Tuesday

Defining moments

2011-10-21T22:38:00.006-05:00

I just had a friend tease me about the stories that I tell connected to my adventures as a humanitarian aid worker. Specifically, she found it admirable that I still regularly take bucket showers when I am living in IPD or refugee camps and it is rare for me to have hot water when working in the field. To her, “bucket showers” was not even a term. I’m not sure it is either but it just feels right. I go to a well or a faucet, I gather water in buckets and then I go somewhere with those buckets and I take a shower. Bucket showers, right?

My experiences in the field have been exciting and monotonous, developmentally promotional and developmentally regressive, overwhelming and unremarkable. In other words it has been a life like any other. If I choose to start all the way at the beginning my memories are hazy and I don’t know what’s important. Once upon a time a girl was born. Is that the appropriate place to start or is that overdoing it? If not there then where? Without my childhood my adulthood may not make sense.

It is difficult to capture how the monotony and the extremes have impacted me. Defining moments that either broke my heart or filled me with joy are not truly known at the time they happen, they only became known with time, life and reflection. They things that have ended up getting ingrained into my defining narrative are not all exactly what I would have predicted. Had I known what was happening in the world as a small girl, or I had known what was to come, I would have borne the insults of childhood and my college years with more fortitude but at the time they felt monumental. The tragedy and the gift of living is that we cannot and will not know which will be our defining moments.

But then again, maybe all of this doesn’t matter and I am over thinking this. Maybe the unknown is the adventure and the monotonous is what we all relate to. Looking back I see many different versions of me, all me, and yet somehow not.

When I think of myself at the age of 12 I feel as if everything was scary and everyone around me was moving at a lightning speed pace towards adulthood and I was shaking in my boots. I didn’t want to grow up. I wanted to play in forts build deep in the woods with my brother and Jeff and I wanted to ride skateboards behind bikes and play badminton late at night. I didn’t want to think about spin the bottle or tight rolling my faded Guess jeans. I was constantly afraid of being teased and I didn’t know how to make my hair feather like the cool kids. I was desperately distraught, almost constantly, and yet maybe that angst was good for me, giving me resilience and character and had things been too easy for me back then, then maybe I would have taken the wrong track and ended up pregnant and alone by age 20.

When I think of myself at the age of 14 I feel as if I was just the right age then. More able than I ever was before, or since. I loved my dog, I worshipped my father. I respected by brother’s fervor. I adored reading and I passionately played sports.

My twenties were a rollercoaster. I studied hard and I played hard and I loved my downtime with my college pals. I fell in love with a guy who walked into Rhetoric class one day and played his guitar and sang a song for an assignment and he loved me back. My only regret is that I was so wound up with anxiety and fear that I couldn't enjoy it completely. I got good grades and I studied abroad. I worked hard in restaurants and I was proud of my hard earned money. However, I never felt comfortable in my skin and I worried that although people saw me as grounded and centered, I was anything but and I would forever be a doubting, fretting woman, desperately afraid of letting go but wanting to appear empowered; a fake in feminist clothing.

Things got better in my thirties and now when people ask me why I do what I do, I say I have done it for two reasons. The first is I have decided not to live my life like an ostrich with its head in the sand. The world is a messed up place. War and hatred and racism and discrimination are everywhere like an airborne disease, stealing the souls of the innocent. Wars are started and no one is warned that children will definitely die and souls will forever be lost. If for no other reason, I hope that I am remembered for trying to ease the suffering. It is small but hopefully it is something. The second reason, and this might sound strange, but I know it like it was written in my DNA. The reason is simple: I was and always have been searching for one man. Maybe the Buddists are right and we are constantly reborn searching for our one true soul mate. Maybe in my last life my soul mate happened to have been a woman like me and thus I now feel so passionately about GLBT rights. Or, maybe a few lives before that I was a dog and my soul mate was a human and I was loyal to the bone and this human treated me right and I told myself that if the table was ever turned, I would be sure to always treat my animals, all animals with loving kindness and compassion. But this life was different. This life my soul mate happened to have been living on the continent of Africa and fortunately, due to a few small life choices, I ended up in Mamba Point on the right day at the right time and I met him.

When it comes to my international aid work, I feel like I only have scattered and unattached recollections: a long walk with nomadic Housa at the tail end of my stay in Yelwa; a small boy sweating in his school uniform hot with malaria fever in Foya; students vigilantly reading their torn and tattered school notebooks underneath a street light persisting in their refusal to accept farming in their small village as their predetermined destiny and that secondary school is only for the lucky few; mosquitoes and moths trying desperately to break the seal of many malaria bed nets; a goat being slaughtered facing Mecca; Housa/Kpelle/Madingo/Bassa/Shan/Thai/Burmese/Arabic being spoken all around me, both shielding me and excluding me from the nuances of everyday life; the taste of souya, mojinia and benniseed on the streets where the local language mixes with broken English in the service of guaranteeing themselves a paying customer.

These are the things I think of when I try to collect my stories into some sort of formable tale. But now what? What’s next? I fear I can’t do it. It’s simply too hard. How does one gather all their recollections up into one flowing story? It’s as if my memories are like a large disordered Japanese cartoon book and the child filling it all in didn’t stay within the lines and doesn’t understand the language. Maybe the key is to keep trying………………for now, I suppose I will.

Dancing Peacocks, Red Dragons and Tuskless Elephants:

2011-10-19T04:26:00.001-05:00

The work…
Sitting in the small room with no furniture and black and grey carpet on the ground, my feet bare and my chin resting on one knee, I was transfixed. It was, beautiful; at times tragic, at times tender, but constantly and unrelentingly beautiful. I could feel the connectedness of the participants in the room and could sense the change in everyone. I could feel warmth in space that had previously been neutral. It was a feeling of presence rather than absence and I knew it had worked. We had hoped to create an experiential space for feeling what it’s like to be in safe space where you are able to say anything and feel anything and it had worked. We all chose to participate and rather than facilitate a space of academic learning we had all created a space of emotional learning. This is, in my personal opinion, what it takes to truly be a great counselor. Not theory, not supposition, but the capacity to build a relationship and to sit, just sit, with intense emotions.
Interesting, and to the credit of my talented local trainers, it seemed that with time I became less and less noticeable. I, the tall, looming, foreigner with big feet and a strange name, had become background noise and with time it appeared participants tended to notice one thing about me when I spoke up – that they hadn’t noticed me earlier. I became recessive and long stretches of time would pass before anyone realized that I was there. Impact assessment interviews suggest the real meaning behind the work is simple: helping people realize every human being has dignity and value and that we are all human beings. A small group of HIV+ women here reminded of this simple truth and once again I am grateful for the opportunities I have been given to simply be with people and to see their burning capacity to be great. Although the experiential trainings I have facilitated here have been some of the most powerful experiences of my personal and professional life, I will stop there in my description of recent events because everything else belongs to the group and we all promised the important promise of confidentiality.

What I have been reflecting upon….
My time in the developing world always offers me one thing, intellectual refuge. I typically notice but don’t truly recognize how noisy my life in the developed world is. And, although in some ways I have no doubt that my life in Yangon and Fang and Gbarnga and Voinjama and Yelwa have actually been surrounded by more noise than I am surrounded by in Denver, I find I am still able to sit in almost total silence when I am away. Strange scents waft over me and new flavors dance on my tongue but the visual vistas seem to be more defined and my mind gets a little more free, my time a little less varied and unbroken. I realize when I am out of my home environment that it is important to take a break to roam and that it becomes evident that if I allow it to happen my mind making quick and clear connections and my imagination is unfettered and supple. I can stay with these thoughts for as long as I able and then I am back to my baseline way of being, slightly anxious, undoubtedly neurotic and slightly odd. My only hope is that I can hold on to some of this for a while because I have found that the fast paced American way makes it even more difficult for me to simply be and the minute I land my mind and my body just start to run.

Dream about californication…..

2011-10-19T02:57:00.001-05:00

First imagine the beat that accompanies a well dressed, well rehearsed, lathered up lounge singer. The beat is smooth but slightly reminiscent of elevator music and every song, no matter what its original form, comes in long drawn out stanzas. Now stop and take a minute to place the following words on top of these loungy beats…………….

Beautiful girls. All over the world. I can get chasin my time would be wastin. They got nothing on you baby. You shouldn’t worry casue they got nothing on you baby. Nothing on you baby.
Loungy harp beat……………transition and then…Tic toc on the clock. Trying to get a little tispy tonight I’m going to fight until you see the sunlight. Tick toc on the clock the party don’t stop. Got a care in the world…Whoo whoo who ohhh

There it is. My attempt to capture one subtle aspect of what I love about this place is to describe the way they manage to make a lounge song out of every single hit that comes their way. Every time I show up it seems I have briefly forgotten this playful pastime, but the minute I walk into a coffee shop or shopping center the sounds coming out of the speakers quickly remind me where I am – lounge singer heaven.
My thinking about why this is so is as follows: Due to tight sanctions and economic oppression, the community at large has plenty of troubles to worry about and plenty of threats to keep them quiet and under wraps; but, this country is also a place that simply refuses to be oppressed and has the sneaky savvy and brains to make it happen and to laugh at those in charge may they be politicians, millionaires or superstars. In some ways this is a place frozen in time and one can glean from the 80s style fashion and punchy humor that they have been exposed to little that has unfolded with regards to pop culture over the last three decades in the rest of the world. With that noted, this place may actually be ahead of the curve with regards to fashion and style (given 80s is once again retro) and are able to pull out the true gems as they come along and hold onto them much longer than the fast passed easily bored masses in the West. They get access to things in slow sneaky ways and need to savor every moment they are doing something they shouldn’t be – which quickly adds up to just about anything. For example, it is illegal to gather in groups of more than 4 people and suicide is a crime punishable by death and if you leave the country and say something against the ruling party and then come back you get a free taxi ride to the nearest prison. So there it is – my analysis of fashion, music and style in a place I have come to love deeply and a place that constantly makes me smile.

Very soon I will post something a little more serious.

391 meters below sea level

2011-07-30T04:25:00.007-05:00

Today I visited the Dead Sea. This extraordinary body of intense blue water, polished smooth like an oiled skin on a windless day in winter, is a sea like no other. The water is 9 times as salty as that of the ocean – 31% to be exact; and, it makes for an almost intolerable environment for all but the most microscopic of life forms. At one point I was relaxing at the edge of a trendy resort infinity pool, surrounded by locals swimming with their prayer beads and foreign couples engaging in insinuating acts of public displays of affection, and I peered out over the horizon and simply gazed at the calm blue water and salt dunes in awe. In that moment I was overwhelmed by gratitude for the adventures I have been able to embark on thus far in my life.

Interestingly, the concentration of salt has nothing to do with the Dead Sea being below sea level; rather it comes about because of the high evaporation rate. The water’s oily minerals also contain healthy properties. I read that German health insurance covers periodic visits to the Dead Sea for psoriasis patients to visit and luxuriate in the healing waters. It made me wonder if Kaiser will reimburse me for my visit when I get back home. Although the Dead Sea is 3 million years old, it has shrunk by 30% in recent years due to evaporation and the demands of the potash industries from Jordan and Israel.

While swimming in the salty waters, the first thing I noticed was every minor cut on my body. After the sting subsided I was slightly annoyed by the water that had managed to get in my eyes and mouth. But, a few moments later I was acclimated and blown away by the sensory experience of “swimming” in the Dead Sea. The best part about it was that I was actually bobbing rather than swimming. You literally float on the top of the water and at one point I watched a local man covered in mud literally float while he read a newspaper. It appeared as if he was sitting in an invisible lounge chair. The other interesting thing I observed was swimwear made for the women in the region. A nylon cotton combination of fabric covers women from head to toe. Although it may have been the novelty of it for me, but I have to admit I found these prudish suits to be much more enticing and alluring than the two piece bikinis I saw many French, Germans and Danish swimming around in.

My departure for and arrival to Jordan was filled with many emotions. While on the one hand, I was touched and honored to have been asked to help with this very interesting and meaningful program aimed at offering mental health services to Iraqi torture survivors, I was also in the midst of processing some pretty intense recent events and I wondered how the two would mix. My contract will have me in Jordan for one brief month. I am already well aware that this is not enough time to do justice to the work or the experience. Fortunately, it appears this trip has indeed been good for my mind and my soul and each and every day I seem to heal a little and learn something about this very interesting country and its people while still being able to process my own material and recent events.

The first thing I noticed about the country was the chalky white gestalt of the buildings laid on top of the hills and in the cracks of the valleys of Amman. It’s as if an elaborate city has been drawn on a chalkboard and the fragility of the beauty could be erased with one foul swoop from an angry God. The suspected vulnerability of it makes it all the more breathtaking.

The next thing I noticed was how much is going on here beneath the surface. Jordan has sheltered millions of refugees in recent decades which have changed the demography of the country forever. Palestinians now account for the majority of the population and their struggle, their beliefs and their desires have seeped into every element of the culture here. Clearly, there is much I am not seeing or understanding and, yet, what I am seeing suggests that nationality and religion are only a few of the unique threads that bind Jordanian society.

Alomst every single person I have met has wanted, maybe even needed, to tell me that they are Palestinian. They may be second generation Jordanian, born in the UAE or America, but each one of them has taken the time to tell me that they are first and foremost Palestinian. Just last week I asked if there were any museums in Irbid, the town I am living in (which is also the second largest city in Jordan), and I was informed that while yes, there was, and I could get directions easily, a few of my female staff members quietly told me they could not accompany me to this museum because their Palestinian families would be confused, or maybe even upset, by their child’s expressed desire to visit a Jordanian historical site.

While first generation kids in America often report they are in fact American because they were born there by the time they turn 10, third generation kids in Jordan will proudly report they are Palestinian with a Jordanian passport. Nationality here is defined by the father’s blood and thus there is a continuous chain of passing on Palestinian nationality to children. Therefore, it appears Palestinian immigrants altogether avoid the overt process of assimilation while integrating with ease. There is much the American immigration movement could learn from the Jordanian situation as it appears Jordanians are confident enough in themselves and their country to not be insulted by refugee or immigrant national pride with their home country and Palestinians feel connected to both identities, forever and always. In many ways the conversation has been changed from an issue of giving up the old and accepting the new to accepting the new and holding on to the old.

The first thing I noticed about myself since my arrival to Jordan was that that time and space opened up once again for me to be reflective and thoughtful. While it is painfully hard to be in another new country where I do not know the language, it is strangely freeing to have such a huge bubble created around me where I am not influenced by the passing comments of strangers. The most pervasive and looming thoughts I have been having about my time in Jordan thus far have been about gender.

In just a few short days one thing has become glaringly evident to me. The impact of gender permeates everything. Interestingly, every travel book and memoir I have read about the region in preperation, including a memoir writing by an American called Live for Jordan: Letters Home from My Journey Through the Middle East, were all undoubtedly written by men and did nothing to preapre me for this simple fact. While educational and instructive, nothing in these insightful books, aside from a few “warnings” for the female traveler, speaks to the experience of being a lone woman navigating a Middle Eastern County.

The experience is difficult to capture with words. I had come here thinking that with my dark features I might be able to “pass” as an invisible Jordanian mute. That, as long as I wasn’t asked to say anything, I could simply watch and learn in the moments of quiet exploration on the streets and remain unremarkable. I was however gravely mistaken. Excluding the fact that I have not been covering my head (which is somewhat uncommon here), there appears to be something about the way I walk or the way I carry myself that outs me to every man, woman, and child on the street. Every single moment that I have spent on the streets of Jordan (which admittedly is much more than the average woman or man because my dog Tuesday has taught me to be a lover of the long stroll), everyone around me has been fully and evidently aware I am not from here. Male taxi drivers drive up, honk and slow down, assuming I must be looking for a ride because no woman in her right mind would walk alone here on these relatively safe streets. Restaurant staff appear baffled by my bold attempts to engage, discuss and connect. I know some of this is cultural, but the feminist in me struggles to control herself as there are times where I can tell I am being judged for being self-assured. Over the course of the day, it gradually starts to wear on me and I start to intentionally make eye contact with men or attempt to talk and engage with women and children while I explore alone because the strong, confident, feminist in me wants men and women in this part of the world to know that WE are indeed equal and should, in fact, be treated that way. A few times these encounters have ended wonderfully with young teenage boys and girls laughing and asking if they could practice their English with me. Other times it was less clear what the impact was.

While I know some readers may be thinking, ‘but Gwen you are in a foreign country and it is good to respect the norms and values of the country you are visiting.’ To that I shake my head in agreeance and nod solemnly and promise to check myself and try and control my assertive feminist streak; but, mark my words, the minute I get back out there on the streets and I notice some gesture of inequality or injustice towards women, my thoughts and feelings will go unchecked and I will proudly start acting like a woman empowered. For example, just the ohter day I noticed a basketball/football court near my all women’s apartment complex and I boldly stopped to watch the men play a pick-up game. No one else was watching and the men kept looking up to see if I was still there and what I was doing. My first thought was I could hold my own with them, if only they would let me play. When I told Lorenzo about this thought, he laughed and said you better be sure to make sure every inch of your skin is covered before you step out there to play. I love that he laughed and I love that he didn’t say ‘no you can’t!’

Right or wrong, being a assertive, sporty, playful woman is simply who I am and I only hope that a few women here, maybe the ones who have been blocked from studying abroad simply because they are women and their brothers got first dibs, or the ones who are forbidden to drive or get a job, will see me and smile secretly under the veils and whisper – one day.

boats, bikes and horse carts.........

2011-01-02T08:13:00.004-06:00

It was 4 in the morning and I awoke to pack. I would need to grab a taxi and get to the domestic departure gate by 5:30 am. True to form, I was notably early so I grabbed a coffee and tried to get comfortable in the hard airport seats while working on another book on my beloved kindle. The flight was uneventful and upon arrival I quickly identified the taxi my hotel had arranged for me because he was proudly holding a sign that said: “Jeun Voghel: Party of One.” I smiled immediately as I have seen many strange variations of my name in Asian countries and on taxi signboards. The taxi driver caught my smile and grinned back proudly, clearly excited that he had found me pleased with his practical sign.

In the vicinity of Bagan exist some of the most amazing Pagodas, stuppas, temples and monasteries I have ever seen. They are sprinkled haphazardly across the rolling green country side. Rather than discovering one massive monument to a king or honorable Buddha, I found a paradise so unique its vista had never occurred to me before, not even in my dreams. Once upon a time Bagan, with its enchanted stories of sovereign love affairs and twilight air, was a thriving capital for royalty and a famous center for Buddhism and I felt like I had traveled back in time.

Having completed checking into my hotel, I took off on foot consciously aware I only had 71 hours left to conquer this enchanting city. I sauntered down the road stopping first at a temple that highlighted the seven stops Buddha made at a similar temple in India. There was a place for sitting meditation, standing meditation, walking meditation, rest in the shade and protection from rain. Next I read a randomly placed rock with a carved out story of a peasant and his undying love for a princess. I then continued on the main road until I reached the brick gates to Old Bagan.

My horrific sense of direction failed me once again and rather than taking a right, I went left. A few short paces later a couple of locals riding a motorbike did a double take and then awkwardly braked and backed up to chat with me. Apparently my dark hair had thrown them for a loop and they thought that it was possible that I was a Myanmar native returning from the Diaspora. Clearly I was too “healthy”, tall, and oddly dressed to truly be from around there, but my dark hair and universal features once again tricked a few natives (as they have done in Bosnia, Morocco, Egypt and the Czech Republic during prior travels).

Their names were Aung Aung and Ko Lat and although they were “off duty” they agreed to show me around, not as a tour guide per say, but as a “friend.” I was skeptical as this newly formed friendship had blossomed in less than 43 seconds and I could see dollar signs dancing in their eyes, but I liked their style and the way they laughed and I figured it was better than being lost and alone for the day.

Bagan has a savvy tourism industry full of registered government “approved” tour guides, locals with horse carts available to rent by the hour, racks of bikes for use for a small fee, and flocks of kids selling post cards, clothing and paintings. They all speak uncanny, albeit limited English, full of sales industry speak like; “hey! Where you from? I’ve got a great deal for you, just ten for a buck”, “I’ll take lipstick”, “you got pencil?” and, “Oh my Buddha!” Their ruthlessness to make the sale only accentuates the untamed beauty in and around Bagan. In many of the pagodas and stuppas old Pali inscriptions and Buddha images can be found. As sunset approached the quiet seemed to deepen and I had this strange feeling it might actually be possible to see a magical white elephant glide across the country side adorned in royal dress.

As the day came to an end Aung Aung had been a perfect gentleman and Ko Lat was his lingering shadow, secretly formulating how they could get the most out of their mark. Although I had yet to let my guard down and I feared the lingering up-sale, I was eventually talked into a two hour horse cart ride (which I will never regret) and I warmed to these two playful cousins who were willing to talk about the darker side of Bagan with a forthrightness that is rare to come by in a country of unspeakable truths. As soon as the sun set I agreed to meet them the following day for a bike ride to New Bagan. Aung Aung wanted me to meet his family and I was hoping to get off the grid.

The next morning I rose at four am once again because I wanted to see the sunrise and hoped to see a few monks start their day asking for alms and offering a way for locals to make merit. I had expected to be suffering from the after-effects of a day of travel and time spent in a simple horse cart, but, in fact, I had slept extremely well and suffered from no aches or pains.

When I stepped outside it was still dark. I have never ceased to be amazed by the sense of the world lying dormant and vulnerable, waiting to be awakened by the light of a new day lingering just beyond the horizon.

After breakfast and some time spent with my kindle, I started towards the front desk to rent a bike. After years of struggling to find ways to be still I have realized that stillness for me comes with a book in my hand and my imagination and mind in a world of words. Reading is my best form of meditation and after an hour with coffee and Wendell Berry’s The Art of Commonplace, I was ready for what the day had to offer.

As soon as I reached the gate with my classic cruiser loaded with a handy basket and bell I immediately recognized Aung Aung and Ko Lat waiting peacefully by their motorbike. The first thought that went through my head was that we had experienced a misunderstanding the day before and they hadn’t understood I had wished to rent a bicycle, not a motorbike. Upon inquiry they quickly shock their heads and said, “No, no, we understood but we have a motorbike so why would we ride a bike.” I had to laugh for the day ahead with me peddling hard on dusty paths alongside a modern day motorbike loaded with two locals was going to bring a few glances.

The first thing Aung Aung thought we should do was to go check out the local fishing village as his father was a fisherman and fishing was a large part of the local way of living. I agreed assuming this was another stop on the well traveled lonely planet travel book tour, but as soon as we arrived I quickly realized we were well off the usual path and today would indeed be an interesting adventure. The kids and mothers in the local houses looked strangely at me as I stopped to take a few pictures of adorable young puppies and fishing nets.

Upon reaching the waterside I realized there was much more to Bagan than meets the eye. The first thing that was striking was the poverty in the fishing villages, next came the large group of local men who appeared to be building a massive boat, welding it out of medal on the beach. Aung Aung quietly whispered, “no pictures of that” and pointed to a similar enormous craft floating in the middle of the Irrawaddy with a massive crane on it, proudly flying the new flag of Myanmar. I had no idea what it was for but it looked industrial and the flag indicated I shouldn’t ask any more questions. So we moved on.

