, expressing it into the political environment, and realizing so many share your struggle, and your will to survive. Africa tells me, “Know your rights. Identify what you have and pursue it relentlessly- Be Specific.” Wisdom pulsates through every word, and I think, experience is clearly the best teacher. Africa tells me, “Justice delayed is justice denied.” Women know that testing is the way forward, but cannot test compulsorily because the rate is so high among police and military forces.
Africa tells me, “Don’t internalize negative messages, or else they will become reality.”
We can shape our reality. This energy of possibility teems over at four packed public Town Hall meetings where - despite a huge photo of President Kibaki looms overhead under fluorescent lighting - the Kenyan coat of arms, hangs on the wall and speaks truth to the Summit: “Harambee” emblazoned across a shield, proclaiming in Kiswahili, “We are Together”. I lean over and ask a woman to translate the Kiswahili on a t-shirt for me that decorates so many at the forum on Sexual and reproductive health and rights for positive Women. “Haki za kimapenzi ni haki za ki inadawu”. She ponders for a moment and whispers, “Wherever you are you need a lover.” I accept this but will try for a second opinion, until she lean over again and changes her mind, “The truth of love is the truth of human beings.” I eventually learn the ‘actual’ translation to be “Reproductive rights are human rights”, and prefer the poeticism of her more honest expression.
Presenters spoke urgently, unlike the politicians who opened the Summit, and I found it difficult to catch everything, so heavily accented to my ears at a fast pace. They speak madly, knowing that the 2.5-hour time limit is far too restrictive for such an incredibly expansive issue – their survival. Here I feel Dr. Chan’s comment; there is no luxury of time to speak slowly and clearly, like those who aren’t really saying anything.
I witnessed legitimate conflicts and women arguing productively, not the endless pendulum of male-dominated international affairs. A representative of the Global Campaign for Microbicides and a minister of the Kenyan government go head to head on Female-Initiated Prevention Options. After an explanation of the promise of microbicides (gels and creams with the ability to prevent the sexual transmission of HIV when applied topically. Dr. Ruth Oniango counters back, voice powerful under strong, shining cheekbones, “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about these pills and creams when my people need food. How about food prescriptions first?”
I am continually tripped up by my attempts to explain the power of this conference to you without sounding like another aloof ad campaign. “HIV is a challenge for me to be a better person and everyone else to be better people”, says Marie Bopp Allport, of the Pacific AIDS Foundation. I am asking you to join me in this challenge, and complete a small exercise with me. I ask this not to convince you to care, for I assume you already do. I’m asking you to do this to refresh your insight and reenergize your compassion, active, as I know it already is. (I hope you’ll always challenge me to do the same.)
Think of a time you have been insecure. Not just unsure of how to act, but also confused, alone, and in pain. Maybe college students can associate with a night of passing the limit – all you want is for this to be over, to be sick and fall asleep in your bed. Business-people perhaps have been in a plane in heavy turbulence? Please God, let me just get through this, let this be over. Children facing their first frightening solo lap of a swim lesson. Taking a test in exhaustion, making a deadline in rushed time, paying a rent or tuition under tight cash.
How did you succeed? Did someone help you, or did you figure it out yourself?
I fell incredibly ill on Friday night after eating reheated rice and beans from the hostel canteen. Voluntary guarding kicked in and I wrestled away excruciating abdominal pain for 8 sleepless hours, praying for morning, praying my appendix was not exploding, praying for comfort. None came. I wished to be home where there are doctors on duty, medicines in stock, and enough toilet paper in my bathroom that I didn’t feel the need to ration it out, as I got sick again and again. I wished for assurance, to know exactly what was wrong, or mom to tell me it’s going to be OK.
Whether this pain was heaven sent or a fortunate coincidence, I realized quickly what it meant as I dragged myself to the last day of the Summit. I think too often we assume resource-constrained communities will figure it out themselves. They have to, after all, right?
I endured one night if insecurity. My pain was without a definitive end. I did not have the assurance of a doctor, nor of my mother. But I could survive one night. What about the millions for whom there is no mom? Pain isn’t temporary, pain is reality.
I duck into Room 2, the end of a session on “Children and HIV”, and catch the moderator asking 14-year old Dorothy, slim and HIV positive, what we can do to help her, because we too often try to help others without asking what they need first. She sits, a pile of bones, and collects her words; “I need a better house, better clothes, and food so I can be stronger than I am.” Her simplicity sends a chill through my body.