We headed over to a small group of men, one was working on a fishing net and the other was cooking some tiny fish over a small fire. Aung Aung asked if I wanted to take a ride and I quickly agreed. He turned and asked the gentleman who was cooking and his eyes got huge and he asked, “is she sure she wants to ride in that,” pointing to his small wooden square framed canoe. I casually nodded in agreement and he giggled and said “let’s go.” The fisherman, Aung Aung, Ko Lat and I all carefully crawled on (me much more carefully than the others). We agreed to an hour long tour of the river with a quick stop at a hidden monastery in the woods that is known for its exceptional carpentry. About 45 minutes into the ride the fisherman briefly came ashore and indicated he needed to go chat with a friend. We agreed and about 5 minutes later he came back bearing gifts of fried fish cakes with onions and lettuce in it that was to be dipped in fish oil. I adored it and when I looked back after taking a large bite, I caught the old fisherman grinning a toothless smile. We sailed around for about 3 hours (2 hours more than the agreed upon hour for 3000 Kyat).

A seasonable cool had fallen in Bagan and I smiled when I caught myself shivering as I knew my cold blooded father and brother from Wisconsin would only shake their heads if they saw me suffering in 70 degree weather while they endured negative twenty back home. In recent years I have spent so much time in Asia and Africa that anything less than 75 degrees makes me run for sweaters and winter hats. On the trip to shore we discovered dozens of floating bamboo lanterns from a recent festival. Aung Aung carefully learned over and caught one that had a fragile blue shell and I secretly hoped we didn’t disrupt the wish that was likely made by the person who set this floating lantern adrift an evening or two prior.

Upon docking we grabbed our respective forms of transportation and started our hour long journey to New Bagan. Although New Bagan is indeed just that, a newly erected town outside Old Bagan with new hotels, gem shops and lacquer gift shops, it is also the home base of many monasteries and natives. Aung Aung and Ko Lat both live in New Bagan so we worked our way south through the active main streets towards old banyan trees and local tea shops. A few moments later we arrived at Aung Aung's house. A typical Burmese abode, it was sparsely furnished with a beautifully painted temple on the back wall and a TV set sitting on but unwatched on the other side of the room. The first thing I noticed was three large pictures hanging on the wall. The first, a picture of Aung Aung and his young wife; the second, a picture of Buddha; and, the third, a large portrait of a Japanese-Australian woman who had allegedly “adopted” Aung Aung a few years prior. Apparently, after spending a few days with Aung Aung, this woman agreed to buy him a horse so he could make a better income and adequately care for his family. He reverently spoke of her throughout the two days I spent with him and it was blaringly evident that this gesture of concern for a man this woman had briefly met on her own travel adventure had fundamentally changed this man’s life and the life of his family.

Aung Aung had apparently informed his wife of my pending visit and she had been cooking a modest but tasty meal all morning long. Because Aung Aung repeatedly expressed intense concern for not being able to offer me meat, I shyly bluffed and indicated it was OK because I was a vegetarian. After spending time with their daughter and buying what I will likely soon discover are fake gems from his neighbor, I sat down and enjoyed some rice and a spicy curry that was clearly cooked with generosity and care. I will always remember Aung Aung and his wife Ni Ni for this thoughtful gesture of kindness and I will never forget my two and a half day adventure in Bagan.

Top Seven Ways to Live Life on Ever-Changing Paths

2010-12-30T22:08:00.003-06:00

The difference between a path and a road is not only the obvious one. A path is little more than a habit that comes with knowledge of a place. It is a sort of ritual of familiarity. As a form, it is a form of contact with a known landscape. It is not destructive. It is the perfect adaption, though experience and familiarity, of movement to place; it obeys the natural contours; such obstacles as it meets it goes around. A road, on the other hand, even the most primitive road, embodies a resistance against the landscape. Its reason is not simply the necessity for movement, but haste.
~ Wendell Berry – The Art of Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays of Wendell Berry

I was once giving a guest lecture to a group of graduate students who had some interest in international disaster work. I tried to speak from the heart and balance the good with the bad; the exciting with the mundane; the frustration with the successes. I also tired to truly capture how life can be lived off the beaten path. What I have witnessed and observed over the last six years of doing international humanitarian work, predominately in war torn countries or in the developing world, has been both tremendous wealth and extreme poverty, both literally as well as figuratively, and I am still discovering which is which.

With these students I wanted to get away from the “sexiness” of international work, and get downs to the real essence of it. Because the truth of the matter is, work can be “sexy” in the place you and your ancestors came from, in urban metropolitan cities, in small unknown villages and in far off foreign lands. As I moved through my lecture one student stopped me with a puzzled look on her face and simply asked: “How do you know if you will be a good traveler?” By that she meant, what type of qualities does a person need to be able to pack up and work in far off lands where you may not know the language or the nuances of the cultures, without feeling completely overwhelmed or fearfully confused most of the time.

I found the to be an intriguing question, because as a psychologist who shows up in places where people sometimes have had no one to talk to aside from co-workers for a very long time, I sometimes hear the deeper, darker side of stories international workers carry. Sometimes these stories are full of adventure and job satisfaction, but other times they are full of angst, regret, torment and longing. I am left wondering if all the good they are doing for the world has actually been harmful to them in some fundamental way.

With regards to the question, I fear I didn’t answer it as fully and as completely as I would have liked that day in class, so in the service of going deeper, I am pleased to present -“The Top Seven Ways to Live Life on Ever-Changing Paths:”

1) You must have the ability to cope with an array of unexpected feelings and treatments from others: from kindness to cruelty; weariness to exuberance, devotion to betrayal; carelessness to care; doggedness to awkwardness to grace. It is likely all will occur – some by accident, some by intent: all will affect you, deeply, intensely, and powerfully.

2) It is an enormous bonus if you have a healthy appetite and a strong stomach. Many cultures reach out to foreigners with their food. This food may be familiar, exotic, threatening, exciting or sickening. A willingness to taste all and explore the world’s cuisines will win you big points in the areas of cultural compatibility and emersion. For those of you who have the interest but hesitate due to weak stomachs or finicky tastes – I encourage you to travel, but I advise against nomadic living being your bread and butter. You may think you have avoided situations by pushing your food around your plate or graciously informing your host you have already eaten, but they know, and often times, people take offense. I can’t count how many times someone has disclosed to me how negatively affected they have been by a foreigner who arrived and evidenced a severe lack of interest or willingness to try the local cuisine. Each and every time I have been told this has been after I have finished off a huge plate of something I may have never have imagined eating before and 99.9% of the time I have truly, honestly, candidly, enjoyed it.

3) Accept the fact you never really escape the place you are coming from and acknowledge that deep down, even if tremendous pain or disappointment is tied to that place, part of you has never really left. There is no such thing as a geographical cure. May it be Janesville or Stockholm or Lagos or Phnom Phen: wherever you are from, it is in some way shape or form, a part of you, and in many ways, it will forever remain your fate. Yes people can relocate and yes people can call a new place home and mean it deep down in their bones, but they are still from a place and that place is mapped on their DNA.

4) Understand that it takes time to truly understand a place. No matter how good you get at traveling or how many places you have visited, if you arrive to a new place you are, in fact, in a living breathing place that has generation upon generation of personal histories and traditions. Even if you are an expert at international politics, UN policies or specific types of implementation projects, you are in fact a stranger in a strange land and it is important to take some time to recognize that. Until you are settled, you have not yet in any meaningful way arrived, and without having devoted yourself to some small part of it in a way that will produce an intricate knowledge of it, you will not be able to live there without misunderstanding it or in some way damaging it or your relationship to it.

5) Anytime one crosses a given stretch of land with some frequency, no matter how exotic it is, the tendency is always toward habit. The big secret of international workers around the world is that our lives don’t actually look much different than the life of a teacher in a small town in Iowa. We all wake up in the morning with items to check off lists, we all have a certain way we like to spend our mornings getting ready for a new day, and we all have ways we like to unwind. May you be in Kearney Nebraska, Dakar Senegal, Congo Brazzaville or Waing Wai Thailand, we are all just human beings trying to live a life, earn a living, and relate to other creatures that populate the planet. No life is truly more exceptional than another.

6) Know that an exceptional life is inherently based on judging your own life by what others are doing. After all, you can only be an exception if there are lots of other lives that are not exceptional around you. For the longest time, I was fueled by the desire to have an exceptional life. I was, as I often heard myself saying, searching for the extraordinarily life. I wanted a life that would inspire envy in others and pride in my parents. I wanted a life that made other people say, “Wow.” What I realized is that by chasing a goal that is heavily based on comparing my life to others, I’d never get there. I would never feel like my life was exceptional. I would always have peers, and I would always have people that made me think, “Wow. Their life is much more remarkable than mine.” Instead, I have turned inside and tried to listen. A great life comes not from comparing my life to the people around me, but from having a life that brings me contentment whether I’m by myself or around other people. What brings me happiness? The chance to listen to and truly hear the stories of others, sometimes repeatedly. The opportunity to write frequently. The ability to spend time with my friends and family. A small loft in a city that I can call a home. Spending time with my dog. Spending time helping others in the global community and in my local community. Those are the things that make me happy. I’m assuming that many would say such things aren’t exceptional at all. Some might consider them boring, unsophisticated, and so on. Frankly, it doesn’t matter what others think about what I do, but only about how I treat others. At the end of the day the only thing that should be extraordinary in life is love.

7) Paradoxically, some of the worst abuses inflicted on nationals by foreigners may have arisen from the foreigner’s discomfort with actually being in the place they so desperately worked to get to. Some of the most heartbreaking stories I have heard in the field about maltreatment has not been by a ruling government, raiding rebels, or a local power hungry business man, but by ex-pats in Embassies, NGO offices, UN building or international businesses looking down at national staff, forever believing in some sort of “us” and “them” mentality. Tragically, I have even seen it happen when a staff member has gone from national staff in their home country, to international staff in a neighboring country. Membership is something we all long for, and sadly a side-effect of seeking membership in places that are not our own tend to me viewing the world around you with a formula that searches for something one can call homogeneous to self. Be wary of that search and try to experience each and every person you come across as an equal. Our homogeneity is our humanity.

There it is, seven lessons learned that I would have liked to have shared to a room full of graduate students looking for meaning and adventure. The trick is to realize that any adventure had is an adventure lost as repetition is monotonous. So go forth and explore and practice your rituals of familiarity in non-destructive ways to others and the planet and try to be wholeheartedly present in what you do and where you go. Be able to sit and be quite at the foot of some tree, in a busy restaurant, in an airport or in your home and feel settled, both in the place and in your awareness of it and maybe, just maybe, you will be able to figure out your calling and know what path to take in a world full of roads.

My very own Once Upon a Time Story

2010-10-19T08:51:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was a boy. He lived in a country during a time of confusion where everything was scattered and people relied on courage to get by. To stay safe he briefly moved to a nearby country. Things that he had known were lost, but many new things were found. Although some would say nothing was possible, he refused a fate of defeat and time and time again made the impossible possible with sheer desire, zeal and aspiration.

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in a house, situated in a forest, in a town on a continent far far away from this boy. Although she was not touched by war and in many ways experienced an enchanted childhood, she was deeply curious about the world and decided at a very young age she was going to explore it. When opportunities surfaced she found herself in the very village this young boy had escaped from as a young man.

Once upon a time this boy and this girl met on the most sacred of playing fields - a basketball court. This game played a special role in both their lives and in many ways defined their adolescence. The moment they met a small spark ignited but the realities of the context and environment blocked either one of them from recognizing it for what it was: the possibility of love.

Once upon a time this boy and this girl both happened to be traveling back to the girl’s homeland. Their reasons for going were different and they landed in different states for different events: she a wedding in the mountains and he a family reunion in Philadelphia. Although they didn’t see each other while they were there, their communication about their respective adventures brought something new to their relationship. The girl liked his thoughtfulness and his gentle nature and the boy liked her playfulness and laugh. Months later they went on their first date. From that point forward she would get butterflies each and every time they spoke and he would feel as if something very rare was stirring in him. Their love was a secret they told very few. He told her that although he had this feeling that there were things he was meant to accomplish, he would always love her and knew they would be together. She told him that although her work was very important to her and it took her too many far off places, their love would always bring her back to him. When they are together, everything makes sense and her butterflies intermingle with his stirring nature.

Once upon a time this girl and this boy started talking about the future and began to work under the assumption their found love was something special indeed. He is constantly amazed by her relentless quest to do what is right and she is drawn to the fierceness of his convictions. Although they continue to be separated by time and space, they no longer question the specialness of their connection and they both know that what they have created is true and is real and is honest even if it is restricted by distance. Now anything seems possible.

Once upon a time this girl was looking for a way to end a story and the words that came to mind like a whisper were: and they lived happily ever after.

the rewarding kind of travel

2010-08-08T19:30:00.002-05:00

Most Travel, and certainly the rewarding kind, involves depending on the kindness of strangers, putting yourself into the hands of people you don’t know and trusting them with your life. This risky suspension of disbelief is often an experience freighted with anxiety. But what’s the alternative? Usually there is none.
~ Paul Theroux

There was no alternative for me in Sarajevo, until I met Verijan. There was no alternative for me in Nigeria, until I met Justus. There was no alternative for me in Kenya, until I met Henry. There was no alternative for me in Cario, until I met Nader. There was no alternative for me in Yangon, until I met Htaik and Hazlitt. In between such encounters I have been lucky enough to meet dependable taxi drivers in Sierra Leone, thoughtful guest house owners in Thailand, willing direction givers in the labyrinth alleys of Marrakesh, and helpful unsolicited translators all over the planet. This is not to say that I haven’t been robbed, swindled, cheated, or conned but, it is these experiences of angst that allow us to truly celebrate the kindness of strangers when we are at our most vulnerable.

I have not posted in a while. I’m not exactly sure why, but I have returned to share with those loyal readers who keep checking in only to find silence on the screen, what has been on my mind. What I have been thinking about since I returned from the unspoken place has been the listener-storyteller relationship. In my projects in West Africa and South East Asia I have learned much about being human and acting humane. Listening to survivors stories in these places has been painful but it has also been bearable because each and every story teller I have encountered was able to teach a lesson about survival and healing and it appeared the simple act of telling was reparative.

One Bosnian doctor explained this aspect of the listener-storyteller relationship in Mollica’s book Healing Invisible Wounds:

Whenever you tell a story you feel better. I will give you an example of the Bosnian people from the Muslim religion. They do not cry too much. The females go to the funerals and they speak a lot. They repeat and repeat the story. I have had a chance to listen to this several times in several tragic stories on many occasions. They stories are like a tape with the same words and sentences. And each time before they finish, the storyteller is much happier than before, and the listener becomes wealthier from receiving new knowledge. (Mollica, 2006)

The repetition of the story makes the storyteller more comfortable and in effect having listener is part of the therapeutic process. Many of my students, both graduate students from DU as well as community advocates and passionate volunteers in the field, ask me the same question after learning about trauma, PTSD and it’s impact on human functioning.............They told me their story, now what? This is the inevitable next question a counselor/therapist will ask after they are able to build enough trust to be gifted the trauma story of a survivor. Helpers want tools to “fix” the problems and the reality is that there is no magic wand, no super pill and no scientific procedure that can fix a wounded soul other than to honor the fact that they have lived to tell their story. I agree with Mollica when he says that “listeners need to remember that the inherent purpose of trauma stories is healing and survival. Survivors must be allowed to tell their stories in their own way” and “We must not burden them with theories, interpretations, or opinions, especially if we have little knowledge of their cultural or political background. “ Storytelling is in fact a healing art and listening is as growth promoting as telling if we just have patience and are able to integrate both the pain of the trauma sufferer as well as power of the survival tale.

chai encounter

2010-05-11T01:21:00.003-05:00

Today I finished my third 300 plus page novel in less than a week. Although I feel like a proud daughter when I find myself in a ferocious reading spree as my mother put all other casual readers to shame, I am feeling a bit nervous because I only have one book left and I have 7 days to go before I head back to Chiang Mai (the travelers book exchange heaven for well-read, well-traveled paperbacks). I decide to head down the road for a Chang, the local brew, in the service of creating something else to do, and maybe to slow down my reading spree. Last night I taught English to a group of three young ladies and one young lad at the local noodle shop. This has been a SalusWorld tradition in this project and at first I didn’t want to disappoint the consultants who came before me. Twice a week for eight months visiting consultants have been holding English classes at night in a noodle shop that sprang up a few short months after our arrival in this displaced Shan village in northern Thailand.

To be totally honest I didn’t really want to do it. I’m a psychologist for goodness sake. After spending 10 minutes with these kids I realized it was the best guilt based decision I had ever made. They were sharp and sweet and keen to learn. I pray I teach them as much English as they have taught me Shan, but I doubt it; one of them busted me last night for spelling Wednesday wrong. Based on the fact I so enjoyed myself with them and because they asked, we upped the evening classes from 2 to 4 times this week and I am stoked. My best lesson to date has been to teach them the alphabet in American Sign Language, the first foreign language I studied. The lights went out during our lesson and I heard them correcting each other practicing the signs as they walked home from escorting me back to my abode with candles.

I have a day and night free and I have no idea what to do with my time. Last month I was training, frantically prepping for a pending training or engaging in delightful supervision sessions with amazing team of coordinators. The sudden slowdowns in life have unfortunately never been easy for me. It seems I feel more balanced with a check list of activities to get done rather than relaxing in one of the most sought after travel destinations in the world. For some reason I can’t warm myself to Thailand. It is beautiful no doubt, but I find myself agitated whenever I am here, longing for other less developed and much less tourism savvy environments on the planet like Lofa, Yelwa and Dagon Plaza.

As I saunter down the street to the market to buy my Chang and some snacks of dried fish and rice cakes I see a guy from a distance. The first thing I notice is that he can squat on his hunches Third World-style, indefinitely. For some reason I find myself longing to speak Thai so I could saunter up to him and strike up a conversation. As I draw near, I realize I know this guy. It is Chai. Chai is a whisper of a man but hip in his own way and not in the slightest way anachronistic. Berkley cool in worn out clothes, wiry, muscular, flip-floped, well over fifty but doesn’t look a day older than thirty-five. A week of acclimating to the land of maybes and half-smiles, longing for a place and it’s people just across the border, I find him, or he finds me, sauntering down the road sweating and somehow fearful of the motorbikes coming at me on the empty paved road. For some reason I have this nagging feeling that a few of my local passer-byers have a itch to hit me and might even consider doing it they could be assured they could get away with it. He greets me kindly and I tell him I will be right back as I notice they are closing up the market and I want to get the treats I had been planning for (God forbid I skip the beer and barrel through my last novel). As I walk back I am given another chance to watch him and I am struck by how much I like this guy, given I know so little about him. The last time I was here I had asked after him and I had been told he was nowhere to be found and that maybe he had returned to Shan State. 14 months later, out of nowhere, there he is smiling at me, as engaged as I remember him. We smile and shake our heads in that this is unbelievable kind of way and then he moves towards his motorbike and says “home?” At first I baulk and refuse because that is what “we” should do when an oppressed illegal immigrant on a bike offers a ride to a privileged white gal in fancy sunglasses sweating along the roadside. He turns his head like a trusted dog does paying attention to you when you are telling them a story, trying to make meaning out of the nonsense coming out of your mouth. I quickly realize I am being foolish and awkwardly jump on his bike because the pegs are not out and I unconsciously have the residue of a long forgotten bike trauma (a burn on the leg from a Harley that was only slightly more dangerous than it’s driver) burned into my memory and my calf. Chai’s English ranges from profoundly good to non-existent; so, I chat away on the back of the bike showering him with genuine compliments based on what I remember about his participation in my first 2 week training on basic counseling and I ask him how his trip to Shan State went. I have no idea what he understood as he only grunted and then dumped me in front of my house, smiled, and turned around and left. He has an idle power I envy and I remain hopeful that is not the last of our ever so random encounters.

Saying all that cannot be said in words

2010-05-08T23:03:00.003-05:00

They each step down from the truck taxi to say goodbye. The one driving suggests a group hug and we all quickly form a circle. They each place their hands on my back and I on theirs and we lean forward so that our heads meet in the middle, resulting in us each looking at our sandaled feet. Between telling me thank you in the most genuine of ways and asking me if I am packed, they manage to be truly genuine and in the moment as well as active and forward thinking. I like the way they each can fluctuate from a mindful relaxed presence to a multi-tasking high speed processor; I have yet to figure out how they do it, when I try I just look flustered. I want to hug each one of them but I can’t, I’m not sure if my newly acquired comfort with embracing and being embraced will translate here. I smile and think of how proud my friend Jules would be if she could see me now. Her relentless persistence gradually desensitizing me to touch has worked. I used to be awkward and uncomfortable with gestures of intimacy and would get confused with the three cheek kiss greeting of Europe, finding myself head butting unprepared recipients. I like the way I have changed and have learned to appreciate everything from a wink to fingers dancing on my arms to a warm embrace fluttering over my shoulders, to a gentle touch on my back. Saying all that cannot be said in words, the nonverbal world of communication has transformed my experience of the world and its people and I feel my throat get tight and my eyes get hot and I know it is once again time for me to cry the honorable tears of loss. It is only those meaningful relationships that we grieved when lost and I know deep in my heart and soul that the meaning I have found here has been deep and profound.

The approximate wetness of hope

2010-05-08T23:02:00.001-05:00

What is the proper number of kisses
For a man to leave this world?
The average depth of melancholy?
The approximate wetness of hope?
~ Max Garland

Thingyan, which translates “transit of the Sun from Pisces to Aries” is the Local New Year Water Festival and usually falls around mid-April, the Local month of Tagu. It is celebrated over a period of four to five days culminating in the Local New Year. The days are filled with loud music and truck loads of giddy young people tossing water and singing. The nights are filled with musical performances on stages that sprouted up like weeds overnight in the cracks of a sidewalk. In every neighborhood mandats or stages, with festive names, made from bamboo, wood and beautifully decorated paper mache and merrymaking and general gaiety are the main ticket items, day in and day out.

During the first two days of Thingyan, I saunter the streets of Y and got absolutely soaked by passing celebrators with buckets of water, modern day squirt guns and a keen eye for foreigners. On the third day I stayed in as I discovered I was quite sunburned on every patch of skin I missed applying sun screen to the day before and I was tired of being such an identifiable target. I also knew I would be out all day the following day as a group of my first training participants invited me to an event called Heaven and Hell which was an amusing surprise given I was at that time residing in a majority Buddhist country that finds the idea of heaven and hell to be a bit comical. The plan was they would pick me up at 7 am and we would be out all day dancing, singing and engaging in the collective merrymaking.
Around 6 pm I got the call. There had been a bombing and the location of the explosion was the very stage that we had planned to go to the following day.

According to the news media:
“three bomb blasts rocked a park in M's main city Y on Thursday as thousands of revellers celebrated an annual water festival, leaving nine people dead and at least 75 wounded, officials said. The blasts occurred near Kandawgyi Lake in the military-ruled country's commercial hub, where thousands of people had gathered for water-throwing festivities to mark the Buddhist New Year.

"Nine people were killed -- five men and four women," an official told AFP on condition of anonymity, adding that a fourth bomb was found and defused. State television gave a slightly different toll, saying eight people had died and 94 were injured. The blasts came as the country prepares for elections planned for this year that critics have dismissed as a sham.”

Over the course of the next few days the numbers varied greatly and reports of suggested perpetrators covered the whole continuum from hunches to conspiracy theories.

I missed the event and felt the heaviness of having planned to be in a place that happened to have been bombed 17 hours prior to my arrival but I also felt the hope and collective ability to adjust, regulate and normalize an existence that has rarely in its recent history been delivered to such an oppressed group of people.

“Hopenmar” – An environmentally friendly visit from twelve guys and a girl

2010-05-08T23:00:00.003-05:00

I returned to the unspoken city 2 weeks ago. A few short hours after I arrived I was invited to the closing ceremony and celebratory dinner of a motivated group of young local and Chinese activists. The topic of their shared interest: the environment and global warming. All I have to say is that, “Hopenhagan, you should be ashamed.”

As soon as I arrive I discover two giddy groups of participants, one group local, one group Chinese. They were truly enjoying each other and excited about their shared vision – green living and sustainable green development. I observe playful yet serious dialogue, and it was clear they all have deep respect and admiration towards each others plight. While the Chinese activists struggle with an all powerful controlling administration that the world fears and obsesses about, they and their hosts quickly realized their struggle pales in comparison to the plight of the local activists in attendance. One Chinese activist takes care to express just that in his farewell speech. According to him, while it is frustrating to be living is such a controlled country; at least the rules and regulations are clear and transparent. In this place, it’s an altogether different game and a much more confusing existence. Nothing is clear and the word transparency is only spoken in whispers.

For those of you who haven’t heard me say it a hundred times already, it is important to note it has been very hot here; and, when I say hot I mean it has been 100 degrees plus every stinkin day. One Chinese participant also made note of the heat during his speech but he added one important fact to his observation: “The weather here is very warm, but the people are warm too.” If you asked me, I would say the people of this place may be the warmest people on the face of the planet but, that’s just me and although I have visited many places, I haven’t quite visited them all.

By the end of the event I realize that I (an American who has been indoctrinated with fears of pending Chinese takeover of the planet and some underlying stereotypical beliefs that environmental concerns take a back seat to currency control and exports and falls just ahead of human rights concerns in China) have fallen victim to a tremendous amount of misinformation. The reality is China is as diverse as a New York City subway and if this passionate young group of students represents even a small part of their rather large Republic. We my friends, are greatly mistaken.

The accomplishments and concluding thoughts of this youth initiative focused on global warming thought up by and accomplished by two groups of what many in the west would all assume to be disempowered and uninformed group of civilians, blew the events in Copenhagen a few short months ago out of the water; and, if Obama were smart, he would come here and meet with this group and learn a few lessons on international engagement and strategic green development.

I will end this train of thought with another quote, this time it was from one of the local participants to the China team which happened to be made up of a dozen men and one lone woman: “As we are living under the same Sun and walking on the same Land, we are together in our heart to act for our environment. We love you, brothers and sister.”

the possibilities of 2010...

2009-12-22T11:39:00.004-06:00

For many months I have been a psychologist on the outskirts of two identities: one being a trauma psychologist and trainer of local counselors in international disaster environments, another being a clinician maintaining a much more traditional role, gradually building a private practice in Denver. Nearly every morning since my return from Burma I drive to my favorite fitness studio. I have done so on snowy roads, rainy roads and fall time roads. This ever-changing driving experience makes it feel like I have been back much longer than I have. During the day I see clients, attend meetings and write grants with the hopes that both worlds can continue to be a part of my life. Currently it seems I am existing in limbo between these two identities searching for sustainability and nourishment.

I wake up early because mornings are my favorite. Waking up before the sun makes it feel as though the world is my secret. I walk the dog in the dark, pleased to see there are no other lights on in my building and return to smell the aroma of fresh coffee grounds from the canister. The ritual is pleasing because it is something I do in both lives and it is one of the few consistencies in my exceptionally inconsistent life. The one thing I miss about doing this in Burma and Thailand is watching the monks walk the streets gowned in red and gold, humbly asking for alms.

Inwardly I feel both at peace with my role in life and suffer quiet trepidations of a woman who has witnessed too much global human suffering in all its forms. My clinical practice is growing slowly and has been blessed by the dedication of brave souls who desire happiness in all its forms. In the end I do the same thing here as I did abroad; listen, reflect and empathize. That’s the thing about humanity, in the end we are more alike than we are different and I tend to feel sadness for the western who thinks that I couldn’t possibly practice here after seeing what I’ve seen abroad in conflict zones are counties enduring horrific government oppression. That for some reason I might feel bored with the stories of my clients in America baffles me. The truth in the matter is I have seen just as much pain, just as much suffering, just as much torment in the West as I have seen abroad.

It’s the dead of winter, the mornings darker longer and my window only gets a short sliver of the direct sun before it passes over the building and leaves for the evening. I can’t quite tell if it is this that affects my mood or if it’s something bigger, something more existential. While most of the time I am deeply, seriously happy and content with my life, in part because I am deeply, seriously and contentedly in love with an amazing man, I also experience moments where darkness rumbles through me as if my soul is suffocating in cement.

While my personal life is in a great place; blessed by love, family and friendships all over the world, I hope I find a way to make my professional life work. I love my life in all its colors but given the painful loss I endured just over a year ago and the complicated nature of my work, it has been a tricky life as of late. For example, it is painfully hard to hear that psychiatric treatment and child protection are not a right or even an option in most parts of the world. The good news is that as I close my eyes, my tired self is swept by waves of gratitude for what I have and the possibilities of 2010.

remarkably different meanings

2009-11-07T18:42:00.002-06:00

One of my funniest lost in translations moments to date began with a simple question: how long?

It was a typical training day, one like any other. For me, this meant a fine balance between didactic lessons and experiential trust building activities that facilitate self-disclosure and the feelings of the therapeutic experience rather than simply an intellectual understanding of the therapeutic experience. With time and experience I have found that my students all over the globe are much like I was when I was a green inexperienced therapist: suckers for a good case study and a deeper understanding of all the fascinating diagnosis that touch our captivating species. So the idea was to first teach a wide variety of diagnosis from depression to anxiety with PTSD and Bi-Polar mood disorder at the spectrum ends (for those of you who are curious these are all diagnosis I have seen in the numerous developed and undeveloped countries I have worked in).

As I explained each symptom constellation I stressed that the point was not to diagnosis just to diagnosis but rather to enlighten the patient, the counselor and his or her family about their experienced emotional or psychological struggles and to create a plan towards less suffering, less confusion and an experience of feeling less alone in the world. After I explained the 9 most common disorders, disorders that occur on average in 1 in 20 individuals at least once in their lifetime in a stable environment (now for a minute consider what the rates must be in environments that have been impacted by war, human rights violations, discrimination and mass violence has on psychological well being), I told them we would be would be playing a diagnosis game. I shared 8 case studies and they were to diagnosis each case base on the symptoms presented and described. The two most important features to differentiating between spectrum diagnosis (like dysthymia and major depression or acute stress disorder and post traumatic stress disorder) are frequency and duration; or, “How long and how often?”

This is where it all began. In my dramatic presentation of each diagnosis full of tears, hand wringing, lethargy, flashback and obsessive checking behavior I always ended with, “always remember we should ask for how long and how often the symptoms have been present.” Each time I said this I sensed something. It wasn’t anything that was said or even any non-verbal signs just something in the air I suppose. As I got more dramatic in my acting out of various symptom consolations came a more relaxed audience who were getting a kick out of me making a fool of myself. As they became more relaxed, the more noticeable reactions I started to get to my “now remember always ask for how long and how often the symptoms have been present.”

The module went on and they got completely enthralled by the case studies and the diagnosis game that I forgot about all the subtle confusion I was feeling and went on with my day. The next day I was enjoying a cup of 3-in-1 Nescafe while groups of trainees prepared for a pending presentation when one of the participants approached me quietly and asked if we could chat. He shared part of her personal story and then, as others started moving towards us, quickly changed the subject and said, “Gwan I have to tell you something funny about something you have been saying a lot lately.” At first I was worried that maybe I was saying or doing something that was culturally inappropriate and he was trying to be nice about breaking the news to me, but instead he said, “it’s when you say how long.”

“How long?” I replied. “Tell me more” (tell me more is my classic therapy reaction to just about anything to keep people talking in a non-directive manner).

“Well in Burmese…” he replies, “How long means without longyi.”

“Like someone who wears pants instead of the classic Burmese skirt” (that is commonly worn by both men and women albeit in a gender specific wrap style), I reply.

“No not exactly,” he says, “like when someone’s longyi has fallen off accidently.”

I start laughing which causes him to give out a sigh of relief as he must have been worried I might feel ashamed when I heard such news. I yell out “How long!” and look down at and pat my skirt to make sure it is there and we both crack up. His laugh was so fantastic that I fall into one of my silent laughing fits that lead to tears and breathless gasps (I know those of you who know me best are shaking your heads right now with deep understanding). This loss of control on my part causes everyone in the room to be briefed on the fact I had been briefed by the “how long issue” and after a collective sigh, everyone bursts out in laughter.

From there on out “How Long” was our group’s inside joke and it did wonders for the togetherness and connectivity and I didn’t mind in the least that it was at my expense. When on the final day I wrote “Mr. How Long” on this gentleman’s compliment card it was a sealed deal: we would all always remember an ever so slightly strange and potentially awkward lost in translation moment that turned into an unforgettable shared moment. Given unadulterated shared laughter is such a rare event in environments between foreigners, where language and culture and power and respect and a ton of other potentially disconnecting elements prevent such simple yet important playful events to occur, this lost in translation moment will forever remain a cherished memory for me and I will never again be able to say “how long” without a small smirk and giggle.

these are the things I must never forget

2009-10-31T12:02:00.006-05:00

My history, my friends, my adventures and this country: its plight, its struggle and the amazing capacity that resides within.

To capture my reasoning for the final memorable item I would like to share a story.

I will call this story "bit dine thow: throw ever stand."

Bit Dine Thow is the name for a famous toy from this country; the meaning also seems to capture the resilient aspects of the civilian population here, forever being tossed around; forever managing to land on their feet.

I learned about this special toy a few days ago. It occurred during a training I was facilitating on Child Development and Experiential Education for a number of local Community Based Organizations (CBOs). After presenting on maternal health, the importance of reading to children between the ages of zero and three, mental health problems in children and the Mozart Effect, I asked the group to break into small groups and design a toy that would help foster the healthy development of all aspects of child development (i.e., physical, motor, cognitive, social-emotional and language). Interestingly, rather than design what I imagined (a high tech futuristic toy with all sorts of gadgets and interactive educational parts) each group choose a simple yet highly effective toy that have been around for ages. One group selected a jump rope and described how all 5 aspects were developed, another chose the game of musical chairs with an added trivia component to push participants in the cognitive realm. The final group chose a Bit Dine Thow.

Bit Dine Thow is one of those round weighted balls that always lands right side up. I have seen them before but I can’t quite remember where I saw them or how they were designed. I will never forget the Bit Dine Thow and just in case I ever would have this group of trainees were kind enough to gift me one as a remembrance for our time spent together. I will cherish it for its appropriateness to my training as well as for the manner in which it was presented to me.

A day to never forget:

I start the day like any other in Y: up early at my relatively swanky hotel with a cup of Nescafe instant coffee and time to work on flip charts. I enjoy getting up early in general but I appreciate it here a bit more because it is one of the rare windows of opportunity I am given to connect with friends, family and other cherished ones who are living on the other side of the globe. There is a 12 and half hour time difference between here and Colorado (10 and a half to Tennessee). After a shower and coffee and a few skype conversations I head out for my 30 minute walk to the training center. It’s a complicated walk of traffic jams, intense drivers whose cars are made for British style driving but the rules of the road match American ones, busy buses, buzzing markets, calls to prayer, musical request to give alms to the monks, church bells, curb side tea shops, load music houses, internet cafes, kids playing football, adults playing caneball, women sweeping, men hustling, women selling flowers and women and men escorting uniformed kids to school.

Upon arrival to the training center I find my very reliable very organized tag team of county coordinators and interpreters waiting for me. They are quick and they are energetic and they are passionate about learning and incorporating new skills into their already diverse portfolios. Typically we have a quick meeting of minds and then start preparing for the days training; but today was different, today I would travel. Today I would see more than my hotel and the training center. Today I would taste some freedom and meet some local kiddos. Today was a special day.

The plan is to walk another few short blocks from the training center and meet the rest of the 21 participants near the post office. They are a team of teachers, community developers and doctors. After connecting we will visit the school they built for a convent of nuns to run with at-risk/poverty stricken kids and apply the new skills they learned in the training. This team knows these kids because they volunteer their time at this school teaching English and offering medical care.

Upon arrival to the meeting spot we find 7 of the participants sitting on short stools at a curbside tea shop enjoying a breakfast of samosas and rice curry. They are all laughing and chatting and it is clear they are a close team that enjoys each other both personally as well as professionally. They welcome us warmly and I order a tea (strong not too sweet). The tea here is truly unique and there are unique ways to order it mostly based on how sweet and strong you want it. After finishing a cup of milky/sugary tea you are welcome to have as many glasses of green tea as you like and tea kettles sit in the middle of the table for the purpose of a quick endless re-fill. This endless cup of follow-up tea facilitates the opportunity for folks to linger in tea shops and pontificate on all sorts of things. I firmly believe this is one of the many reasons the interpersonal skills here are beyond reproach.

This place has a tea culture and being a tea or a coffee culture is a welcoming sign for any outsider to any country. Without a tea or coffee component to the culture it seems a bit harder to break into the local realm of socializing; it’s not impossible, but it is definitely more difficult. Sometimes I wonder if this issue alone isn’t one of the primarily reasons outsiders believe Liberia is a difficult culture to live in. Although the average Liberian is exceptionally giving with their food and will say “let’s eat” (and mean it) to any stranger that passes by when they are eating: for some, this offer of food seems like too much to give when struggling and thus the offer is denied and the opportunity to sit and share time and space with locals is denied. Without coffee or tea (which is common in places such as Afghanistan, China, Bosnia, Nigeria, much of South America and most of the Middle East), there is a void of opportunities for casual connectivity in places like Liberia that does not involve alcohol or food, which can get expensive and/or rowdy, and thus the disconnect.

But I digress, after a quick tea, supplemented with a lovely conversation about romance and dating in Burma, we jump in the back of a flatbed truck that has been set up with seats along the sides and a hard top cover. Once all 21 of us were safely inside, teaching supplies and guitar in tow, we are off. Although I am delighted to see someone had brought along a guitar, I assume it is for the school based activities and sit back to take in the scenery for the 45 minute journey. Fortunately for me, and all my travel companions, the talented musicians in the truck wouldn’t give up the opportunity to play and sing and begin singing a series of traditional and modern songs with energy and passion. After a few brief moments, 90% of the riders delightfully join in on the singing. The young woman who sits next to me thoughtfully translates the words. The songs are about not being able to live without seeing the sparkle in a girl’s eye or the inability to think without knowing the next time they will be together.

Romantic, cheesy loves songs: can it get any better than that?

Along the way we cross a bridge where we see hundreds of fishing boats hard at work. We also pass by farms, houses and storefronts all busy with people trying to make a living. Feeling the impact of the numerous pot holes and observing the many severe shades of poverty is so much more difficult to witness here in a country when, one knows, deep in the back of one’s mind, that the suffering here is not due to lack of resources or wealth, just due to an all powerful all greed driven leadership.

Upon arrival at the school house the first thing I notice is thatch roof houses that make up the living quarters, outhouse and kitchen of the school…..bustling about is about 100 pink clad junior nuns, 60-70 matching adult nuns that are either playing the role of teachers or spiritual leaders and about 90 civilian kiddos all gathered together for a day of school and learning.

The teachers did a great job with their experiential education lesson plans and following the completion of all the psycho-social activities we shared lunch and had a brief reflection session about the training and what they took from it.
Following a brief certificate ceremony I was showered with gifts and a Bit Dine Thow.

As I sit once again in my swanky hotel working on flip chats and skyping with loved ones back home I realize I’m happy and content in this very complicated place and I feel blessed to have this new orb of people in my life. In Buddhism it is said that every person you meet has played a part in a past life and we are destined to cross paths in every life to come. I like that idea very much and know that with people like this around me I will indeed land on my feet and if I ever feel thrown away or thrown down I will land on my feet forevermore.

these are the things i know as true

2009-10-15T05:20:00.001-05:00

My name is Gwen and it is not an easy name to say around the world. My dear sweet country director in our Fang project, Pao Hom, reminded me of this when, shortly after I arrived, she noted that her father said, “oh dear that’s the one with the difficult name.” The good thing about that is I have been gifted many variations of my name and delightfully turn my head to Gwan, Glen and Gwoon in this corner of the world. I also know I am prone to adopt stray dogs wherever I go. The good thing about returning to these places is that I have learned dogs have fabulous memories and if for some reason I have done everything wrong in this life I will be happy to come back as a dog in my next life. My only hope would be that the dogs that have colored my life come back as dog pals or as humans for me to love as well as I’ve felt loved by them.

I know all this, yet there is much I don’t know or have failed to learn. A hundred times over I have been trying to figure out what I love about the place I am in now and although I try, the truest reason constantly eludes me. While I seem to know exactly why I have come to cherish the continent of Africa, specifically the West African region, the reason for loving this place is less clear. Regarding Africa, if the idea of past lives turns out to be true, I know deep in my heart I once lived a life there. My gut tells me I was a large graceful woman with 10 children, with magnificent head wraps and a fabulous singing voice. I also enjoyed laughing until I cried. This last quality seems to be the only quality that remains in this reincarnated life where I am called Gwen or a variation thereof. I can no longer sing and for some reason I am now fiercely independent with a bland sense of fashion. I appreciate the brazenness of Africa superimposed on its wisdom and eternal beauty. When given the opportunity, I also love to call it home.
My love for this place is different, no less powerful, but different in many ways.
What I do know is that I love the people first and then the environment. The universal character of the people here is awe inspiring and I feel deeply pleased every time someone smiles at me or says hello. Collectively they are gentle, and sweet and smart and quick to smile. They also are deeply curious, playfully sarcastic, self-deprecating and passionate about learning. The environment is beautiful no doubt, but it pales in comparison to the everyday person you meet in the street.

I also think that in this place the suffering has indeed led to amazing moments of enlightenment. I am surrounded by survivors but no one appears to be that distressed. It makes me think of the Chinese pictogram for crisis. In it is a combination of two symbols: danger and opportunity. Although there is nothing to suggest there has been opportunity here for decades, people persevere and shine and enjoy none the less.

So as I was saying I have much to learn but I have realized that there is something interesting about the quest for wisdom. It’s not the material you find on masters level examinations that matter; the art of knowing starts not in big lessons but in small nearly unremarkable experiences of everyday life.

The fear of not being discovered

2009-07-11T19:43:00.001-05:00

I held onto the handlebars tightly as I glided along the heat-choked streets. Unlike my time abroad, everything about me blended in. Strangely enough I was suffering from a fear of not being discovered. For the majority of last 3 years I have stood out like a sore thumb and people were constantly attempting to know and understand me. Oddly enough, now that I was amongst my own, surrounded by people who looked just like me, I felt unknown by all.

The concrete buildings and jumble of rush hour traffic was familiar, but the streets were lined with faces that although similar to my own were strikingly foreign. I parked, locked up my bike and headed into the meeting. Even though there was no apparent reason I should be at this meeting about Denver's new bike share program because as I mentioned I had ridden my own bike there, I felt the need to go because I knew many of organizations that would be in attendance work in developing world countries and were passionate about it. These fellow explorers were my new tribe and I knew, without words, I would feel amongst my own.

After the presentation was finished the crowd broke into a challenging Q & A session. These presenters were not going to get off easy and with each successful response the crowd turned up the heat as if finding their weakness or mistake would make the evening all the more enjoyable. I had to laugh because although I can appreciate a challenge and got a kick out of the intensity in the room, the topic didn't really call for such intensity and sometimes I wonder if sheer boredom sets a president for prescribed intensity.

After the meeting a gentleman I had met and chatted with over a year ago approached me and asked me about my recent trip and our organization. He had on this fabulous set of thick rimmed glasses and clearly is passionate about his life's work and I was thankful I had come. I wanted so much to belong again. I didn't know what 3 years away would do to my internal compass. I have returned home with a strange mix of expectations and a desire to strike a true balance between my two lives, my two worlds.

Since my return I haven't written much and I can't quite figure out why. It seems my ideas rotate from being ensnared by ordinary life and ensnared by a longing for a connection with someone who lives on another continent. My writing has always been one of my first priorities, but now given I am facing so many unknowns and long for someone and something that is not here, it has lost its urgency. Writing involves imagination and for some reason imagination has been a low priority. What has mattered more is establishing myself in a place while I miss someone from another place. Exploration too, has been problematic because I seem to be playing catch up with the felt anxiety about the economy and given I was away for much of the crash I seem to be working through it at a warped speed and with each new piece of data I feel frozen in fear about the future.

With that said I feel very lucky to have the friends that I have here and with every dinner, BBQ, bike ride or phone conversation I feel myself reconnecting. One thing I always miss is sarcasm and having people see me as a dimensional being with needs and wants is refreshing. The amazing divas in my life having been asking me delightfully penetrating questions and each session spent with them feels like free therapy and I cherish them for that.

My bicycle slows to a stop and I am home. As I walk in I realize I love this little space that I call home and I am excited to get upstairs to be greeted warmly by my dear sweet Tuesday. Later that night I watched the sun set over the mountains from my balcony and could almost taste the shades of orange, yellow and red.

a dance of submission and resistance

2009-06-09T23:13:00.002-05:00

I read somewhere that life in a foreign country is a dance of submission and resistance. Although I would agree wholeheartedly with this statement, what I find to by more intense is the dance of returning home. To me, the adjustment to the familiar calls for a much deeper level of submission and activates a much more intense urge of unrelenting resistance.

This is my first post in some time. Some of this is due to the nature of the situation I faced while residing in my last country as the security issues were unlike anything I have ever seen before and I experienced things I have yet to find the words to describe clearly; some of this is due to something else altogether.

Three days ago marked the 6 month anniversary of my mother’s death. What has become tricky is that I don’t know how to talk about it anymore. In the beginning anything was appropriate – tears, giggles, regrets, anger…they were all accepted as normal. I knew I was a slow processor and unlike my beautiful emoting brother I knew it would take me much longer to work through my connected emotions of this unprecedented loss; what I didn’t realize was how others would deal with my delayed reactions.

Although many people in my orbit are outstandingly well meaning and exceptionally supportive they also seem a bit shocked when I start talking about this loss in a raw/emotional way now, months later. I think they expect me to thank them for their condolences and move on. Instead I find myself talking about my feelings and becoming quite tearful; they adjust beautifully and I am thankful it is they who I turn to when I feel vulnerable and yet with every thoughtful hug and caring question I fear they are wanting me to hurry up and cope….The funny thing with loss is that there is no steps, no cycles - just longing for what is gone.