Her 16-year-old guardian Caroline is asked to speak as well. Caroline sighs and bites her lip hard; she is clearly making every effort not to lose it in front of this large audience. An audience of mothers, of women, a massive whisper of “Pole ” (sorry) breathes forth from the crowd. Caroline looks down and between jagged breaths states strongly, “What we need is help. Things we cannot afford. Food.” She stops, breathes, restarts, “I also need to go to school. I need a guardian, a person to look after me.” She needs Mom.
Africa tells me, “we’re talking about the survival of a generation – we are losing an entire generation”
These are 2 of 15 million AIDS orphans many running “child-headed households” – children robbed of the security and love of parents so crucial to human development. I leave the conference with new inspiration but new concern specifically for the terminology with which we now speak of AIDS issues, words that mask the harsh reality. “Conflict situations” masks the woman gang raped by 21 soldiers at once – the soldiers who are meant to protect her. In the midst of so many inspiring words my one concern, walking away reluctantly from the same singing choir on the closing ceremony, are the words. We come up with terminology for tragedy and we automatically distance ourselves from it.
However, the Summit left me reconsidering why I have chosen this work. I always say because it’s the only sensible thing to do; AIDS is 100% preventable and 100% treatable and the pain it is wreaking worldwide is a reflection not of a lack of resources or knowledge, but a failure to disseminate information and distribute resources. Unlike the pace of the bus that brought me to Nairobi, we DO have control over the tools that will stop the AIDS pandemic. If there must be a wait, it should always be FOR something. Specific. To which the promising party will be held accountable.
Unlike conference and summits where promises and pledges are make and then historically broken, many women took to their soapbox specifically to point out that we are not here to make promises. These women know full well promises mean nothing. We are here to share, they say. We all must share our experiences, our expertise, our ideas, our advice, and then bring it home to our communities and families and share with them. May I be doing my small part by sharing the experience with you, so that it is not a stagnant pledge to promote justice, but an active pledge of promoting justice. Present tense.
03 July 2007
washed up
Took a few days from work in Arusha to truly let myself vacation on the enchanted island of Zanzibar. I have fallen hopelessly in lust with the eerie urban center of Stone Town, where mystery seethes out of crumbling coral castles, the remains of economic exploitation, colonial 'development', and 1964 political revolution. I willingly lose myself in endless mazes of cobblestone alleyways, befriending locals like Ali Bobish over potent shots of spiced coffee (2 cents a piece), who are (refreshingly) not bothered or impressed by wazungu presence in their curious paradise.
My eyes opened unprovoked at a chilly seaside 5:30 am, as they have been every morning here, but I did not rise from bed to find the sunrise as I had promised myself I would before falling asleep. By 7:45, now restless, I wandered out into the sand, my normal skimpy beach attire replaced with the modest coverage of my khanga and large v-neck Hanes tee. Zanzibar is a 99% Muslim community, and while the conservative dress code may be stifling, the rich voice of a man chanting the call to prayer throughout the day echoed freely towards the beaches from a towering mosque in the city behind me.
8 am and the abundance of tourists had yet to crowd the shore, but local shopkeepers and tour guides milled about, opening up their cupboards of bold patterned paintings and rainbow beaded jewelry, calling out to me to come eat breakfast, come buy trinkets, come book a tour. Fresh bait.
I arranged with a new friend, Ali, for an afternoon of snorkeling and a sunset dhow cruise to the Full Moon party upshore at Kendwa Rocks ( a serendipitous scheduling choice on our part, as such infamously fun celebrations come only once every full moon!) Despite the assurance of a planned schedule I felt unsatisfied, and eyes cast down to my sandy toes, I began an aimless walk along the coast, tiptoeing around grungy ropes attached to bobbing boats of fishermen, who were preparing to paddle out with nets and spears for a morning catch. The same morning catch that would be my evening meal, I thought, completely charmed by a natural cycle I am so far from in my home life.