The beautiful thing about writing about my internal experience is that now that I have put my thoughts on paper I realize this last paragraph is absolutely bogus. My anxiety about how I am coping has nothing to do with how my orbit is reacting to me and has everything to do with my ideas about myself. My biggest fear has always been to “look crazy” by expressing too much emotion and as I just put my thoughts and feelings on paper I realize it was my fear of feeling, not my experience of my support system that I was describing – thank you dear sweet friends and family for being you and being unrelentingly available! I wouldn’t be getting through this without you.

But I digress………let me return to the here and now.

I’ve been home for 11 days now, and I’m not sure where I belong. I’m struggling to reconcile the reality and vista of the place I departed with the daily grind of a more or less upwardly mobile life. I find myself shifting from feeling exceptionally anxious about my financial situation and resume building successes in a fast paced achievement oriented country where occupational success means everything to willfully spacing out, trying to slow down, trying to hold onto that sense of other places I know to be true, the sense that time is simply time, not money.

Perhaps I have become a permanent expatriate – neither fish nor fowl, forever lost no matter my location. But this fluidity also means that I am like a unicorn – a magic creature that always knows there is another way. Let me end this post my accepting the unicorn in me, a magical creature that was my most favorite childhood collectible, and strive to be as unreal and magical as possible for as long as possible in a country where magic and fantasy are diagnostic rather than extraordinary …

introducing thailand and a nearby country personified...

2009-04-20T06:29:00.001-05:00

thailand
thai is a young, handsome, slightly effeminate male frequently seen sauntering down a busy side street, cell phone and plastic bag in hand. In the bag is some sort of cooked meet on a stick covered in a slightly sweet, slightly spicy, sauce. His ring tone is set to a popular Thai pop song. On his head is a perfectly styled, perfectly hip, modern rock bandesque head of hair. His pants are slightly snug but it looks good on him because he is exceptionally thin and his shirt is simple yet slightly ironic in a witty playboy sexual innuendo kind of way.

Thai is a good kid who works hard but his job is in the tourist industry (just like the majority of his friends) and he finds it slightly infuriating. When he is feeling bold and willing to challenge his parents ingrained conservative view of work and life, he questions the point of focusing so much on a job that is meant to please others, but this thought is quickly pushed away by his hope to make his parents happy and desire to make money. He dreams of finding a good partner, girl or boy he is not quite sure, but either way he hopes they have work ethics that are similar to his own, conflicted thou they are.

The unspeakable place
This country is embodied as a couple. Personified, it is a young relaxed couple walking down the street, comfortably in love. The young man is slim and dressed in a tradition longyi and lose shirt. The young lady is beautiful in a youthful curveless sort of way with gold circles of sunscreen on her cheeks. While they clearly express this love outwardly and in public as he can frequently be seen gingerly placing his arm around her shoulder while she leans into him, no one would suggest they were publicly displaying inappropriate levels of affection. They are simply in love and can’t handle not touching each other. They are both quick to smile in a very genuine sort of way but this smile hides much pain. During the day they are exquisitely well behaved and act in ways that are deemed appropriate by their powerful ever-watchful government. Late at night they can be found attending secret rallies that speak of change, revolution and uprising, if only in whispers.

things I didn't know or denied knowing

2009-04-11T05:41:00.002-05:00

First, in Buddhist countries it is currently the year 2552. Buddists’ base their calendar on the day Buddha was born and therefore in this part of the world it is not 2009 AD JC style; it is 2552 AB venerable Gotama style. I feel like if we in the West would have known this simple truth in December 1999 we could have prevented a lot of the chaos and looming notions of the end of the world during the millennium. I know some of you might be thinking, "But Gwen the fear was tied to the computer systems and their inability to make the change over" and in response I would say, "Please! It didn’t happen here and I am either writing you from the future or we need to remember there is simply no such thing as an objective truth. Even time is only a notion."

Second, denial can be a collective state of mind, not just a defense. In the simplest of terms denial is the rejection or denunciation of an event or state of mind. Most commonly people can be heard rejecting that they behaved in a certain way when in fact they did do the alleged action. For example someone might say, "That’s a lie I didn’t steal her wallet!" when, in reality he or she did, in fact, take it. In Thailand and Burma denial isn’t just an optional refuttal to a claim – it is a literal state of mind. It’s as if you can close your eyes and believe strong and long enough and what ever you are thinking about actually becomes a truth. In some instances there is not even a word available to describe the denied event. For example, during our recent training we covered the topic of rape. According to our participants there was no word for rape in Shan. To them, the term rape means the same thing as sex. Even though they could eventually admit it did happen and was not the same thing as sex, some of them still continued to believe that "it doesn’t really happen." If we don’t talk about it, "it" should therefore not be a word, there was no need.

Third, I am really really bad at working with an interpreter. I talk way to fast and I have very little patience for not being understood. This really sucks for the interpreter because they not only have to try and understand me talking very fast they have to translate words that don’t even exist in their native language (let me take moment and give a little shout out to anyone on this planet who has ever tried to play the role of interpreter for me – I am deeply sorry for any unfair pressure I have placed on you; you did a great job).

Seriously though, I seem completely unable to slow down and yet I can still allow myself to feel frustrated when my point does not get made. Talk about ego-centricism – look at me calling the kettle black. And, although I keep saying I need to work on this if I am going to continue working internationally, I have somehow managed to not slow down in the least and only get more frustrated when I am not understood. All I have done is become more animated in the presentation of my thoughts with the hopes that by acting everything out, I will be understood. For that reason alone, I kind of suck and really should think about only working in Anglophone environments.

one courageous group

2009-04-09T05:34:00.002-05:00

The word courage arises from the old French work cuer, meaning heart. To be courageous means at bottom to be heartfelt. What I have come to understand in my time here is that if one understands courage when it comes to work, one will understand the Burmese and Thai way of life.

As you could likely tell from my first post about my experience here I did not have an easy emersion experience to this part of the world. The faces I attempted to read were unreadable and the first defense I typically encountered was denial. According to the people I interviewed there were no problems here; no crime, no domestic violence, no child exploitation – no problems, period. I may have been living with a community of displace Burmese who had been forced to flea their home country due to phenomenal human rights violations only to find themselves in a new country that was not that much more welcoming and frequently arrested people without cards and exploited vulnerables; there were no problems here, period, full stop.

I hate denial. Use humor, use minimization, use repression, use avoidance but please sweet Jesus don’t use outright denial. It’s an insult to you and it’s an insult to me and it enrages me. While accessing the human heart here felt downright impossible I knew everyone around me was in fact human and therefore I knew that, if only for that reason, they were also suffering. Accessing emotions took much more time and finesse than it had taken elsewhere, but with patience comes enlightenment.

Today Becki and I find ourselves at the tail end of a long week of training about mental health and trauma. When we started our participants didn’t know what mental health was, didn’t know what emotions were and didn’t know what counseling was.

I had a lot of work to do and until now I felt as if maybe they wouldn’t be able to do the work I was asking them to do. They were undimensional, flat, guarded, unenthusiastic and detached and it wasn’t clear if they wanted to be at the training, let alone engaging with me. Had I left on day 3 I would have continued to believe all those things and I would have been gravely mistaken. This group of individuals is not only none of those things, they are also very passionate about many things, including but not limited to helping their community.

Interestingly this community suffers from the exact opposite of what we suffer from in the West when it comes to work. Where our bodies can be present in our work while our hearts minds and imaginations can be placed firmly in neutral or engaged elsewhere, many people here seem to suffer from the exact opposite. Their bodies can be present in emotional affairs while their hearts minds and imaginations tend to be placed firmly in neutral or engaged in work. Work is everything, for good or for bad, it defines them. They are on time, they are conscientious and they are strategic to the core. Given we all tend to spend more hours at work then anywhere else, maybe they are more present than the most present poet or lover who has ever been.

While some may read what I just wrote and think the people I am speaking of are focused on the wrong things, I would respond by saying I think we need to take a closer look at work and our identity and how they are intimately linked. Once we have kindled our desire for something better in our work, we have immediately raised the stakes and although that can be profoundly terrifying it can also be deeply inspirational.

In taking our work seriously as an expression of our belonging, we hazard our most precious sometimes our seemingly most fragile hopes and dreams in a work that is more often than not associated with a hard and destructive bottom line.

Sitting here in this very simple, very primitive, very hot house I have begun to shiver due to an awful sense that I am suddenly about to play by different rules when it comes to work. If that ends up being true and I am able to remain present in my work for the long run I will need to thank my training participants and surrounding community for that.

If I am completely honest with myself my inner light of youthful imaginings about passion and feelings had been smothered by hard bitten adult notions of work. Work dominates our life in more ways than one and we need to work on preventing ourselves from one day looking back and realizing that our eyes were dimmed and our professional smile had been false and forced for more years than we would have liked to admit. Ultimately striking a balance between work and play is they most important thing we are ever asked to accomplish in the modern world. If I am able to do it, I will have my experience in Thailand & Burma to thank for it.

three books and a story

2009-04-01T00:07:00.003-05:00

For the last couple of days I have been wondering the streets of an amazing city to the west of Thailand. Between meetings and stops to admire the sheer beauty of the local people and pagodas, I sauntered into local tea shops and sip on sweet tea while engaging one of my most favorite past times, people watching. Following my tea breaks I would wonder in and out of local book shops and jam packed alleyways. In one of these book shops I purchased 3 books. One is by George Orwell. One is an ancient weathered book by Cheiro about the 12 signs of the zodiac and the meaning of the number of each day and their influence on humanity. The third is about the teachings of Buddha.

Each book spoke to me for its own specific reason. I will skip the first because it is obvious and will try to explain the others. My senses were seduced by Cheiro’s book for many reasons. The first was tied to an olfactory memory of old books. Amazing this torn up old book across the globe smelled exactly like the old books I inherited from my grandfather, Paul Skelley. I was half way around the world but it appears old cherished books smell the same anywhere on the planet and I was taken aback by this memory trigger. For that reason alone I was going to buy it. I hadn’t fully processed what the book was about but as I lingered over the pages I realized the second reason I had to have it: it captured a part of my experience at a famous pagoda I had visited a few hours earlier.

According to legend Shwedagon is 2500 years old. The story begins with two merchant brothers who were blessed with the opportunity to meet the lord Gautama Buddha. He gave them eight of his hairs to be enshrined in a land of changed names. The two brothers made their way to the land they were directed to and found a hill where relics of other Buddhas had been enshrined. When the hairs were taken from their golden casket to be enshrined some incredible things happened:

There was a tumult among men and spirits ... rays emitted by the Hairs penetrated up to the heavens above and down to hell ... the blind beheld objects ... the deaf heard sounds ... the dumb spoke distinctly ... the earth quaked ... the winds of the ocean blew ... lightning flashed ... gems rained down until they were knee deep ... all trees of the Himalayas, though not in season, bore blossoms and fruit.

Pretty amazing no? But I digress because this is not a history lesson, this my friends is a present lesson.

Today there are four entrances that lead up a flight of steps to the main platform of this famous pagoda. The eastern and southern approaches have vendors selling books, good luck charms, candles, gold leaf, incense sticks, prayer flags, streamers, miniature umbrellas and flowers. A pair of giant chinthe (leogryphs, mythical lions) guard the entrances and the base of the stupa is made of bricks covered with gold plates. Above the base are terraces that only monks and men can access so when I stopped to pause and admire the gold plated pagoda, I saw only monks and men ascending into the glistening gold tower (allow me to take a moment to bite my pink feminist tongue). The crown or umbrella of the pagoda is tipped with 5,448 diamonds and 2,317 rubies and the very top is tipped with a 76 carat (15 g) diamond.

Although all of this was undeniably impressive what enchanted me the most about this place were the fantastic rituals.

Visitors must remove their shoes before the first step at any of the entrances and once you reach the main platform you are encouraged to walk around the stupa clockwise. The day of the week you are born on will determine the planetary post you are to stop at. There are eight in all as Wednesday is split in two, a.m. and p.m and they are marked by animals that represent the day: galon for Sunday, tiger for Monday, lion for Tuesday, tusked elephant for Wednesday a.m., tuskless elephant for Wednesday p.m., mouse for Thursday, guinea pig for Friday and naga (mythical dragon/serpent) for Saturday. Each planetary post has a Buddha image and devotees are encouraged to offer flowers and pour water on the image with a prayer and a wish. At the base of the post behind the image is a guardian angel, underneath the image lies a statue of the animal representing the day. By asking a young novice monk if I could look up my birthday in his book I discovered I was born on a Thursday and therefore I made a wish and poured 3 small silver cups of water, first on the buddah and then on the mouse of my planetary post.
I was surprised by all the astrology but I later discovered that astrology is at the heart of Hindu Brahmanism which was embraced by the awakened one before he was in a good faith of Buddhism. It is therefore no wonder the Buddhists where still adopt some parts of these old beliefs. For those who know me best know that I was thrilled to discover that people here recognize the day of their birth, such as Sunday, Monday, Tuesday etc. as very important as I would have to agree days of the week are noteworthy.

I also discovered that most people in this country approach an astrologer for something or another. Themes of consultation seem to be most frequently tied to whether or not one should go ahead with a move to a new house or get married or pass exams or engage in new business. The consulted astrologer does some calculations according to the magic formulas he alone knows and then he arrives at a certain conclusion. With this conclusion he informs the curious one if he or she is under the bad influence of a certain planet. To counter this information the client goes to his or her birthday planetary post and pours a certain number of cups of water on their planetary animal to symbolically counter the bad influences.

The rituals I did after praising my planetary post were fantastically strange. The following is a list of things I did in this beautiful house of gold with 12th century Buddha’s enshrined in colorful electronic halos worthy of a rave.

After visiting my day of the week shrine (and stopping by Tuesday’s to send her some motherly love from abroad) I walked to a small stage that housed a massive bell. According to legend this bell was to be taken back to England by British troupes but during a fluke accident while trying to move the bell to a ship, the gigantic bell feel from the British soldiers’ grasp and lodged itself deep into the sand of the shore. The British tried and tried but could not bring it up and were forced to leave sans the beautiful stolen bell. A few weeks later a team of natives quickly and easily moved the bell ashore and put it back in its rightful place. Now the bell is used to grant wishes to devotees. All you have to do is pound it gently three times with a rather large pole. I did as much and made a wish.

Following the wishing bell I sauntered over to the next platform that had a small piece of black jade sitting in front of another Buddha enshrined with a rock star hallo of electronic colors and flashing lights. The legend of this stone is that you are to knell in front of it and make your wish. After you complete your wish you are supposed to try and pick up the stone. If it is light and easy to lift your wish will be granted. If it is heavy and unmovable, it will not. Apparently Richard Nixon had knelt before this stone at the tail end of his vice presidency. Hum? I knelt down, furrowed my brows in wishful concentration and easily picked up the rock. Whew.

Next I made a brief stop at a massive Buddha that had a silk fan hanging above his head. According to tradition you are to take the belled rope and pull it three times to cool off the Buddha. While fanning the Buddha you are to make a wish. If you do a good job your wish will be granted.

Following my visit to the hot Buddha, I went to a cove to visit a large female statue. Legend has it that if you make an offering to her she will help solve an irritating problem. As I looked up there were plenty of offerings and she was remarkably ugly. Her face was shimmery plates of gold that were all wrinkly and folded. In front of her was a woman praying intensely with another woman quietly whispering in her ear. I was informed the whispering woman could channel sprits and she was helping with woman with her nagging problem.

So there you have it – a brief summary of the delightful little rituals and activities I did while visiting the beautiful Buddhist pagoda. The only thing I didn’t tell you was what I wished for during my 4 interesting stops. If any of them come true, I will let you know. It was an action packed and ever so slightly bizarre experience and yet with each strange ritual I felt more and more like these enlighten Buddha’s understood that life is, in reality, just a series of strange occurrences happening over and over again. After all was said and done I was a little bit converted to a faith that no longer felt like a faith but felt like a wonderfully ritualed but intentionally unstructured philosophy of living.

thailand and beyond

2009-04-01T00:05:00.001-05:00

My journey to Thailand and beyond began 22 days ago. It has been everything that work and travel abroad can offer and the most consistent thing about this region seems to be its phenomenal contradictions.

In Thailand, the famous Thailand smile greets you everywhere you go, but what lies behind those smiles is a little less clear. For a week straight I unintentionally moved from one tourist attraction to the next while trying to get a sense of what this astonishingly beautiful environment would be like if you deleted this veil of tourism from the equation. For some reason I couldn’t. It was as if it all was all created and maintained for the tourist and there was no way out of the gigantic theme park that had no discernable entrance or exit aside from Suvarnabhumi international airport.

In some ways I felt like I was a character in Chuck Palahniuk’s book Choke. Now forgive me for any mistaken variations in my memory of this book (as I read it quite some time ago) but from what I recall the gist of it is this: A med-school dropout takes a job playing an Irish indentured servant in a colonial-era theme park in order to help care for his Alzheimer's-afflicted mother. The entire self-medicated staff blearily endures abusive bused in tours while hiding out from the world. Another side plot was that the protagonist was apparently a direct descendant of none other than JC. While fans of Palahniuk might say, welcome, once again, to the world of Chuck Palahniuk; I would say, add a few twists and turns and welcome, my friends, to Thailand. I don’t mean to be harsh and if you continue reading you will discover my feelings about Thailand have gradually changed and evolved since my arrival but I wouldn’t be true to myself if I didn’t own up to the thoughts and feelings I had for the first 127 hours of this adventure. To be totally honest the only thoughts I was having during the first 5 days of this trip was ‘please dear Buddha get me out of here and if I happen to die getting on or off one of these tourist traps, please reincarnate me in Africa.’

It was not until late into a dark night on day 7 of my trip that I was offered the opportunity to see some genuine Thai personalities. Although it seemed to have occurred if only by a fluke mistake, I was glad it happened and I realized it might be possible to get out of the freakish theme park I found myself in. It was the end of a long day of hiking and our group was gathered around a camp fire during what was pitched as being a laid back ‘off the beaten track’ elephant trek, but was, in reality, a welcome ladies and gentleman, come one come all and get in line for a highly organized trip to a series of fake villages and some jungle strip malls. Did I enjoy it – sure; was it as contrived as contrived could be – no doubt.

It had been a day of beauty but it was an organized event and I felt like I was visiting Thailand’s version of 21st century Gettysburg. Villages were there and people were ‘doing’ things but it remained unclear if any of it was genuine. I sat sulking in the dark imaging the hundred of thousands of flongs (i.e., foreigners) who had trekked this trek already. I know it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. At the darkest moment of our ever so slightly elusive trek our guide and three young elephant tenders came out from behind a nearby hut with a guitar. They joined the circle around the fire and started, predictably enough, strumming out some familiar American tunes. Once a few of us joined in, they brought out a laminated karaoke-esque booklet and a few candles so that we would have no trouble reading the words to long forgotten hits from the 60s and 70s. It was laughable but I was finding myself in a slightly better state of mind because Noong, or trek guide, was a good musician and clearly enjoyed playing the guitar. I was still annoyed it was all for show and remained to be so damn organized, but I am and have always been a sucker for musicians and so I tried to stay focused.

A few songs later the crowd lost interest in the songs from the book and just sat back to enjoy the music. Given it became less structured and there was no pressure on the guys to play for us, the ticket holders, they started to play for themselves and began to sing what could only be described as Thai love ballads. A few of us became intrigued and our silent interest and curious positioning encouraged them to continue…..All of a sudden they were singing and enjoying themselves as if we were not there. It was unprompted and personal and would have been occurring with our without our paid entrance fee and I sighed one deep sigh of anonymous relief. I was no longer inside the theme park, I was sitting around a camp fire with a few other human beings enjoying some music, passing the time.

the wonders of middle

2009-02-18T23:19:00.004-06:00

Basketball / n: a game played between two teams of five players each, the object being to throw a ball through an elevated basket on the opponent's side of a rectangular court. Players may move the ball by dribbling or passing with the hands.

In my last post I spoke a lot about beginnings and endings. Since writing that post I have started to believe that it might be a human fallacy to believe we are forever in the midst of them. Life is really about middle. Sometimes we are nothing but middle for years.

David Whyte, the poet, wrote, “real beginnings and real departures seem a distant memory, and after a long time without the rawness of those firsthand experiences, they become something we are not sure we want anymore, something we want to hold at bay.”

While I would agree that it is true that for some people beginnings and endings feel like a state of fragile aloneness, I think that some people feel so acclimated to the experience of walking through new doors, that they experience chronic change as a new baseline level of existence. This baseline leads to a nagging feeling that demands chronic beginnings and endings; middle, to them, is milquetoast. Although by now I’m sure it is evidently clear that I am one of those primates that can appreciate beginnings and endings for what they are and may even have a tendency of chasing them, I too like middles and am trying to find more of them.

On of my middles is basketball. I have been playing it for as long as I can remember and although in the beginning it was somewhat of a competitive experience (with others as well as myself), in recent years I found myself playing simply because it felt like freedom compared to all my other responsibilities and worries. Putting all my injuries and stitches aside, it is ultimately a soothing experience for me. I don’t play for an escape. I play because it feels like a comfortable wonderful insulation from work and aloneness, especially when I am an outsider living in an insider world. So like I said, basketball is one of my middles – until it comes to an end of course, which in my recent experience came sooner than I would have liked.

With the tragic ending of my middle in mind, I want to take a moment to give a yell out to all my Liberian ballers. First there is my partner and well respected coach of a group of young ballers in Voinjama - Mohammed Kromah. Mohammed stands out as extraordinary in every imaginable way. He is a great player, an inspirational coach, a fabulous dad and a good human being. Then there is the young group of players: Massaley, Valley, Dexter, Michael, American, Charlie, Fakuma, Zor Zor, Anthony, Musu, small Valley & his big brother; the list could go on. Each and every one of them knowledable beyond their years: each and every one of them there for me when I lost my mother. I will always remember them for that.

Next there is a group of much more advanced ballers. They are all from Monrovia. These guys are serious and rightfully so, they are extraordinary athletes. They basically let me play with them simply because they were nice guys and could tell I liked the game. I could barely keep up and was rarely any help, but they always let me have my middle and I will always cherish them for that. These guys include the one and only Jolomi, Carl, Jo, Magic, Tristan; once again the list could go on…..I thank them all from the bottom of my heart, for letting me play, for letting me in.

Now basketball doesn’t have to be everybody’s middle. Anything that allows someone to preserve a sense of freedom in the midst of rules and regulations and is identity preserving without being exceptionally defining is a middle. Basketball is not a middle for Kobe, it is a beginning, middle and end.

Basically what I’m saying is that we must all have a place we can chronically go to in this big bad beautiful world that neutralizes everything else in life. It can’t be something big, because then it’s not a middle. It’s got to be something unremarkable yet remarkable in its own right. Once you have a middle you know it. If you are getting paid for it or searching for it you might be in trouble. A middle is in fact milquetoast, but it is such a milky toast, it’s fabulous.

Thanks fellas for letting me have my middle in such a way that it allowed me to get away from and yet connect to two very important things in a world where everything is actually simultaneously living and dying, beginning and dying….

and

2009-02-03T18:02:00.001-06:00

We used to think that if we knew one, we knew two, because one and one are two. We are finding that we must learn a great deal more about "and."

~ Stanley Eddington

So it is…life and the confusion about the meaning of and.

Over the last 11 days I have learned a lot about and.

I have learned that it is possible to be intensely sad and intensely happy in the exact same moment. With grief at the core and love surrounding it, it is possible.

I have also learned that being the one who stays and being the one who goes can feel extraordinarily similar and exceptionally different. Each with its own perks, each with its own drawbacks.

On one end of the continuum lies utter freedom. With the choice of movement one is gifted the liberty of independence and the avoidance of the monotonous responsibilities that can hold people back from choosing change. But, with this freedom one can feel a lack of sustainability highlighted by a long series of similar beginnings and endings. An experience of recurring beginnings can eventually start to feel a lot less substantial than the task of remaining in one place for an extended period of time. With all the ceremonies comes a ceremonial feeling of existence and a lack of dimensionality or depth.

On the other end of the continuum lies the monotony of pointless routines and a sense that one has been forced to settle. This nagging feeling is frequently connected to unnecessary contracts, unavoidable obligations and a fear of change. People too tied to responsibilities and bills can spend the majority of their time wishing they were doing something else; not being present; not being themselves.

Both ends of the continuum are precisely the kind of disengagement that I fear and believe is so damaging to our souls. It is therefore my aim to feel that what I do is right for me and good for the world at the same exact time – this and figuring out more about and might be a few of my greatest triumphs yet.

the time of extremes

2009-01-18T15:57:00.002-06:00

I stop wanting what I am looking for, looking for it.

~Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943, translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin

August 8, 2008 - January 18, 2009

The last six months of my life will always be earmarked as ‘the time of extremes.’ On the one end of the continuum lies paralyzing grief, on the other intense love. Inside is as astonishing adventure, predictable routines, quiet down time with friends and family, an exciting exploration of a new country, lazy days in my hammock, early morning strolls on the platte river, exhausting basketball practices in Voinjama, relaxing time spent in my brand new loft in a metropolitan city, exhausting time spent filing buckets for showers and washing clothes in the bush of Africa, going away parties, welcome back parties, yummy food, tummy parasites, and so much more….In six short months I watched myself get ripped to shreds and then felt the pieces get mended back together again by simple acts of kindness, goodness and love.

On August 8th I took my last stroll with Tuesday on the Platte and packed for my journey back to Liberia.

On August 14th, in a disturbing expression of an addict’s stupor, my mother and I watched nearly every moment of the Olympics for 10 straight days. From table tennis to water polo, the only thing we enjoyed more than the actual competition was the exciting back stories of these renowned athletes.

On August 24th I arrived back in Liberia and found a piece of my heart I had left behind.

From the 1st of September until November 5th I focused predominately on work, feeling passionate about the trauma recovery groups and equally as proud of my staff for accepting the challenge of a new training module. They were anxious and nervous and were forced to work hard and study hard and yet when it came time for their 25 page comprehensive examination, they excelled and clearly showed me they had learned much and grown tremendously. This success was accomplished in a country that, according to the Ministry of Planning and Economic Affairs, has an abysmally high illiteracy rate of 63%. Broken down by gender, 73% of women are illiterate, 50% of men and only 25% of rural dwellers can read or write. All of my staff got their high school diplomas in the refugee camps of Sierra Leone and Guinea and all of them would be considered rural dwellers. Their professional and scholastic accomplishments are clearly an exception to the norm.

On November 6th, I lost one of the most important people in my life and realized I would simply have to find a way to recover from it. For the next few weeks my father and brother and I spent time together, shared stories and turned to friends and family for support. One of the most touching expressions of support was given to me the day before I left Janesville. In a moment of gentle concern, a friend I have always called Fav, gave me a comforting hug and then handed me a small stack of cards. Each envelope denoted the day in which I should open the card while I am away. The day that was chosen was Tuesday. The contents were supportive remarks and one simple expression of support that Liberians say to those who have been bereaved, “Take Courage.” She had remembered the day I had told her how comforting this simple statement had been for me in the minutes and hours after I heard about my mother’s death and she had decided to borrow this tender expression to show her support for me. I still don’t know if it was the statement or the selection of the choice of Tuesday that moved me to tears each and every time I opened one of her weekly gifts but I will always remember what she did and how she did it.

On November 18th, I celebrated my 32nd birthday dressed in black with a heavy heart. Putting my grief aside for a brief second I felt intensely loved by three special men who have always been in my life. Together we toasted my life and the life of the woman who gave it to me.

On November 30th, I departed from what will always be my mother’s nest, her home, and thus by extension mine, and I started the long journey back to Africa. On the coast of this small African country someone very special waited patiently for my return. This person held my hand, wiped my tears, listened when necessary and took my mind off things when possible. Because of this, and so much more, he will always have a special place in my heart.

From December 2nd until January 18th I have been trying. Some days are better than others and yet I have finally reached a point where I know things will be ok. There will always be a void and some topics simply remain off limits but so is life and somewhere along the line I have stopped wanting what I was looking for, looking for it…..

the little guy

2009-01-10T15:47:00.004-06:00

A child is born and a mamas torn about the life that it’s bound to live
A sun and moon and a modest home is all they asked can the lord to give
But politics and big events never seem to notice the little guy
So make a plan, or simply hold a hand, but don’t ever be a passerby
Tolerance or violence and the whole world goes to war.
Is one enough? Or is one too many, before we say no more?

~ Michael Franti

Because I doubt I can capture it better than Michael Franti, I will start with the lyrics from one of his songs and go from there. I chose this song because it is about the little guy and the little guy is who I feel incredibly connected to when I am based in the bush. Politics and big events never seem to notice him and so I will take a minute to honor the idea of him.

I unexpectedly returned to Liberia 6 months ago after having been back in Denver for 5 short months. It was not planned, nor was it necessary the easiest thing I have ever done (especially given the events that unfolded at home while I was away) but I do not regret my choice and, as I prepare to depart, I am left feeling once again humbled and touched by my experience.

I came to help build the local NGO our international NGO hopes to leave behind when we leave. This group is the ultimate representation of the ‘little guy’ and although it was a rough start, fraught with corruption, dishonestly and failure, this small group of dedicated psycho-social counselors have managed to recover from a series of impressive blows and are now well on their way of becoming a sustainable entity.

Since my return they have managed to solidify 3 grants and two more are in the works. This is their life support. These small successes are amazing, especially given the state of the world economy; and yet, I knew they could do it if they were able to capture exactly who they were and what they hoped to do. My part was small. What has happened concretely means less to me than what has happened abstractly and my only hope is that the outcome of this endeavor is not what thet managed to accomplish but who they became while accomplishing it.

indroducing leon

2008-12-30T12:04:00.003-06:00

a personification of Sierra Leone

Sierra Leone (aka, Leon) is a slim yet muscular fisherman with ebony skin and a knack for keeping a beat. After years of pulling in his family’s wooden fishing boat and massive net, he naturally positions himself in such a way that he is standing at a slight tilt. The most obvious place this can be seen is when he is pulling in his boat each night; but, if one looks closely enough one will notice that it can also be seen in other places. It can be seen when Leon is standing near a wall at a street corner hustling to sell his caught fish and it can be seen at a local club where he is flirting with Amadu, his childhood sweetheart. It can also be seen in his bed where he sleeps at an angle across his mattress dreaming of one of three things: crashing waves, far off lands he has only seen in books or the above referenced girl of his dreams. One peak at the coastline of Sierra Leone will give you many examples of the groups of people it takes to accomplish the task of bringing in small fishing boats on this West African coastline. In each snapshot a group of individuals will be captured slowing moving backwards at an identical lean dancing with the ocean and its endless give and take momentum.

Now, even though Leon knows little else than his duty to send his boat off in the morning and bring it back at night and he endures moments where he longs for something more, he does not regret his position in life and has learned that if he lives his life completely and with happiness, good things will come his way. He misses his parents, both lost to him during the war, but he has found safety and love in his aunties home and with time many of his experienced emotional wounds from the war have healed to a tolerable point. His parents would be proud to learn that Leon is well respected by his friends and appreciated by his team. In addition to taking pride in his ability to mend strong nets he can also create the most enchanting of beats in which his team collectively moves to in order to get the job done. It’s a unique blend of sounds, one of words, clicks and whistles, and yet it seems to be the perfect sound for the task at hand. A sound that was likely created centuries ago, on the day man decided to dance with the waves; a sound that was handed to him on the day he rightfully earned it.

drying off words

2008-12-23T02:48:00.001-06:00

For those of you who have noticed, there has been a bit of a pause in my writing. For those of you who know me, likely understand why. The loss of my mother has been the most difficult thing I have had to deal with in my life to date and for the last couple of weeks I have lived in two states. Numbing pain from the thought of what has occurred and unconsciousness from this felt pain, only granted to me in sleep. As a result, I have been sleeping a lot.

Rather than examine what this feels like, I will try and move on as I believe that on some primal level every human being on this planet is aware parent loss is painful. This post is my attempt to continue something I loved to do before I lost her. I learned much from those who have come to our side in support. Those that have experienced similar losses have empathized with me in the most genuine of ways that even today I am moved deeply by some of these heart felt expressions. Those of you who knew her well shared such touching memories about her that I guarantee you will likely be hearing from me again as I am a sucker for the “retell” and I will want (and possibly need) to hear these stories again at a later date.

The delay in my writing seems to have been tied to a few things. One, with the loss of my mother came the loss of my most loyal, most unfaltering audience member. She would religiously read my blog posts and listen to my stories. She would track and follow them in such a way it seemed she was preparing for the biggest examination of her life. Every detail, every nuance was filed away and she would frequently reference the characters in my stories by name, age and other identifying characteristics. Two, the words in my head seemed to have gone silent for a while as if suffering from their own form of depression. In the past I needed to write because the words started dancing around in my head. I would lie in my hammock in Africa or sit in my loft in Denver and words would come forward in such a way that the easiest way to organize them was to turn on my computer and just let them fall out.

Today I try and write because I don’t want my pain to rule the day. Today I want to try and get back to some sort of equilibrium. So, today I will go searching for some words. They are not falling on the page like they have in the past. They are static and heavy as if they were fully dressed for a cold winter’s day and somebody came by and threw them into a pool. I witnessed this happen and pulled them out of the chilly water. Now they stand at the side, cold, shivering and unable to comprehend why someone would have done that. Their suffering pains me too but I am happy to see that I have found them and I will try and help them dry off and recover from this insult.

While they dry off I will be traveling to Freetown, Sierra Leone. I plan to spend the holiday season there with someone special. Hopefully the words I have found will dry up quickly so that I can use them in describing this new place I am about to explore.

the size of one woman's heart

2008-11-07T16:22:00.004-06:00

The size of one woman’s heart is difficult to capture when one is thinking of my mother. In many ways her heart defined everything that she was. From a very young age she gave herself over to the welfare of others in such an unrelenting manner that I sometimes worried that someday she would get lost in that heart of hers.

Part of her heart was defined by who she was as a daughter. As an innocent adolescent she bravely and unrelentingly supported her parents and gave herself over to the welfare of her younger siblings when her mother fell ill and couldn’t do the things that needed to be done.

Part of her heart was defined by who she was as a student. She excelled at her courses and in her early 20s continued her selfless acts of kindness in Hospital School. Day in and day out she willingly took on the most difficult of cases and helped patients and their families create new strategies of living and engaging so that life became easier to bear.

Part of her heart was defined by who she was a wife. As a married woman she lovingly supported my father during the early years of their marriage and then proceeded to contribute every cent she ever earned to the welfare of her family. She helped my father through medical school and then helped my brother and I in such a way that we were never, not once, left suffering from an unmet need. Over the years she was so swollen with pride for him that she needed nothing else for herself and with each added moment of their marriage came more hand holding, more kisses and more endearing shared moments. In some ways it was if her illness allowed her to let down her guard a little, if only with him, and he relished in his position with pride.

Part of her heart was defined by who she was as a teacher. As a well trained LD specialist, she passionately labored over IEPs and spent endless amounts of time advocating for the most vulnerable of children. And, even though many of us believed more was being asked of her than could possibly be done, she never gave up because with each child that came before her in need her desire to help, protect and fight for their rights trumped any rational side of her brain that spoke of restraint or the risk of burnout. In the last years of her service to the Janesville school system she honorably served as a volunteer and refused to take a cent for her contributions to the development of our country’s future.

Part of her heart was defined by who she was a friend. As a companion to many my mother would drop everything if someone was in need. With friends in all age groups she could frequently be seen going from babysitting the grandson of an old colleague to visiting a retirement home to spend time with a dear neighbor. Instantly befriending anyone in her path she carried caramels to her pharmacist when filling prescriptions and invited a friendly new house painter into her orb with pleasure. This gentleman, a kindred spirit of sorts, soon became a staple in my mother’s social life and he would energetically show up to the house to chat about world affairs, his home country and life for hours on end.

Part of her heart was defined by who she was as a mother. As a nurturing mother, she loved my brother and I so intensely and so deeply that sometimes it felt like she might disappear in all that love. But, she did not disappear, not once, and she was there for every meaningful and every circumstantial event in our lives. From basketball games to golf matches and graduation ceremonies to dove hunting she stood by and supported us, cheered for us and loved us so deeply and so proudly she was frequently moved to tears by this felt love.

Now one might say that’s a lot of parts for one heart and you might be right, but as I mentioned before, we aren’t talking about just any heart; we are talking about my mother’s heart and it was a very big heart indeed. When it came time to give to others outside her family she gave so graciously that people were frequently moved to tears by the veracity of her giving. For soccer matches Drew and I would have enough orange slices to feed all the participants of the World Cup; for catered events, either at school or the hospital, she would bring enough food to feed a small village. No matter what the occasion, she outdid herself each and every time.

In the few short days since we lost her each every person who has approached me or contacted me has commented on the size of her heart. The collective memory of Joanie Vogel seems to capture this core aspect of her with absolute clarity. Each thoughtful gift stands out in stark relief from what could have been done has she cared less. In this moment, without the passage of time to smudge the memories of her existence, I am comforted by each vital detail of her heartfelt contribution to people in her life and the sheer amount of heart that was involved in her interactions with others.

In some ways I think this might be why it hurts a little bit more now. In this world we’re living in, a world where self-interest rules the day, my mother was such a striking contradiction to the norm that I think there were times she suffered as a result of her nature. By that I mean it appeared as if she periodically became so overwhelmed by her desire to give, to love, to show she cared that she could get lost in the emotions of it all. As her daughter and someone who has chosen a helping profession, I have tried for years to emulate her sprit but have constantly fallen short. Even today as I work with torture survivors in Africa I can’t touch the level of innate humanitarianism she embodied.

So dear audience if you remember anything about Joanie Vogel please please remember the amazing size of her heart.

wisdom in a little room

2008-11-07T07:30:00.002-06:00

Today is a national holiday which means no work. No work means a morning of basketball followed by a lazy afternoon in my hammock. I love these days. I get to let off steam while connecting with my community of ballers and then I get to sit back and rejuvenate while connecting with myself and the thoughts in my head. It’s a chance to participate in a cherished routine, making my life here in this far off land more established, more mine.

While lying in my hammock my thoughts took to me a recent conversation I had with someone in a small room in Dukkor. I’m not sure exactly sure where the conversation had started, nor am I that clear on where it ended but the details of the middle bits are as clear and lucid as glass. While sitting in this little room in the heart of the city we began discussing what it meant to have survived a difficult childhood, followed by 14 years of civil war and the present stress of living in an exquisitely corrupt and confusing environment. He could have somehow gone numb or become jaded about life, but he had not. He had held strong and somehow managed to gift himself many things in a very difficult environment: freedom, time, independence, comfort, and knowledge, to name a few. His life, in that very moment was a much deserved bi-product of profound effort and a palpable longing for something more, even if that something remained organic and unrefined.

His longing was an interesting thing to try and understand because even though he had been blocked from so many opportunities in his life thus far, he had developed a sophisticated sense of the world. From what I could see, there were his memories from his time in exile and these memories were superimposed on top of memories from childhood. All these memories were juxtaposed to his longing and hope for something more. This complexity of experiences and feelings has taught him much. It has created a sort of wisdom not of his own: a sense of the world inherited from survival, something like intuition, giving him a sense of union with the world and the futility of life.

People squirm with the subject of suffering comes up. Although I don’t blame them, they need to know there is simply so much to learn from it. As we sat and discussed the maltreatment he endured as a child, the flashlights around the room were set up like small floating lanterns. His floor, walls and clothes were spotless and the energy in the room was neatly welcoming. He took pride in how he lived and what he had accomplished and it gave him an air of confidence that was exquisitely appealing. It made it feel like it was an honor to be in this simple room furnished with only a bed and a desk.

He glanced down then fixed his gaze back on me. “I have this weird feeling that I am meant to do more than I am doing right now, that I have a purpose in life that I have yet to figure out and although sometimes I worry that the war and the hard times have messed all this up, I have to keep looking, I have to keep my eyes open for that opportunity. What I mean is that think I am meant to do great things. I just need to figure out what they are.” A fleeting smile crossed his lips before his face settled back into its relaxed lines. From what I could tell he was slightly worried I might think he was bragging or sounding cocky, but that was not the point of his statement; he only hoped I could see that without having to explain. I could.

At that moment he moved his computer to the side, as if to make space for what he was about to say but then he said nothing. It felt so intimate, like he was about to say something that would change everything, but then, just like that, he shock his head as if to shake the thoughts out of his head, and the moment was lost. I didn’t want to push it so we moved on. We seemed to both be trying to make sense of it all but didn’t have the words to express what it was we were experiencing so rather than force it was sat back and appreciated the moment for what it was. It felt like a conversations with something larger than us and we were connected simply by our shared participation.

my country: my pride, my disappointment

2008-11-01T15:31:00.004-05:00

I officially submitted my absentee ballot on October 20, 2008. The cost: a cherished Saturday in my hammock, some small back pain from 11 hours of travel on a bumpy road and an incredible amount of patience along the way. Was it worth it? Undoubtedly.

The reasons I did it are endless: patriotism, devotion, loyalty, partisanship. I also did it because I had promised myself I would never use my travels or work abroad as a reason to not vote ever again. 4 years ago I was living in Shendam, Nigeria and I didn’t vote. I didn’t take the time to figure out how to get to the Embassy in Abuja. I simply felt too bothered by the process and was a little disheartened by the stolen election of 4 years prior. I assumed that given the first election had been taken unfairly and his 4 years in office had been an irrefutable disaster that my countrymen, fellow Americans, would manage to get this man out of office without me.

When I heard the announcement that he had won again on my little transistor radio sitting in the back yard of our compound with a Brit, a German, a Dane, a Dutch and an Italian, I literally cried. Looking back on it I think I cried for two reasons. I cried for my country and our freedoms and the men at Guantanamo bay and… well, the "ands" seemed endless. Second, I cried because there was nothing else I could do sitting in front of such a tough knowledgeable European crowd looking at me as if I were one of “them” - one of those Americans many outsiders hate. It was cry or it was run. I chose to cry. After I finished crying I panicked. I panicked because I was implicit in the process. I should have remembered the quote our newly re-elected president so inarticulately described in the months preceding his re-election – “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.” Well shame on me, I had been fooled twice and so I made an oath – I would vote from here on out, no matter what.

October 20, 2008

Upon arriving at the embassy I was ushered into a security room, somewhat aggressively, by a group of four embassy security staff. Upon entering I clumsily dropped all my worldly possessions and caught the men laughing gruffly out of the corner of my eye as I hurried around trying to pick everything up. Was it nerves or was it irritation at the monstrosity that was the American Embassy in Liberia? Who knows, but what I do know is that we Americans did good by our super size mentality when building this Embassy – the building itself and the surrounding compound is truly remarkable. After the big security screening, which basically amounted to locking my keys and cell phone in a tiny lockbox, I walked past the 4 unhelpful characters and entered a large waiting area. I was then told you “wait small” in the icebox that is the American Embassy and someone would come and get me soon.

After waiting patiently for about 33 minutes I was all of a sudden graciously ushered back to my own very private room just to the left of the four small windows where Embassy staff are seated to do visa application interviews. From prisoner to prom queen it seems like I continuously encounter bizarre, ever changing, environments as an American existing in developing countries.

The room I was ushered into was garnished in red white and blue and had a burgundy couch and matching love seat with a large American flag hanging in the background. The furniture faced a standard banking window that separated me from my Embassy associate with a large pane of bullet proof glass and a small hole to pass documents through. On the counter sat a high-tech fingerprint machine with a huge sign hanging above giving directions on where to place your fingertips. I went through the process of proving my identity and getting the correct information for the election commission in Colorado. I was then handed an oversize Absentee Ballot form with all those fancy edges and requirements of tearing off one section only to place it inside another.

This was the moment I was struck by a feeling of intense pride. Everything that had surfaced during this election started to run through my head and I experienced a feeling of clarity I rarely achieve. I was drunk with partisanship and started to fill out all my forms with confidence. The forms were quite simple really. They called for my name and some identifying information and then directed me to tear off and fill in a small piece of paper with a blank line on which I was to print out the names of my chosen presidential and vice presidential candidates. It skipped all of the sitting judicial positions that I have shamefully filled in during elections prior. I say shamefully because I usually know little about these candidates and end up blindly endorsing the incumbents. This ballot skipped of that and asked me to focus on “the man” and I knew who I wanted “the man” to be.

I wanted to make it last and so I wrote slow and purposefully, knowing I would not have the chance to do this again for 4 more years. Given the state of my country, this one felt very, very important. Just as I was proudly filling out my home address in Denver, reflecting on my newly established residence, three individuals walked into my little private room and I was startled.

When I’m startled I get tend to drop or break or ruin things and in due course I dropped my pen, while attempting to pick it up, I knocked over my purse. I hurriedly gathered everything up and moved from the couch over to the chair to make room for the guests. Two were dressed in western attire whereas the other was clearly local, dressed in a beautiful lappa with a slightly mismatched head wrap. She quickly sat down on the couch and put her head down and stoically focused at her hands while the other two approached the window and started with some big hellos and how are yous. He (P) announced he was a pastor from the south and she (P2), also a pastor, was here to help with the process. They were warm, well spoken individuals whose presence suggested they had caring natures and resolute dispositions.

The woman from the Embassy (E) seemed instantly annoyed and was quiet short.

(E) Hello.

(P) Yes, I’m not sure if you remember us but we were here a couple of moths ago?

(E) Yes.

Silence…

(P) Well… We have sorted everything out and have everything arranged; now we just need to finalize the visa for our friend Musu here.

(E) You do not finalize the visa sir; we determine if it a visa should be granted or not and there are regulations about this.

(P) Oh yes of course we understand, of course. What I meant was you should know is Musu is very sick you see. She has cancer and she will die if she does not get the treatment she needs. This treatment is possible, but not here in Liberia and we want to help so she can survive.

(I was startled into a frozen state of disbelief about what I just heard while writing the zip code for Denver…I paused and looked over at the woman who very clearly did not speak English who looked over at me. We caught eyes and I smiled. She smiled back. My eyes filled with tears and I looked away….)

(E) Yes but what about Ghana?

(P) Yes you are correct there are some very good doctors in Ghana and we went there and spoke to them and if you see here in all of our documents there are also very expensive, actually they are more than twice as expensive as the doctor we found in America. But, the good news is that this doctor in America is willing to the treatment and surgery for free, pro bono. And our church is…

(E) Sir. You do realize that treatment for cancer is not just about one time surgery or one time treatment. It takes multiple procedures, expensive medications and hospital stays and who do you think is going to pay for all of that? And how do we know this woman will return after the procedure?