One thing I am surely used to, a cherished pastime from adventures in Newport, is shell collecting, and I stopped to admire the treasure trove at my toes. Familiarity embraces my footsteps and only a hundred yards later my hands are overflowing with creamy conch shells, speckled scallops and abstract chunks of coral. Admiring the intelligent design and masterful engineering of every unique piece, I resist the urge to shed my tee for bikini top in the rising heat of the morning, and instead roll up my sleeves, retie my khanga a bit higher, and wade into the water, knee high in seaweed. Local women have scattered themselves far out into ocean, hand fishing for octopus atop a raised dune. Afraid of being an intruder into their morning routine I continue collecting, but despite my concern I wander into Fatima’s path, a stunning young village girl who is also collecting shells (to sell to me in the seaside shops) – her morning routine. It’s futile to try to be what you’re not, my mind sarcastically muses.
Still, however, concerned about intrusion, I offer Fatima one of my most perfect shells so she knows I’m not trying to compete with her. And again, the silliness of my assumptions flashes at me suddenly as blindingly as the hot sun off the waves. She turns away my offer and with it, my immediate concern of purpose. I try to let the Indian Ocean breeze carry it far away from me but my brain holds tightly to a worry that is increasingly more noticeable the farther out I wade.
I take off my Tivas. I want to feel this. The icky squish of algae clumps between my toes, the rocky, crumbled bits of sea life embedded in the sand. My mind feeling ‘too’ aware, I hope to transfer some responsibility to my body and distract my heavy thoughts. I am immediately more careful about where I tread now that I’m barefoot, not so readily crunching through the ecosystems below. Through crystal clear water, now above my kneecaps, I notice a dazzling, ruby gem of a conch shell, speckled with a galaxy of vanilla stars, and lean over to pluck it from the spindly stalks and amoeba-shaped leaves. A slimy sea slug pokes his face into my finger and I drop the treasure, taken by surprise at the first live shell I have attempted to capture. Exasperated by my failure to not intrude, I look up and realize how far out I have wandered, into living waters where shells are not mine to collect. Sea slug assumes his journey and I wonder, belittling his oozy pace, how little he will ever see in his life crawling along so slowly.
The oasis of sand dune is now within visual reach, though the women have finished their chore, and I stubbornly – and painfully! - tread through a last stretch of thigh-high mystery sea-terrain before the ground rises to reach my adopted destination. I look down and there are no shells in this soggy sand. Now far from the shore, the wind deafens me and blows my wisps wildly. I see the shore life from an incredibly odd point of view, far away and uninvolved. In the silence I feel as if God knows I cannot handle more than one sense at a time, eyes devouring the postcard picture of bursting palm fronds against an azure sky, rolling emerald waves caressing a smooth white shore.
Unlike the empty, majestically carved shells I hold in my hands, the life around my feet out here is thriving. And I suddenly realize, as if the very thought was dropped into my empty ear from above, that it doesn’t matter how slow that slug moves. It doesn’t matter how far I’m going to travel, how many places I see, how fast I move through life. Because even if I were to stay perfectly still, the sea would still churn on around me, gently scraping and etching my shell into some unique masterpiece against unpredictable intrusions with the sand and fellow shells.
The pace and direction I choose will surely determine part of my ultimate shape…
But who am I to challenge the moon?
I am thinking about the dynamics between my movements and the movement of life around me, over which I have absolutely no control. And I think that instead of being so concerned about what I’m doing with my life, how fast I’m moving, and how much I’m ‘accomplishing’, perhaps it’s more worthwhile to make sure I’m happy doing whatever it is I am doing, at whatever pace, with whatever accolades may tag along, so temporary and trivial.
The tide is rising and my path back to shore is slowly disappearing. What will I look like when I wash up one day, finished, upon the shore?
My eyes opened unprovoked at a chilly seaside 5:30 am, as they have been every morning here, but I did not rise from bed to find the sunrise as I had promised myself I would before falling asleep. By 7:45, now restless, I wandered out into the sand, my normal skimpy beach attire replaced with the modest coverage of my khanga and large v-neck Hanes tee. Zanzibar is a 99% Muslim community, and while the conservative dress code may be stifling, the rich voice of a man chanting the call to prayer throughout the day echoed freely towards the beaches from a towering mosque in the city behind me.
8 am and the abundance of tourists had yet to crowd the shore, but local shopkeepers and tour guides milled about, opening up their cupboards of bold patterned paintings and rainbow beaded jewelry, calling out to me to come eat breakfast, come buy trinkets, come book a tour. Fresh bait.
I arranged with a new friend, Ali, for an afternoon of snorkeling and a sunset dhow cruise to the Full Moon party upshore at Kendwa Rocks ( a serendipitous scheduling choice on our part, as such infamously fun celebrations come only once every full moon!) Despite the assurance of a planned schedule I felt unsatisfied, and eyes cast down to my sandy toes, I began an aimless walk along the coast, tiptoeing around grungy ropes attached to bobbing boats of fishermen, who were preparing to paddle out with nets and spears for a morning catch. The same morning catch that would be my evening meal, I thought, completely charmed by a natural cycle I am so far from in my home life.
One thing I am surely used to, a cherished pastime from adventures in Newport, is shell collecting, and I stopped to admire the treasure trove at my toes. Familiarity embraces my footsteps and only a hundred yards later my hands are overflowing with creamy conch shells, speckled scallops and abstract chunks of coral. Admiring the intelligent design and masterful engineering of every unique piece, I resist the urge to shed my tee for bikini top in the rising heat of the morning, and instead roll up my sleeves, retie my khanga a bit higher, and wade into the water, knee high in seaweed. Local women have scattered themselves far out into ocean, hand fishing for octopus atop a raised dune. Afraid of being an intruder into their morning routine I continue collecting, but despite my concern I wander into Fatima’s path, a stunning young village girl who is also collecting shells (to sell to me in the seaside shops) – her morning routine. It’s futile to try to be what you’re not, my mind sarcastically muses.
Still, however, concerned about intrusion, I offer Fatima one of my most perfect shells so she knows I’m not trying to compete with her. And again, the silliness of my assumptions flashes at me suddenly as blindingly as the hot sun off the waves. She turns away my offer and with it, my immediate concern of purpose. I try to let the Indian Ocean breeze carry it far away from me but my brain holds tightly to a worry that is increasingly more noticeable the farther out I wade.
I take off my Tivas. I want to feel this. The icky squish of algae clumps between my toes, the rocky, crumbled bits of sea life embedded in the sand. My mind feeling ‘too’ aware, I hope to transfer some responsibility to my body and distract my heavy thoughts. I am immediately more careful about where I tread now that I’m barefoot, not so readily crunching through the ecosystems below. Through crystal clear water, now above my kneecaps, I notice a dazzling, ruby gem of a conch shell, speckled with a galaxy of vanilla stars, and lean over to pluck it from the spindly stalks and amoeba-shaped leaves. A slimy sea slug pokes his face into my finger and I drop the treasure, taken by surprise at the first live shell I have attempted to capture. Exasperated by my failure to not intrude, I look up and realize how far out I have wandered, into living waters where shells are not mine to collect. Sea slug assumes his journey and I wonder, belittling his oozy pace, how little he will ever see in his life crawling along so slowly.
The oasis of sand dune is now within visual reach, though the women have finished their chore, and I stubbornly – and painfully! - tread through a last stretch of thigh-high mystery sea-terrain before the ground rises to reach my adopted destination. I look down and there are no shells in this soggy sand. Now far from the shore, the wind deafens me and blows my wisps wildly. I see the shore life from an incredibly odd point of view, far away and uninvolved. In the silence I feel as if God knows I cannot handle more than one sense at a time, eyes devouring the postcard picture of bursting palm fronds against an azure sky, rolling emerald waves caressing a smooth white shore.
Unlike the empty, majestically carved shells I hold in my hands, the life around my feet out here is thriving. And I suddenly realize, as if the very thought was dropped into my empty ear from above, that it doesn’t matter how slow that slug moves. It doesn’t matter how far I’m going to travel, how many places I see, how fast I move through life. Because even if I were to stay perfectly still, the sea would still churn on around me, gently scraping and etching my shell into some unique masterpiece against unpredictable intrusions with the sand and fellow shells.
The pace and direction I choose will surely determine part of my ultimate shape…
But who am I to challenge the moon?
I am thinking about the dynamics between my movements and the movement of life around me, over which I have absolutely no control. And I think that instead of being so concerned about what I’m doing with my life, how fast I’m moving, and how much I’m ‘accomplishing’, perhaps it’s more worthwhile to make sure I’m happy doing whatever it is I am doing, at whatever pace, with whatever accolades may tag along, so temporary and trivial.
The tide is rising and my path back to shore is slowly disappearing. What will I look like when I wash up one day, finished, upon the shore?
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