(P) Yes. Yes. We understand your concern but we can vouch for all of this. We are prepared to take on all financial obligations so that this woman can get the treatment she needs. We have done this in 3 different countries including the Philippines, Sri Lanka and Sierra Leone, we understand our responsibility.

(E) Sir. I don’t care where else you have done this. What you need to know is that we can’t just let anybody into the country who is ultimately going to be a financial burden to the state. The treatment of cancer is a very expensive matter. I should know, my sister just died of it and her hospital bills were over a million dollars so don’t come at me trying to explain the process of all of this. I am well aware of the process.

(Everyone just froze. There it was, this was personal or at least it was hitting a very personal cord and this woman had lost her capacity to maintain neutrality in her grief.)

(P2) oh Madame I am so incredibly sorry for your loss. I too am a survivor and I know what my family went through. We are just trying to help this woman who, if given the chance, can get treated and can recover and then return to Liberia, to her home and her grandkids. She doesn’t speak an ounce of English and wouldn’t know what to do if she stayed there. She just wants to live.

(E) Ok. Enough. Yes this is very tragic but like you are aware there is a treatment option in Ghana which means there is no reason to grant this Visa application so I am sorry. This Visa will not be granted. This interview is over.

And, just like that it was over. The three of them gathered their things and quietly left me sitting in this little piece of America in Liberia.

I was slammed by the juxtaposition of such conflicting emotional states I felt nauseous. How is it possible to go from intense pride and hope to heartbreak and grief in a matter of seconds? Isn’t this the type of thing that can cause insanity?

When you’re young and privileged and from America you think it’s going to be like the movies. That this woman was going to get her medical visa and get her treatment and return to Liberia just in time for her grandson’s graduation ceremony. And thanks to the Government Press department, the story is known by all and rumor has it Oprah is considering playing the role in the soon to be blockbuster movie. But, in reality, this rarely happens and movies aren’t made about what I had just witnessed. I had no idea where to put it and I didn’t even say I’m sorry or good bye. That was it. It was over. I took my ballot to the counter, silently handed it over and left.

Being free with the option of getting your basic needs met is so rarely a reality that the impassable distance between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’ is constantly illuminated, even in the halls of the very embassy that strives to deny it’s existence.

I don’t know how to end this post. I’m not sure I ever will.

joining the harvest

2008-10-27T14:40:00.001-05:00

Although it was only 7 AM, it was already ninety degrees and Mada’s Town was bustling with activity. Two teenage brothers were fixing large palm branches to build a new roof for their kitchen. Their younger brother was sweeping aimlessly yet somehow productively; and, Yassa, the youngest of the bunch, was standing naked in a blue container splashing water while her older sister, Korpo, scrubbed her backside furiously with lathery soap. I knew this little band of siblings because I knew their mother. I had met their mother 9 months ago. She was a former client of ours and when a visiting journalist from the Carter Foundation asked me if there were any clients that might be willing to talk to her about the counseling process and her progress since her participation in therapy, I thought of their mother instantly. She had gone from severely depressed and functionally debilitated to emotionally stabilized and socially functional with the help of her group and the counselors. She embodied the success story of someone who benefitted from the healing process of a reparative relationship with a therapy group and my sense was she might be willing to talk. Her individual counselor asked her if she would be interested in sharing her story, stressing she had the right to say no and that only she would determine what would be shared with this stranger. The former client contemplated it for about a minute and then said “yes, I‘d like to talk to her.” She later noted she was shocked anyone from America would be interested in her or her journey.

Deddeh, one of the local counselors (who would be playing the role of Loma interpreter), took the former client and the journalist inside the house for some privacy. Once comfortable, she willingly shared her horrific trauma story. She shared her story for two reasons. First, due to therapy, she had been able to “master” her story in such a way that it no longer felt traumatizing to her when she thought about it or told it. The second reason she shared was because she felt empowered by the curiosity of this foreigner and impressed people wanted to know about her and her experience.

I didn’t want to cause any more reason for anxiety so I remained outside. After a while I became bored and decided to join the game of knock foot that was being played by a few of the girls in the shade behind the next hut. Knock foot is a girl’s only game where players hop on one foot and kick toward their opponent with the other foot. While hoping and kicking out a foot, the participants collectively keep a well known beat with a quick clapping sequence. It’s sort of like rock, paper, scissors but, instead of playing with your hands; you play with your feet. For every kick one player makes, the opposing player tries to kick out in such a way that they beat the play of the other kicker. The winner is determined by the type and placement of the kick. Once the winner is determined she quickly faces a new opponent and so on, or until she is beat.

Although the above description of the game might suggest I know how to the play knock foot well, I have to admit I still have a few lingering questions about the rules of the game. These questions never seem to get answered because all the girls who I ask are busy giggling at the fact that I am trying to play the game in the first place. “Look at that why wo ma, she tryin to play kna fo oh!” was all I could get out of the girls who surrounded me during my last attempt to play while ignoring my questions. Needless to say I keep trying play and didn’t care if I looked silly. I’m a sucker for games and a bit of a competitor so I’m basically always ready and willing to learn just about anything anyone is willing to teach me.

After just three rounds of knock foot beads of sweat start collecting on my forehead and so I decided I better switch the game before I passed out from heat stroke. I started teaching them the one joint clapping game I know put to beat by one very bizarre song I learned as a small child. The song was originally sung by Tom Hanks and his boyhood friend in the movie Big. It goes something like: “Dutch babes go down down baby down down the rollercoaster sweet sweet baby sweet sweet don’t let me go…shimmie shimmie coco pop shimmie shimmie rock…” It’s somewhat of a ridiculous song and when you think about it, it makes very little sense but my brother and I loved it and it has stuck with me ever since.

The reason we loved this song is still unclear to me but during the third or fourth time we watched the movie we decided we needed to know every single word to this song. The only problem was it was such a fast song we couldn’t pick up the lyrics in real time. At first we thought we could keep rewinding the movie and learn it, but as the weekend drew to a close, we realized our BETA movie would be due back at blockbuster the following evening and so we took matters into our own hands and placed our eighties style boom box next too the TV and recorded the song. We then were able to return the movie and play the song we grew to love over and over again until we memorized it in full. Drew memorized it much faster than I. He had and still has an amazing ability to memorize the lyrics of any song he hears and smokes me in every game of music trivia we have ever played.

The strange thing is I had completely forgotten this tiny little childhood experience of mine until, for some unknown reason, I blurted out the song a few months ago while I was hanging out with my little 5 year old twin princes back in Denver. It came to mind crystal clear and I sang it as loudly as I did when I had been sitting on that brown L shaped couch with Drewbers in our living room more than 20 years ago. If any part of me thought it was silly or useless, this part of me was quickly quieted by their excitement about the song. They couldn’t get enough of it and so the song quickly moved from a place in my subconscious to a much more accessible place in my consciousness. After the shift it subsequently infiltrated many interactions I had with small children. In Liberia it has taken on a life of its own as my already speedy American English becomes decipherable to the little kids I share it with but they LOVE it just as much as I did when I was as kid and end up requesting it over and over again. So now I can periodically find myself surrounded by kids in a village I have previolsy visited chanting variations of the song. The last time it sounded something like, “dune dune tabbies by by me toasters…swe swe babies roller coasters…”

It’s pretty fantastic and totally reinforcing to me a woman who has been diagnosed by her local counselors as someone who, “din’t get to pla enough as a small child and loves to laugh too much.”

Shortly after I had failed to learn the true rules to knock foot and the kids had failed to learn the true words to the song I was trying to teach them the journalist and our former client exited the hut and told us we would be going to the farm for harvest. It wasn’t really a discussion it was simply a decision based on the fact that is what the family would have done if we hadn’t been there.

We quickly got in a line and followed one another into the bush on a small trail that only allowed for us to travel one at a time. The two youngest led the way, the mother resolutely followed, Jessie, the journalist was next, then Deddeh (our translator) followed by me. Lonely the dog was also along for the journey as well and resolutely moved from the front to the back of the group in a proactive yet playful manner. I of course adored Lonely and quickly befriended him.

Our trek to the farm took about 25 minutes. At first we were surrounded by thick bush which amounted to huge palm trees and solid forest. After about 5 minutes we hit the pineapple farm which essentially looks like extra large Alice in wonderland versions of pineapple tops sticking out of the ground, separated thoughtfully by the farmer who planted them. Next came a log bridge over a milky brown marsh with a tree branch handle set up for safe passage. Following that came a 5 foot wide lagoon of dirty water that the locals were sure we would reject passing through. But Jessie and I were adventurous. She somehow managed to hold onto tree trunks and pass around the side without losing her clogs while I decided to wade right through the water just like the kids because I had on slippery flip flops and feared slipping and landing on my tush in the mud. Later I somewhat regretted my decision and ruminated about the possibility of picking up some sort of still water worm like the ominous scitizosomicion. The good thing is I look asymptomatic to date.

Approximately 10 minutes later we reached a bush kitchen. The kitchen was surrounded by about 10 children, 3 teenage girls, 5 women, 1 man, a large cement round structure used to make palm oil, 3 charcoal fire pits and baskets full of peas, okra and bitter ball. To the side was a large group of sugarcane resting against a fence. The group welcomed us casually and without ceremony (which was somewhat refreshing) and the women quickly started changing clothes from their regular lappa wraps with t-shirts and matching wraps form their hair some sort of strikingly unmatching yet still beautiful wrap to keep the baby child resting on their back in place. What they changed into was essentially men’s ware – dirty flannel long sleeve shirts and oversized jeans. I rarely see women outside their lappa attire but quickly realized they were changing because the harvest process must be scratchy and they wanted to cover as much skin as possible. Although I don’t really know why I assumed this (aside from my theory that the reason I love Africa so much is because I was African in a former life; more specifically I was a large and powerful African woman with 7 kids with an amazing singing voice), I was right.

In another unceremonious gesture a woman approached me and tied a wicker basket around my waste and placed a small knife in my hand. It was clear that if we were going to go into the fields, we were going to help with the harvest. After another ten minutes of trekking we arrived at a large rice field. The growth was high and surrounded by random stalks of corn. I quickly reflected on my experience in the rice fields of Vietnam and was amazed by how different everything felt and looked. This field grew much higher, was not swampy and appeared less organized than the rice fields I had seen in Vietnam. With that noted, there was still a very clear system of harvest and I needed to pay attention if I was going to earn the respect of these women.

The impressiveness of my surroundings was quickly trumped by the impressiveness of the women’s quick harvesting maneuvers that put my shabby attempts at harvesting to shame. They didn’t seem to mind however and after a few minutes we were engaged in a classic harvesting coup, a well known collective act of survival.

free associations

2008-10-22T14:51:00.001-05:00

Over the course of the last few weeks I have been inundated with events, experiences, thoughts, ideas, stories and random occurrences. When over-stimulated I tend to freeze. The delay in my writing emphasizes this. But, just like anyone who likes to weave a tale and gets used to putting it to paper, the thoughts start to pile up like unprocessed files on the desk of a professional who had been forced to take an unexpected leave of absence and returns to an inability of knowing where to start.

These next few posts are my feeble attempt to return. I have a feeling they will be unorganized and disjointed but rather than waste more time in an attempt to shuffle things around I will trust you my reader to organize things as you see fit.

the event: the tale of the magic rock

On a recent drive to a new village I saw a large boulder surrounded by bamboo fencing and barbed wire. I was struck by the man power it must have taken to build that study fencing and found it odd it appeared to have only been done to fence in a rock. I said as much and was subsequently enlightened.

Once upon a time there was a rock. This was not just any old rock; It was a magic rock. The problem was nobody was aware of this for a very long time. Generations of families came and went and still nobody knew about the secret powers of this rock. Every time it thought it was going to be discovered something happened to prevent its discovery and so it lived on, undiscovered. For a very long time this rock was the only one who knew he was a special, magical rock. Before it was discovered little was known, after it was discovered much….

Once upon a time there was a man who had his heartbroken in the most painful of ways. The love of his life and his very best friend went off and demolished his heart and punctured his hope for happiness in the most classic of ways. Although he was not a vengeful man or a man who festered on past events, this event changed everything. Every waking moment he thought about retribution and every sleeping minute he dreamed about redemption. He ruminated so hard and so often he frequently found himself miles away from home or anything familiar because he would walk for hours on end thinking. After snapping out of one of these ruminating stupors he frequently found himself in unknown far away places. He also periodically found himself startled out of a dissociative state holding a bowl of rice that was cold and spoiled from hours of uneaten existence.

Once upon a time this heartbroken man forgot what he was about to do. He did this a lot. He did this because he could think of nothing else but revenge. In another dissociative state he sat himself down next to a rock. After a significant amount of time went by he back against this rock in a huff wondering if he will ever realize his fantasies of revenge. The mix of these two states, one of intense emotion juxtapose to one of intense dissociation, allowed him to enter into the state of mind that is required to become one with a rock. Interestingly in order to enter the rock you had to be in a state where you were wholly human (i.e., feeling a continuum of intense emotions) and wholly nonhuman (i.e., disconnected from your ego). And then, without warning, this man sunk right into this rock and disappeared. The only thing that could be seen was his eyes. But for him, he could see everything.

Once upon a time a man entered a rock and a new state of existence. Following his immersion, he could see everything that was in front of him and everything that was behind him, and in fact he could see and hear everything that was going on in that village at that very moment. He saw and observed everything anyone in that village was doing or saying or thinking without effort and he was amazed. He even lost himself in this new magical state of mind and was elated when he realized he could hear and see “them”. They had decided to move in together and the rumor was they were happy and in love. He hated to think about it and he hated himself for wishing ill will on them, but he couldn’t help it. They had betrayed him and he was damaged and enraged but he also was quite curious about what it was like for them behind closed doors.

Once upon a time their lived a man who frequently visited the magic rock for the experience of knowing all. Shortly after he started “joining with” the rock he learned that the relationship his ex love of his life and former best friend had established suffered from one fundamental flaw. This flaw would eventually ruin them. This flaw was the infiltration of their former acts of betrayal into their new relationship and he saw them suffering for it every day. Based on the fact they had both been so dishonest to their best friend and lover, neither one of them could truly trust the other and the lack of trust was destroying their relationship. They were both suspicious about everything and assumed on some unconscious level disloyalty from the other was enviable. What they didn’t know, and what the man in the magic rock had learned from his new power was that they had actually loved each other intensely and struggled seriously with the choice that they had made which resulted in his heartbreak. They both had genuinely loved him and yet they also had fallen in love with each other and although they held out and refused to allow this love to be realized for a very long time, they eventually lost the will to fight and decided they were willing to pay the consequences. The problem was the guilt was killing them and them and their love. When this very hurt man learned all of this his anger left him and he realized there was nothing he could do that would be worse that what they were suffering and so he moved on.

Once upon a time there existed a man who although it was known had suffered two very significant blows, managed to pull out of his funk and become the village mediator. His ability to read minds was awe invoking and his knack for seeing past the superficial presentation of problems became so well know he became a local Zo of sorts. What no one knew was that he owed his special perceptive powers to a rock. He never told anyone but he chose to use his newfound powers for good and with that was able to get over his heartbreak and help others.

Once upon a time the town counselor became very ill and decided to pass along his knowledge and special abilities to his favorite nephew. Although this nephew was worthy of this gift, the gift got the best of him because he loved the knowledge and power he gained from seeing things as they were seen through this rock. He began to manipulate the power he inherited for personal gain and quickly became very wicked and distrustful. He cheated, and blackmailed and did anything he wished to exploit those that he had knowledge about. This man was eventually killed for his wicked acts. Although the village never truly realized how all of this connected to the rock their collective intuition knew it was somehow connected and therefore with the death of the wicked nephew came the partitioning off of the magic rock. And so now the rock sits, wishing to be utilized for what it was in a state of nonhuman humanness. The tales about its strength, as ire as they were, came from a place of truth.

And so the story goes..........from love to hate and back again and everything in between.

an urge to remain cloudy

2008-09-21T05:23:00.005-05:00

Oddly enough even though I am a psychologist and my whole purpose in life is to make meaning of things, events and feelings, I have this strange urge to remain cloudy, even to myself. Sometimes this is because I don’t think clarity is necessarily the truth. Its simplicity, isn’t it? But then I start thinking about secrets and think, “yes but gwen you know secrets turn powerless in the open air.” What’s left unsaid grows and morphs and takes on a life of its own. If you can break things apart and figure out where they came from you will inevitably find meaning. That’s also an acceptance of complexity, isn’t it?

And there it is, my struggle between complexity and simplicity which results in a strange desire to remain opaque.

Stated another way I seem to have this strange tendency to struggle with the fine lines between what initially appears to be an issue of extremes. Explorer/abandoner, nomad/nester, conventional/eccentric, helper/hinder….the list could go on…..
I don't want to move from this place becuase I firmly believe the differences between the two extremes are in fact a matter of fine lines. The tricky thing is my resistance to choose periodically causes confusion in my life.

This is where I realize I could take a few lessons from my dear sweet brother. He is a purist. He sees things in black and white and although there are times where this too causes troubles for him, more often than not he is not conflicted or frozen in fear over making the wrong choice, like I. He lives is life intensely, passionately with a level of confidence I can rarely muster. I adore him for that.

At this point I am hearing our landcrusier idling at the gate sounding eager to pick me up and start its journey from the interior to Monrovia. I am heading to NYC in a few short days to attend a benefit concert an amazing musician, David Calkins. He is performing at Carnegie Hall and is dedicating this performance to SalusWorld. I am very excited and nervous about it and just like that I am doing it again – existing between two extremes and relishing the cloudiness of it all.

even paranoids have real enemies

2008-09-12T06:38:00.000-05:00

Due to war, secret societies and painful life lessons, many Liberians have learned to be efficient in their privacy and rarely reveal their true selves to others. This way of being is tied to the a few humorous yet ever so slightly accurate statements about paranoids. The first is that even paranoids have real enemies; the second is that a paranoid is frequently someone with all the facts. Maybe in a land recovering from a long and bitter civil war, these are the only truths.

It’s strange but the individuals I trust most here often talk in the vaguest of ways and stress that they do this so they can avoid becoming the object of someone else’s vengeance. May it be about money or success or happiness, they highlight examples of people falling victim to other people’s jealousies and I tend to believe them. At the end of the day the ones I respect most are rarely found taking an outward stance about critical issues and frequently fade into the background when you would expect them to be animated. But, what comes of a society that forces its brightest and most trustworthy into the shadows?

Although we don’t like to admit it most laws are uncertain and fear is everywhere. I was recently reminded of this fact when I discovered the newly elected executive director of the local NGO I returned to support had become corrupt and deceitful in the few short months I was away. I literally shuttered in disbelief when I was briefed on the developments. From what I understand it happened quickly and on the heels of solidifying their very first funded project. This newly elected leader, a fellow Liberian who had managed to earn a masters degree in Marriage and Family therapy while in refuge, simply accessed the bank account and used the money from their very first grant as if it were his own. After that it turned into a long and drawn out game of cat and mouse. He not only lied, manipulated and stole money; he also failed to hold true to his promises. This information made my heart sink. I too trusted and liked this guy and felt as if the local group of counselors that were hoping to become a functional NGO before CVT departed had picked the right man to lead them into independence. The plan was to have their NGO up and running by the time CVT finished their last grant and pulled out of the country.

A few days ago this man called me, was near tears while pleading his side and claiming everything I was hearing was a conspiracy against him. He wove a detailed and exhaustive story. After attempting to listen to both sides and sort out some sort of objective truth, I realized that truth can bounce between gossip and vengeance and objectivity is fleeting. Rumors about why he did it slip into side conversations I hear in hallways and offices and I once again find myself feeling skeptical about everything. Maybe I too am on my way to becoming a full blown paranoid. Sadly enough, maybe this is not a bad idea in this world of ours. Maybe most of the time, truth is just an opinion.

In my years abroad I have courted foreignness and have been at ease whether in the woods of Wisconsin, on the 1/9 subway line heading towards the Bronx or in a hut in Yelwa. In some ways I feel as if I completed myself abroad and am now able to slip back and forth between my two lives with much more ease and grace than I was able to muster a few years back. But trust is a slippery topic. On the one had I have been forced to blindly trust strangers either due to language or cultural barriers or because I found myself in a vulnerable position. Fortunately for me nothing bad has happened yet and I have been incredibly moved by a stranger’s willingness to help another stranger. And yet, with each road I have explored, I have learned that many roads are not clearly marked and some have a tendency to change direction. At first I thought my lost feelings were simply due to my bad sense of direction but with time and experience I have come to accept the fact that my paths in life may be bumpy, circular or even end up at a dead end. My only hope is that I learn from each journey, irregardless of the final destination.

the trip up country

2008-09-07T14:34:00.004-05:00

Exactly 7 days after I arrived in the chaotic city of Monrovia, I started my long journey into the bush. The two of us who were planning to travel together had initially arranged to get on the UN chopper around eight, but we changed our minds when we once again observed the clouds were getting feisty. It looked like it was about to rain and when rain comes the UN airfield staff make everyone wait. Everyone sits around hoping it will clear and the choppers will fly. On a good day it only takes an hour or so; on a bad day people wait for hours on end to find out if they are going to give the clearance they need to move. For some reason this pregnant pause fills the airfield staff with delight and the remarkable levels of enjoyment are easily observed on their faces. It’s likely this enjoyment is a direct result of the power they feel over the waiting passengers as such power is infrequently given out so freely. With power comes a very quick attempt to push the limits and flex their powerful muscles. This disposition should not to be held against them, as they don’t know any better, but it takes a little added patience to not get annoyed.

So we chose to avoid the potentially disheartening experience of rejection and hours of hopeful desperation and load up for a 9 hour road trip on muddy pothole ridden roads. Half way to Gbarnga we see another land cruiser stuck in some mud. Our driver recognizes the passenger of this NGO vehicle as his former physics teacher from the high school he attended before the war. He looked over at me, “Gwan, do you think that maybe we could stop and see if we can help?” “Of course, let’s see what this thing can do” I reply.

The first thing we realize is that they are truly stuck and two of their tires are completely hidden in 2 feet of thick mud. We are riding in a flat bed pick up and they are in a four door land cruiser. Do to the fact there is not a hitch on the back of the truck we have to turn around and tie the rope to the front of the vehicle and try and back them out. Given we too are at risk of being pulled down the side of the muddy ravine, we are forced to pull them out at an angle. Our first three attempts fail and smoke starts to come out the back end of our truck and tires. We move a little closer to the ravine and try again. This time it works and we manage to get them out. And then, just like that, after a few quick thank yous and your welcomes, we are off.

Approximately 1 hour later we hear a funny noise and the car starts to pull to the right. Alvin stops and we realize we now have a flat tire and it appears that it was caused by the extreme heat from pulling out of the memorable physics teacher of years gone by. We quickly fix the flat, with the help of three 9 year old boys who thoroughly enjoyed the pizza flavor combos I gave them as payment, and we manage to get to the swap point an hour or so later than we were to be expected. Luckily for us, our colleague had clearly departed Lofa on Liberian time and arrived a few short minutes after our own arrival.

Entering an old home

As I mentioned in a previous post I have questioned my capacity to settle and create a place I can call home. Now I realize that maybe I have somehow managed to have created a few. Coming back to Lofa taught me this lesson. Aside from my childhood home, this was my very first experience of ‘coming back’ to a residence that I knew very intimately. After months and months of being away I unlocked the door and quickly recognized the space and noticed everything was exactly how I liked it. The clean crisp covers were on the furniture, my coffee percolator sat stoically on the shelf and my bright Guinean rug covered the floor in my bedroom. It was clear Korpo, my dear sweet housekeeper, went of her way to do all of this and I appreciated it (and her) with all my heart.

This experience left me feeling all the more confident about my recent purchase of a small home in Denver. When I left it felt strange to lock the door and image everything gathering dust while sitting around waiting to have their reason for existence realized. Now I know what it will feels like to go home and I can state with ease that somehow it is possible for our hearts to be and belong in multiple places at the same time. The only problem is that re-arriving often involves a lot of dusting.

So I end this post thinking about being and belonging. What i know is that there are those experiences that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant life experiences are those that make you reflect on yourself. And if you find some people to love and be loved by while you are living these experiences, well, that's just fabulous.

as if I never left

2008-09-06T17:00:00.003-05:00

“Don’t go chasing butterflies, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to,” sing my talented mixed clinical/admin team in the new CVT office/compound on 14th Street. The TLC version of the song is playing softly in the background on UN Radio. It’s Wednesday, a typical work day, and everyone is working independently on their training, finance and fuel consumption reports. Each one of them intensely focused on their own work, each one in their own little world.

They continue to sing and never make eye contact with one another or recognize they are singing together. As an outsider, it fells as if they must have practiced this little performance for hours to reach the level of harmony I am hearing. This is not true; however, and the fact that they are participating in this activity in perfect unison is also completely unconscious and unrecognized. The process was organic, unrefined and so very un-American as there was no sign of neurosis or underlying fears of being judged or rejected to speak of.

“I know that you're gonna have it your way or nothing at all, But I think you're moving too fastlittle precious has a natural obsession for temptation but he just can't see. She gives him loving that his body can't handle but all he can say is baby it's good to me…,” chants the CVT choir as they shift through paperwork and cross reference data sheets.

And just like that, I am back. No one missed a beat and I managed to fit right in, like a missing piece of the puzzle. I find myself familiar with everything and know what I am supposed to do. A brief smile passes across my lips and I savor the moment of observation; but, then, just as quickly as it hit me, it is gone and I am back to work amazed by how it all somehow works in the midst of utter chaos.

Speaking of chaos, I think I might be addicted to it. When things come too easy I’m suspect. Back in Denver I would arrive home after a day at work and sit behind my steering wheel for a brief moment feeling strange. Then I would realize my day included no major logistical constraints or peripheral events that impeded on my agenda and I found myself slightly underwhelmed. Do things have to get complicated before I believe they’re for real?

I’ve been raised to believe that life is not meant to run smoothly and it’s is the bumps in the road that typically teach us something important. And, for some strange reason I have always believed that there has to be obstacles in Act Two before you can live happily ever after in Act Three. This is so ingrained in my psyche that I suspect that if the obstacles aren’t there, something is missing. Does this mean I need drama to make life work? Is this why I choose dramatic environments to work in? I can think of plenty of people who would save they need drama to make love work, so why not life in general?

returning to voinjama

2008-08-27T02:44:00.003-05:00

It’s been 4 months and 22 days since my return to America. Today I depart once again for Liberia. This return was not exactly planned, nor was it fully expected. I am not nervous, nor am I worried; I’ll let everyone else in my life deal with the weight of those feelings. And, although a few other humanitarian workers who have worked in Liberia have expressed mild confusion about why I am choosing to return, I am returning and I am delighted. My memories of Liberia are filled with profoundly moving experiences. There may be a variety of explanations for this domination of positive memories over negative (as I know I had my fare share of rough times), but I believe it is the origin of our species to improve memories of the past by natural selection. We filter memories just like we filter bad news and we tend to see and hear what we want, when we want. While in Liberia I was influenced in a myriad of ways. I have tried to capture this myriad in past posts, the success of which is likely left wanting, but at least I can say I have tried.

Before I head back to Liberia I would like to quickly examine my time at home. I proudly say home because I recall feeling quite confused by the concept of home when I first returned. I wasn’t sure if a nomad, like myself, could ever truly feel at home anywhere but in-between. Now I say with certainty that Colorado is indeed my home, or at least it is indeed my home, for now. During these 4 months and 22 days I was welcomed back with such warm words and thoughtful gestures it frequently moved me to tears. My last night there was no exception. While packing and thinking about how hard it was to, once again, abandon my tribe, two very special individuals came to pay me a visit and brought along with them some pots and pans. They had learned I managed to go the entire 4 months and 22 days without a single pot or pan in my possession and this troubled them. Clearly a lack of cooking utensils in my possession says something about my capacity to cook; but, it also say something about them. The gesture was to them an easy decision - they had some extra kitchenware and thought it would be nice to give it to me. To me this gesture said so much more as they very clearly were not vexed or confused about my going and they knew I would eventually be back and in need of a pot and/or a pan.

In Denver I worked hard, tried to organize my new home and rested as often as I could. I fully appreciated hot showers for approximately 37 days and then the impact of this visceral experience unfortunately wore off. I can’t recall which shower it was exactly, but there was one day when I started to step into piping hot showers only to discover or fail to consciously discover the remarkable effect of warm water on my skin. To me the opportunity to take a hot shower after months and months of cold and dirty bucket showers tops my list of re-entry activities, I miss appreciating that.

I also fully appreciated my dog, Tuesday. Fortunately for the both of us, this feeling did not wear off, even for one second. Every day I cruised home from a local jail or the office, having just completed an evaluation, excited to see her. I was welcomed home with delight every single time. I loved our walks and our car rides and our trips around town to visit her friends or to get ice cream cones. She is likely one of the most delicate eaters of ice-cream cones and I periodically enjoyed watching her do just that. The support I have received in helping care for this canine has moved me right to tears sitting here in O’Hare airport. I can’t help but cry when I think about Sherry and Laura and Kristy and Dan and Yophy and Terry and Karla and Brian and Sarah and Rick and Stephanie and Jim and Joanie and their collective willingness to help me out whenever I was about to embark on another adventure. Each one of these individuals expressed their love to me by expressing their love towards this four legged creature and I am so incredibly touched by their willingness to help. To top it off, just last week Sherry and Laura, graciously welcomed Tuesday into their beautiful Telluride home for the next couple of months. They did it out of sheer love for dogs, a little love for me and some experienced pride in my work and I feel incredibly appreciative of their act of kindness and their e-mail updates informing me that Tuesday has been dashing back and forth between their log piles hunting chipmunks as well as flirting a little bit with their youngest, yet massive pup, Wilson.

So as Tuesday and I acclimate to another brief change, I am left feeling impressed by animal and mankind alike. For dogs their capacity to acclimate is impressive and yet their time limited memory serves to prevent from the angst of ruminating. We human beings spend a significant amount of time ruminating but then again the act of acclimating is truly one of our greatest strengths. The underlying tragedy of it is we never realize exactly when full acclimation has occurred.

So in a timely announcement I am just been called to board my plane………….
Expect more tales from me soon.

the psychology of evil and personification of berlin

2008-07-25T12:26:00.003-05:00

The lucifer effect and the psychology of evil.

So, I totally had a celebrity encounter while attending a conference in Berlin. Or maybe to be more accurate, I should probably say I totally had a celebrity encounter for a psychologist. And, when I say celebrity encounter I mean I walked by this aforementioned celebrity and nodded my head; he looked back at me and said hi.

Yes that’s right. If you can even believe it I was in the same room with the one and only Philip Zimbardo. Ok, I know for those of you with careers outside the field of psychology this means very little; however, if you took a social psych 101 class you might actually know who I’m talking about. Professor Zimbardo was the principle investigator on the Stanford Prison Study, a very famous study that had to be terminated 4 short days into a two week study because the participating college students took their jobs (as prison guards) and their incarcerations (as prisons) so seriously that the abuse and maltreatment of the prisoners very quickly got out of hand and the study had to be terminated for ethical reasons. It’s a basic study about the power and effect of positions of authority, the autonomy of uniforms and losing ones individual identity.

Well Professor Zimbardo is back and he is trying to explain the psychology of evil. He is doing this because he was called as an expert witness for the young soldiers who participated in heinous acts of torture at the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. He noted the whistleblower, a measly 18 year old reserve (whose conscience simply wouldn’t allow him to not report what he witnessed on a take home CD burned by one of the participating privates), was stalked and threatened so severely by fellow military men and former friends and neighbors from his very small home town in America (as they saw him as “anti-patriotic” to the Bush administration), that he and his wife and small child had to go into a witness protection program. Unbelievable. Really.

But enough about that…………..let’s move on, or rather let’s return to Berlin.

Berlin seems to be a city marked by the disappearance of a wall and an uncanny desire to judge nothing too critically. This city overflows with art and culture. Everywhere there are tributes to philosophers and activists. Everywhere there are galleries and museums. Its universities allegedly became Mecca’s for students of the 60s & 70s who wanted to experience the intensity of those political times in an environment that was on the edge of politics and the dynamics of history. And, according to my patriotic hosts, Berlin’s underground culture flourishes with an eclecticism that can’t be claimed elsewhere with the possible exception of New York City. In Berlin, the people seem to live simply yet this does not by any means mean they have simple lives.

If I were to personify Berlin I would say he is a tall, young, Caucasian, thin man who works with computers and plays jazz in the wee hours of the night. He is a serious fellow who moves briskly with lips tightly pursed. During the day his face remains expressionless, neither breaking into smile of satisfaction nor frowning with disappointment at the results of his work. The cuffs of his white shirt are typically rolled up to the elbows. His pants ever so slightly snug, his collar button open, his bright tie loosened. Now and then he stops typing to scribble note on his scratch pad next to his keyboard. Interestingly about half of his scratches are work related and half are music notes. Even though he tries hard and has a remarkable amount of self-control, the music can drift in, unexpectedly. After work he changes into a short black leather coat, wrinkled olive-green chinos, and brown work boots.

Inside a local deli, saxophone case hanging from his shoulder, this young man stops for a quick snack before a late night session with his band mates. They play in an abandoned building in East Berlin. It’s likely this neighborhood will be vibrant and in a few years to come, but for now it’s a carcass of a former soviet structure and if you look closely enough you might even see a few bullet holes from WWII. Backed up by a piano, drums, an acoustic bass and a clarinet, young Berlin finishes the night by playing a solo. His performance is not bad, decent technique with a love for the process that allows his personality to show through and make the listener's experience more personal, more intense. And this is his life. Somehow he manages to ride the fine line between good citizen and darkish explorer of the night; he does it well and is happy doing it.

a white flag in surrender

2008-06-29T22:31:00.013-05:00

“The wounds are going to need some drains to prevent infection and the bite on the top of her leg is going to need a few staples.” Her tone was kindly yet assured. Dr. Sylvie was charming and caring yet ever so reliably professional.

"What should I do?” My tone was indignant yet shattered. The only living thing presently in my care (this blogs very namesake) was attacked by two stray dogs on our run earlier in the day. In that very moment I found myself sitting in the office of an emergency veterinarian hospital being informed that poor tuey was going to need surgery and have to wear one of those horrific e-collars (aka: doggie lamp shades) for a number of days.

When the attack occurred I was just as surprised as Tuesday. The two massive strays approached us from the back and one of them simply picked Tuesday up by her neck as easily as a lion would pick up a baby faun sipping water from a pond. The other, an enormous pit/husky mix, just as quickly put his fangs in her rear. In the next moment tuey was on her side; the big black lab mix with a severely wounded back leg kept his teeth deep in her neck. I screamed at the top of my lungs, threw my zune at one of them and starting kicking at the other. I’m sure it all happened in a matter of 3 seconds, it felt like an eon.

On the way home we walked slowly. Tuesday had her tail down the entire time and I was noticeably shaking while I waited for the woman at animal control to take my call. 47 minutes later she superficially took my complaint, harshly said she would “send someone out” and hung up the phone. Thanks for the support lady, I thought. I hung up and tried to say some compassionate things to Tuesday. Just one look at the two of us and it was clear neither one of us felt reassured.

I was hoping to write this post with elegant detachment and measured passion but one look at any of my previous posts suggests elegant detachment and measured passion are not typically part of my repertoire. Sure I can periodically manage them when it comes to processing my own feelings but for others, rarely.

I’m sure one day I will reflect back on what has happened and view it as a lesson learned. But, presently I feel bitter and annoyed this lesson was taught to me in the manner in which it was because dear sweet Tuesday can’t turn to me and offer her version of events or feelings tied to its occurrence, leaving me trying to feel and process for us both. There is a painful injustice to much of what happens in life but this feels especially unfair at this very moment.

So I will stop for now. This was a hard post to write as I didn’t really want to think about what happened; but, I have made one promise to myself with regards to this wee blog of mine. I will continue to chronicle my journey to and fro foreign lands and I won’t try and filter. My hope is that my dear readers will realize that neither I nor those we hold most dear are necessarily safer on western soil and what happens in life will forever remain uncharacteristically unpredictable. For now I will put up my white flag and surrender.

a week full of smiles, bliss and a little contentment

2008-06-15T21:38:00.005-05:00

a few small events made me smirk with glee this week.
I was told something sweet and I was given something special.
just a few words, just a few small gestures, but I recognized them as genuine and real and I found myself smiling through the cracks of unhappy contemplation that I have been existing in over the last 71 days.

I almost let them pass and didn’t take a moment to write them down but then I realized it was just as important to write these small measures down as it was to write the tougher more painful ones down. It is just as important to recognize these moments as real so that they too can be internalized and savored. Without that, I am not offering myself some much needed balance and maybe it is this process of acknowledging the good and the bad, the remarkable and the unremarkable that gives us balance and ultimately saves us from ourselves.

So to those of you out there who offered me these small gifts this week – thank you for the stories, thank you for the silverware, thank you for the invitations, thank you for the roses and thank you for each small thoughtful act of kindness that may have been done unconsciously, but were done nonetheless, ultimately easing my discontent and leaving me feeling as if a feather brushed across my face and brought me back to my current, pleasant reality.

re-engaging with the clamor of the west while residing in the gap between misery and enlightenment

2008-05-31T23:39:00.004-05:00

Could fulfillment ever be felt as deeply as loss? Romantically she decided that love must surely reside in the gap between desire and fulfillment, in the lack, not the contentment. Love was the ache, the anticipation, the retreat, everything around it but the emotion itself.
~ Sai – The Inheritance of Loss

Despite the fact that there are over 588,000 people live in Denver Colorado, I have been fluctuating from feeling shipwrecked and alone to re-energized and connected. And, although my re-entry experience has felt much easier than last time; in part, due to the what I now conceptualize as vicarious resilience **(or the internalization of all the amazing strength I witnessed with survivors of horrific war trauma in Liberia) I still find myself tripping over myself and when I trip I tend to bruise easy. So although many individuals have assumed I have moved on, moved back to my old life, there are still times I struggle and times that I feel the urge to put a message in a bottle.

My points of destabilization seem to creep up on me and take me by surprise and more often than not I end up in tears. But the tears are not the issue of concern because as a dear friend of mine pointed out – tears have always been easy for me. Whenever I start to feel something, anything really, I tend to cry. Rather than label the feeling or share it I simply cry and cry until the water dries up and then I move on. Tears are to me what love was to Sai: the ache, the anticipation, the retreat.

What I have realized is that traveling and working abroad in areas of need of humanitarian action makes one modest - you are forced to see what a tiny place you occupy in the world and what a crap-shoot it actually is that you just happened to be lucky enough to be born to a privileged family in a privileged country devoid of horrifying events in your immediate environment. Seeing the world also reminds you that the horrifying events – the poverty, and war and trauma is the real global REALITY and what we’ve got here is layers upon layers of denial and dissociation. How is it that we can be at war and I (nor any of my closest friends) have been immediately affected? And, how it is that things like genocide, torture, kidnapping, environmental degradation, violent repression of political rights, the release of toxins into pristine environments, discrimination and the conscription of child soldiers all over the globe occurs constantly and we don’t stand up and swallow up such brazenness in one gulp?

So I’m left feeling miserable. No, that’s not right. I don’t actually feel miserable. Maybe I am just feelings some sort of chronic level of mild unhappiness. Well not unhappiness exactly but more like the absence of the ecstasy that I would periodically feel when I was surrounded by people who had been enlightened by their experience. I also feel overwhelmed by the bullshit. I have to admit I have already started to worry about things that simply shouldn’t matter and am concerned I am chronically being underexposed to the things that truly do matter.
What I keep doing to check my misery is simple. I just keep reminding myself about the true mystery of the world. For me, the true mystery of the world is the visible. People carry grief and I am amazed by its weight. Young boys give me directions and I am awed by their innocent kindness. A woman holds the glass door open for me at the bank and waits patiently for my empty body to pass though.........all day long it continues, each kindness reaching toward another, strangers reaching out to strangers.........and I am thankful these things find me because they keep me from myself, and this is my faith: humanity.

** the concept of vicarious resiliance was developed by (HERNÁNDEZ, GANGSEI, ENGSTROM, ET. AL. 2008)

dot dot dash. dash dot dot dash.

2008-05-13T23:04:00.002-05:00

In the middle of an unremarkable chilly day the voice of the roaming nomad started to whisper in my ear….”you’re kidding yourself you know. You have to go……There are so many places you have yet to see….you have to go back….you belong out there…you must move about…there is work yet to be done.”

At first I didn’t listen. No, that’s not it exactly. At first it just felt like a lack of silence where there should have been some. A Morris code of sorts repeating itself like a broken record to someone who can’t decipher it.

Dot dot dash. Dash dot dot dash…

I went on with my day. Visited the Fuel café for some coffee. Completed an eval on a minimizing perpetrator. Took the dog for a walk. Studied paint samples. Then I ran into my dear friend and mother of my most favorite twin boys in this whole entire world. She indicated she would stop by with my little mangos after she picked them up from school. The idea was I could see them while she took a look at the latest paint swabs I have put on my wall. There were many. Paint seems like the biggest commitment of my life.

Dot dot dash. Dash dot dot dash…

They entered like a tornado. Bubbly lemonade in one hand crumbs on their face and updates to tell…
Aidan: Auntie Gwen! We’re here. I made this for you at school. It’s a fire truck!
Patrick: Auntie Gwen! Oh, hey Tuesday! Look I made this for you too! Can you open this for me?
Gwen: Sure Sure yes yes! Come in my little mangos. How was school?

Dot dot dash. Dash dot dot dash.

As I look for the bottle opener and rummage through drawers the undecipherable white noise continues to play in the back of my head.

Dot dot dash. Dash dot dot dash.

It’s still repeating when Aidan asks me, “where do you sleep Auntie Gwen?” I inform them there’s a bed in the mezzanine and they can check it out if they want. Tuesday adores these two little boys and therefore follows them everywhere they go when they are around. Due to the fact the stairs going upstairs do not have backs on them she has been experiencing some anxiety climbing them and looks a bit like a serpentine on her way up. This makes the mangos giggle. I can’t help but suffer from breakthrough smiles just experiencing them doing simple everyday activities. They come back down and we talk about the things in my loft. Then they start burping, which of course leads to more giggles. We all head down to the second floor to check out paint schemes. Clearly I’m seriously lost and a bit preservative about this issue. I may need an intervention soon.

We head back upstairs to my tiny little loft and continue to play and giggle. After a while their mother decides it is time for them to head home for tacos. Patrick has decided he wants meat. Aidan is presently a vegetarian and declares he will be having bean tacos.

Aidan asks when they can come over again. I inform them that I will be going to California the following day and plan to return on Saturday so maybe they can come next week. I start to teach them the surfers hang loose hand sign and we practice together. On a related note, I am proud to report they both know how to do the classic Liberian handshake (i.e., the shake-snap) and they proceed to practice it once again with gusto.

All of a sudden Patrick looks confused and hides his head in my pile of African fabrics. We all pick up on his emotional shift but his mother and brother, much more astute about Patrick’s emotional states than I, move closer to him and his mom gently begins to brush through his bushy blond hair. Aidan quickly asks me, “Auntie Gwen how long will you be gone?” I tell him, “just until Saturday.” “How long is that,” he replies. I show him four fingers and say, “only four days.” He whispers, “that’s not long” and his mother wholeheartedly agrees while patting Patrick’s back. Patrick raises his head and looks at me with tears in his eyes and patchy red spots on his cheeks and it’s clear that he had begun crying because he believed I was going to leave once again for a much longer period of time. Still speechless he studies my face and my fingers. Satisfied with the scenario he gets up and everybody prepares to go.

Tuesday and I walk them out and we talk about the next time they would like to come over. It was decided it will be next week before school. I ask about their plans for the weekend but, by then, we are at the car. They managed to walk through a massive pile of mud before climbing into their car seats. Their mother doesn’t seem to mind in the least. Aidan quickly rolls down the window and keeps asking me a series of questions. “Where is the water? Where are you taking Tuesday for a walk? What airline are you taking to California?” Then, while I sit there fully appreciating the fact they are still waving to me out the back window of their car, I realize the Morris code in my head has stopped. As if it somehow got lost, I finally experience utter silence.

In that moment, feeling lost in the silence, I realize what the noise was all about and I sigh…..my enviable struggle – should I stay or should I go?

The fine line between explorer and abandoner was captured in the emotional experience of a dear sweet boy who had lost his aunt, a flawed aunt no doubt; but, an aunt that has managed to mean something to him and an aunt who has left him for one third of his short life to date. To him the thought of losing me again was like the injury pain I referred to in my previous post. To me the thought of staying and the thought of going is equally as painful but I remain thankful that the choice and the struggle are there because a life without it suggests I am not wanted nor needed anywhere in this big loving yet scary world………..

a shadow of sorts

2008-05-05T22:11:00.004-05:00

I long, as does ever human being, to be at home wherever I find myself
~Maya Angelou

Strangely enough even though Maya’s words truly resonate within me, I find myself longing for the home I recently left behind; and, this my friend, is the blessing and the curse of the roaming nomad. If one chooses to move around and truly be at home wherever one finds oneself, then they can then say that they have been blessed by the experience of having not one but many homes. The opportunity to explore and settle into a new environment is an unexplainably illuminating experience, and yet, with every new home experience comes the tragic yet ever looming necessity of saying goodbye. Goodbyes are never easy and if anyone says they are then they are minimizing the pain or avoiding the connections. As human beings we are not good at it; therefore, we avoid goodbyes like we avoid the plague. But if we chose to connect and engage with others, then leaving will most definitely be exquisitely painful.

As I sit here thinking about my most recent home, Liberia, I ache. I realize now that I did not consider it home simply because I lived there for an extended period of time; I considered it home because I felt so incredibly understood there. A few exceptional people who knew nothing about my past, nothing about my future, decided to take a risk and let me in. What’s unbelievable about that is that simply based on random circumstance, their pasts have been filled with heinous events and their futures are for all extensive purposes, unknown. I was moved by it all and miss each and every one of them.

It’s nice to come home to my nest in Denver and with every touching reconnection, every sunny day, every walk with Tuesday and every conversation with a curious acquaintance I am reminded why I feel so exquisitely loyal to the life I have created here. It wasn’t handed to me; I earned it by making meaningful interpersonal connections and memories with people so incredibly dear to me that it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. And yet, for every day, every month, every year that I decide to call another place home, I am left being experienced as a memory, an idea, a shadow of sorts by all the people I hold dear on domestic soil.

Being experienced as a shadow is very painful but truly being present and engaged when we reconnect is a healthy reminder that proximity is not always the answer. Being close doesn’t always solve the problems or make people feel more connected. Sometimes being close allows people to take things for granted; reunions are a chance to express and reminisce. So it seems there is a fine line between comfort and pain when it comes to interpersonal relationships. In fact it is a common belief that a relationship without pain is a relationship not worth having. To some pain implies growth. But how do we know when the growing pains stop and the injury pains begin? Am I an explorer or an abandoner if I close to walk that fine line? And, what happens if I make the wrong choice?

So the question remains can I continue to do this work (and move around as I do) and still hold on to those I hold dear? I fundamentally believe my work is a calling of sorts. For every second of my life I have felt lost, I have felt comfort in the fact that I have always known what I was meant to do professionally. But am I a whole person in any given world I chose to live in if I am chronically leaving it? My biggest fear is that I am in fact living my life as a shadow and am more frequently referenced as someone from the past rather than someone from the here and now.

a trek across the globe.....calabash in tow

2008-04-20T19:05:00.004-05:00

For those of you who thought I would disappear after my year in Africa – beware.
For those of you still interested in what I have to say - please know I am still here.
For those of who were unaware of all of the above – welcome.

This is the story of a girl who was once there but is now here.
She still has a story to tell………………so here goes…………………….

I departed Liberia on April 4, 2008.
I arrived in Washington DC to the smiling faces of my dear friends and glowing newlyweds, Sharon & Abi. Sharon had just arrived from DRC a few hours prior. We needed to prepare for a conference in New Haven so we gave each other a quick hug and got to it.

The presentation went well aside from the fact that the proctor apparently had no idea what the job of proctor actually entailed. By that I mean he not only started late and spent way too much time on the introductions, he ultimately failed to keep any sort of schedule, leaving Sharon and I with only 11 minutes to present what was scheduled to be a 20 minute presentation of our research findings followed by a short question and answer session.

The most amazing part was that, when asked by the first presenter how he was "doing on time", the young man quickly shook his head positively and said "oh fine." This young proctor was, might I add, not wearing a watch. It bothered me slightly that, out of pure ignorance, he was lying; it bothered me more that he was not doing his job.

Given Sharon and I had practiced non stop for three days to get our presentations to fall within the allotted 20 minutes, we were not exactly happy when our turn surfaced and the proctor only shrugged his shoulders and said "opps sorry." We had practiced and tweaked and practiced and erased power point slides to make our presentation exactly 20 minutes in length. Now this little Princeton punk was checking his text messages and picking lint off his new suit rather than doing the one job he had been asked to do.

We tried to push it (i.e. talk very fast) but we were unsuccessful. After everyone moved on to the next panel sessions, we packed our things slightly shocked and feeling as if we had disrespected our subjects. We had decided to use narratives as a mean to research our hypothesis. To us each quote was not only a poignant example, it was also very personal. The push to rush was insulting not only to us as professionals, but to our subjects as the human beings who chose to share their trauma stories. The only reparative experience I had out of the whole experience was being approached by supportive friends and a number of people from the audience praising our research and inquiring about our work. That, in addition to the fact that Sharon and Abi and Karen and I immediately went across the street to an adorable little Italian restaurant and shared a bottle of wine over a delicious conversation, skipping the rest of the conference.

But I digress….

The conference was only a beginning to my long trip home. After two weeks with friends on the east coast I find my self mid-air in route to Chicago. NYC was everything I needed it to be - an emersion into a city with an intense pulse where I could be anonymous, yet confronted by my own tribe. I shopped, I people watched and I sat in central park sipping coffee. One friend commented that it was a bit extreme to go from the bush of Africa to the Big Apple. But, to me the big apple is a former home and it is the best form of re-emersion one can ask for. No questions, no tears, no glazed over looks – just the hustle and bustle of big city life. The living was far from simple but it was living full speed no doubt.

As mentioned in a previous post I left Liberia carrying some calabash. These versatile bowls are made from large fruit that hang from trees. When split and dried out they make the perfect cooking bowls. They withstand heat as well as cold and as one of my drivers mentioned the perfect instrument in which to prepare rice. Dirt is easily captured by the graining interior of the bowl and you are able to extract clean rice for cooking. At the end of the day these bowls are exceptionally versatile, very useful and, to me personally, simply beautiful.

What I came to find out during my long journey home is that I am clearly not alone in my respect for the calabash. It was amazing to see how many people along the way ended up engaging with me simply because of the bowls I carried at my hip. From Africans to South Americans to Asians, people constantly stopped me and asked me what became a predictable series of questions. First, where did I get them. Second, did I know how to use them and third, why did I keep them. After explaining my humble attempt at an answer to each of their questions, they all told me a detailed story about how they used to use a calabash in their home country. I’ve never in all my travels held such a universal instrument that managed to provoke so many fond memories but I was very glad I was holding them when they started their tales.
If food is a staple of life, then the instrument we use to make food is the key to survival and having in my possession one of the few universal keys to living made me feel connected to all of humanity the exact same moment I felt so tragically disconnected form a few specials ones that I had recently left behind.

Thank you dear calabashes - I look forward to showing you your new home.

a psychologist who tries to write

2008-03-31T03:50:00.002-05:00

Gwen/Gomah/Garmai’s Departure…

Goodbyes make me feel old. Yet, as expected, whenever I feel something in Africa something else happens to directly contradict what I’m feeling. This time it was the rain. When I say rain I don’t mean light rain fall on a cloudy day afternoon. I mean serious fence breaking, window shaking rain. The good thing about rain is that I know I am not older than rain. It’s been falling for years and after I go it will keep on falling.

I will depart Liberia on April 4, 2008.
I’ll leave a different person than who I was when I arrived.
Even the way I sign my named has changed.
I’ll leave with a suitcase full of country cloth, calabashes and a pair of worn out jeans.
Mercy and Morris and Dama will stay.
The change is fluid yet vague.
I am confident I will miss my hammock.
I will carry with me my found soothing stones and know they will work when called upon.

I will arrive back home feeling known and unknown by the people I left.
They knew me before; they know me well.
There is one individual here who knows me better than I know myself.
Sometimes I’m not sure I know myself at all.
I will ache for this place and I won’t be able to explain it, so I will be quiet.

Really, there isn’t much to say.

Gwen is a psychologist who tries to write.
Gwen fell in love with a place and its people.
It was her life for 12 months and 11 days.

greetings and misappraised misfortune

2008-03-14T13:32:00.003-05:00

handshake, snap, side hug, one kiss, two kiss, three kisses, a-frame hug, shake, wave.

Being a global citizen is not easy-o. The mix of traditions about greetings can lead to some very awkward first encounters. As an American girl with a rather large pre-established personal space it can be a disaster. What I have learned is with the French its two kisses no matter what: sitting, standing, coming, going, male-female, male-male, female-female. With the Dutch and German it can be three kisses, but not always. With West Africans it’s either a handshake that ends with a snap of the fingers or a rather large hug with a lingering moment of hand holding while beginning a conversation. Other Africans also seem to appreciate the lingering handshake or a side hug. With a fellow American it’s typically a “What’s up?” with no body contact; on some occasions so you get the closed fist jailhouse bump or a clumsy a-frame hug.

I could go on but I think you get the point. For someone who gets a little anxious when people invade her personal space all of this is a bit disorganizing. Secondary to this experienced encounter confusion, I tend to make a lot of mistakes and end up head butting Swedes or jailhouse bumping proper Kenyans. At the end of the day everyone involved is about as confused as I am about the encounter.

misappraised misfortune

A few posts ago I mentioned I had suffered my third battle with malaria. Well guess what folks, last weekend recognizant forces brought in some reinforcements and world war IV was declared against your pal, Gomah. Ironically I was sitting in the aforementioned men’s group I have been ever so enjoying in Massabolahun and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I was struck by a series of bone shaking chills. Even though it was 99 degrees, my goose bumps were the size of nickels and I started to literally feel the parasite multiplying in my blood. The poor group members and local facilitators initially watched me attentively but did not comment on my rapidly changing state of being. This changed after I myself commented on it and jokingly mentioned that I might need to go get some sun to warm up. After that they quickly expressed genuine concern and started to convey a tremendous amount of empathy and a series of theories about what was happening to me. Excellent diagnosticians, their theory was confirmed once I returned to Voinjama and once again visited the local clinic.

Upon entry the staff quickly welcomed me with a “hello Gwan.” Apparently Gwen is an exceptionally bizarre and difficult to say name here. To them it sounds like you have something stuck in your nose. I love my name nonetheless and failed attempts at saying it doesn’t phase me because I also love all my new names and embrace each one of them like I have been given a chance to redefine myself.

But I digress…once at the clinic the physician assistant instantly grabbed an intake form and was able to fill out the first 7 lines without consulting me. I was briskly directed to the lab, given a paracheck for confirmation and then back to my car with my special malaria fighting formula in hand. Fortunately, I once again recovered like a rock star and was back at work on Monday.

Then came Tuesday. Typically a very lucky day for me (or maybe more appropriately a day I have turned into a self-fulfilling prophesy of lucky moments given I named my adorable canine at home Tuesday and started to adore the actual word and day as much as my mutt) this Tuesday was an exception.

After a day in the field with my staff I returned to the office a bit late; it was 5:33 to be exact. On any other day I typically start playing basketball between 5 and 5:15 so I was contemplating skipping it for the day. However, one of my buddies called from the court to inform me it was a good game. Given I felt the need to get a little exercise because I had relaxed in my hammock the ENTIRE weekend (recovering from the malaria) I quickly changed my clothes and headed to the court. Upon arrival my local boys promptly stopped the game and asked that I sub in. I was shocked by the sheer number of people around and all the new faces. Apparently a bunch of people were in town from Monrovia participating in the census and this game was serious because it was village versus big city. You see, just like every other country in the world, small towns can, at times, struggle with inferiority complexes when comparing their lives to that of those who live in the big city and those in the big city struggle with Napoleon complexes even if their lives really aren’t that great. They find it necessary to bluff with the best of them when they return to their home village and the locals find it necessary to prove that the cosmopolitans are not better men because they just happen to live in urban centers.

On my second run down the court something very unfortunate happened. I was heading back to play defense. We were playing a zone and I was a low post. I reached my spot and turned and I saw this giant 6 foot 4 monster of a guy heading straight for me for a lay-up. In my head I contemplated taking the charge but they don’t really understand the concept of an offensive foul here (and rarely call it) so I moved slightly to the left to get out of his way and just hoped that maybe I could knock the ball out of his hands. Before he took his first step he lifted the ball above his head and started his jump. This caused him to come down a little bit earlier than I had expected. His elbow ended up landing right between my eyes, knocking my forehead exceptionally hard. It hurt, no doubt, and I was a bit irritated by the experienced force of the knock but I knew it was not intentional and figured it was no big deal. That was until I looked at the faces of my teammates.

Everyone quickly gathered around me and started yelling, “Garmai you are bleeding bad-o!” I stepped off the court and realized I was in fact bleeding profusely. I went to my land cruiser and looked in the side mirror and revealed that the reason I was bleeding profusely was because the cut was incredibly deep. Everyone was freaking out so I became very calm and grabbed my phone to call my friend Enrica who is a nurse for ICRC. She didn’t answer so I called her teammate and even though he didn’t quite understand me he told me to come over (later I was informed he thought I still wasn’t feeling well from the malaria). I had one of the guys from the court drive which, due to his inexperience and high levels of adrenalin from playing and seeing what had happened to me, drove incredibly bad. We were stalling and shifting at all the wrong times and our entire trip to the ICRC residence was a disaster. Upon arrival Enrica took me inside and asked me to sit while she washed her hands. I realized I had forgotten to tell Enjamal, the volunteer driver, what to do so I went back outside. Enrica came back only to find me missing and came chasing after me to get me back in the chair. At that point I realized I was shaking; finally allowing myself to let the shock settle in, one giant tear dropped from the corner of my eye.

Enrica called the doctor who works at my malaria clinic. He told us to meet him at the clinic. She transferred me across town with a huge bandage on my head. When Dr, Berhanu arrived he gently patted me on my back and quietly said, “Why am I not surprised it is you.” At first look he didn’t think I needed stitches but then he went to disinfect it and made a clicking noise in this throat and said, “oh yea we will need to stitch this up a bit.” 25 minutes later I excited the clinic with a 3 inch long zigzag on my forehead. Having inspected it today Enrica thinks it’s very good work and I will likely have no scar. Dr. Berhanu is an exceptionally well respected surgeon from Ethiopia and Enrica later informed me that I was very likely living in the best village in Liberia to receive a surgical procedure in.

So now I have a week of trying to be creative with my head wear as the bandage is huge and wrapped around my head in such a manner I look like one of those guys in an old World War I war movie who had just stepped off the front lines with a battle wound. Good thing is all my African sisters are masters at the head scarf. Last night I sat in front of my mirror practicing what I had been taught so I can make it through the week without frightening our clients and small children on the street.

With all this being said a few of you might be thinking I am suffering from some bad karma right now. I might have agreed had the following not occurred to suggest otherwise:

This very kind doctor invited me to his home so he could change my bandage. While sitting there I was introduced to the regional health delegate who was here visiting his team of doctors in the field. Utilizing my usual defense mechanisms I was trying to crack jokes and ease the evident concern in the room. I mentioned I have suffered from four boughts of malaria in the last three months in addition to dealing with this wee gash on my forehead. This health delegate quickly became very interested and said, “This shouldn’t be happening tell me everything about your episodes and treatment.”

I proceeded to tell him my long story starting at my first battle where I was med-evaced out of the bush and vomited all over the chopper to the most recent experience of bone breaking chills. Somewhere in there I was able to make it explicitly clear that the doctors in Monrovia had informed me I had the Vivax strain of malaria. Right there he stopped me and said, “The Vivax strain, are you sure?” I was in fact pretty sure because my very concerned father had asked me to find out what strain it was while I was hallucinating in the bizarre container the Jordanian docs had put me in Monrovia and I had saved the text message on my cell phone for a number of weeks.

The doctor became very animated and said, “In West Africa this strain is exceptionally rare occurring in only 1% of the cases and this strain needs different medicines than the ones you are currently taking. What you are taking treats the majority of the symptoms and causes the strain to go dormant for some time but it does not kill it off,” hence the break through episodes. Although they do not have this medication in Liberia he would send it from Dakar as soon as he went back.

I was instantly reminded of a fable that my dear friend Andre brought to Liberia last October when he was completing his Human Rights Fellowship on the Utilization of Story in Therapy. It goes as follows:

One day a man woke up to find a beautiful horse in his yard. No one came to claim this horse so he kept it and used it to help farm his land. His neighbor stopped by and said, dear friend it’s amazing how this horse just showed up and stayed with you, you truly have been blessed.

The man said, maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad.

A few weeks later this horse ran away. The neighbor stopped by and said, dear friend how tragic that your horse ran away it seems that you have been cursed.

The man said, maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad.

A few more weeks passed and the horse returned with a herd of horses and the man kept these horses on his property. The neighbor stopped by and said, dear friend how amazing not only has your horse returned but has brought all these other healthy horses with him, you truly have been blessed

The man said, maybe it’s good maybe it’s bad

Another couple of weeks passed and this mans son decided to try and ride the horse. He was bucked off and broke his leg. The neighbor heard the news and came and said, dear friend how tragic this horse has hurt your eldest son. It seems that you have been cursed

The man said maybe it’s good maybe it’s bad.

A few days passed and the King declared war on the neighboring county and made an announcement to be spread throughout the land that all young men were to report to the border to defend the country. Due to the fact this boy had broken his leg he could not go fight. Then neighbor returned and said, dear friend how amazing you son will not have to fight because his leg is broken.

The man quietly walked away whispering...maybe it’s good maybe it’s bad

So you see I have indeed endured much in the last couple of months with regards to illness and misfortune. Dealing with these things in unison with my pending departure has been a bit overwhelming, to say the least. But for some reason this recent accident, a massive gash on myhead, seems to have been a blessing in disguise.

the glory of the mustard seed

2008-03-07T03:03:00.002-06:00

entanglements of human relationships, solace of nature: comforts of human relationships, isolation of nature.

Entanglements of human relationships. On Friday I returned to the office after an incredibly touching men’s group in Massabolahun. It should be noted that the pressure to control one’s emotions is also indoctrinated into the fabric of the culture here and the subtle reminders that ‘real men don’t cry’ can sometimes result in resistance to the group process. Given these groups have been created with the sole purpose of helping trauma and torture survivors process their memories and express their emotions, most men who get involved in therapy end up feeling a little bit conflicted about what to do. They seem to quickly forget all the emotional and environmental problems they reported upon first contact with our organization. In direct contrast to this frequently observed resistance, this very unique group of men in Massabolahun have embraced the idea of affect expression wholeheartedly and are not only processing difficult emotions openly, but trusting each other with some very sensitive and very personal information. The later of the two is the added benefit of having group psychotherapy instead of individual treatment. The building of human relationship occurs automatically and when something personal is shared, a sense of togetherness is experienced without any volitional goals set to accomplish it – it’s just happens naturally. The push pull of engagement and mistrust is ever present for psychotherapy groups no doubt, but members who are willing to process these feelings tend to make great gains with dealing with the entanglements of human relationships.

Upon arriving back at the office after this very touching group session I entered the compound in a bit of a rush thinking about all the paperwork and evaluations that needed to get done. On my left I could hear our administrator talking loudly in one of the palava huts to a group of security guards, counselors and our well dressed gardener (I say well dressed because he was once again wearing his Iowa Hawkeye’s Outback bowl t-shirt). I figured the administrator had organized a staff meeting. Given its hot and my window was open I heard the following:

What Jesus did and what he said is the path for the glory of god. You understand? All that glory that comes is brought by God. Size and wonders will follow you so everything is done in Jesus’ name. So this power is yours. Get it? As human beings you are able to rise again. But it’s not happening now you might say and I would say it’s because you don’t now have that faith. You understand? A mustard seed is small. You understand. Because the mustard seed is smaller than a benie seed you might think it’s less powerful but that seed is able to produce more and that is the power behind it. You understand.
[there is a brief pause]. Hey AB do you even know how to program that phone. Bring it. I have the knowledge for these things. There are many things it can do, you know. I know about these things and I’ll show you because I know things you don’t know. I understand because The Glory of God is behind me. Behind ME you hear. The Glory of God is all powerful. Do you understand?

I don’t know about you but I don’t understand. And by ‘not understanding’ I mean I don’t comprehend a single spoken word of that entire speech. How is that possible? How can it be that this typically intelligent very kind fellow sounds ever so slightly disorganized and very arrogant when he is standing in his self made pulpit? I have no problem with him having faith and sharing it with fellow believes but I am not quite sure I understand the message here especially when I notice that half of his audience does not share in his religious affiliation and AB is starting to feel bad. I’m also not sure I will ever understand this process of religious beliefs leading to unconstrained superiority. But, please dear reader do not take this the wrong way. By no means do I wish to comment on anyone’s identity as a religious person or how they live their life. I personally have a very difficult time understanding my own identity and belief system in light of the fact that I am open to the validity of beliefs held by many traditions and do not have issue with any single tradition. What I know is that my own understanding of life and death has been transformed, purified, and enriched by the ways in which I have come to understand all traditions, not just one. There is an incredible amount of diversity in contemporary practices of religion and I am touched and moved by the manner in which people do wonderful things in the service of their beliefs. I only hope I some day reach a point where I can resolve my agitation about how religion is at times exploited and can lead to the maltreatment of others as I know religious identity is complex issue. Presently I struggle with two extremes – some days I feel hardened against it and want nothing to do with it and other days I feel so willing to learn more, try more, incorporate more into my life that the possibilities seem endless and the beauty of faith comforts me like a soft blanket.

With that being said, I didn't think aobut any of this on the day when I heard this gentleman start demeaning his colleagues level of knowledge about technology and for some reason I bristled at his bogus sense of righteousness and screamed out the window – ‘hey: let’s watch the references to faith in this compound, we are a neutral organization right?’ I see his face freeze in a state of anxiousness and I flush at the crudity of my own words and wonder if I am being unfair. Nobody seems to notice the intensity of our non-verbal interaction and everybody casually gets up and starts to go about their own business: business that had plenty to do with cell phones and the latest Nigerian movie playing in the nearby movie house but little to do with the glory of the mustard seed.

Solace of nature. The relief I get from nature tends to vary in direct relation to the environment and state of mind that I am in. What I can say is that I’m not very good at “being” with nature. This tragically comes from a girl who has decided to settle her belongings in Colorado – one of the most conducive places on this planet to appreciating the solace of nature. Just last year I was blessed to connect to someone who had recently relocated to Colorado from California. This gentleman had an amazing ability to just ‘be’ in nature and at times it even appeared that if he was indoors too long he started to feel suffocated and smothered. He craved the air, the water, the earth like an addict craves their drug of choice and he made it his mission to be outside engaging with nature as much as humanly possible. He even lived out of his VW bus from time to time so he could simply roll out of bed onto a beach or into the forest or whenever his heart so desired. His style of engagement with nature was inspirational, untainted and pure. I was lucky because I learned much from him, but once again I have to admit that I’m not very good at just being, especially when it comes to nature. I am quick to get distracted, I have a tendency to rush and I have this uncanny ability of attracting mosquitoes.

For me, what I am good at when it comes to engaging with nature is playing in it. As a small girl I lived in a woodsy area where I was the only girl in a sea of boys. I very quickly learned that if I wanted to play I would have to play their way. We built forts, rode skateboards, dug tunnels and secret passageways in snowy banks and aggressively engaged in sports. Anything from basketball to badminton was included and it was always with a no holds bar attitude. So to me nature quickly became a place where you do something. Today this typically means taking a long walk with Tuesday, loading up my snowboard for a trip to the mountains or grabbing my basketball and finding a court.

Comforts of human relationships. Interestingly, but maybe not so surprisingly, some of the most comforting human relationships I have made are tied to a mutual love for play. A few months ago I wrote about my experience of playing basketball as a woman in Africa surrounded by ex-combatants and Pakistani peace keeps. Well this experience, an experience that was sometimes tense and sometimes uncomfortable, has unfolded into a very special part of my life. Nearly every evening and twice a day on the weekends I have gotten together with a group of local men ranging in age from 15 to 40 and we play. There is Massallay, my most favorite of teenage boys. He lost both his parents during the war and presently lives in town with a friend of the family so he can go to school. From time to time he is given permission to visit his maternal grandmother in the village. He loves this grandmother dearly and would prefer to live with her but there is no school in this village so he must tolerate the neglect and misfortune that infiltrates his life in the big city for the sake of his education. In spite of it all, he is polite and thoughtful and charismatic and developing into a true leader. Then there is Kobe Bryant. I don’t know Kobe’s real name as he was been gifted this name long before I met him due to the fact that every time he plays basketball he proudly wears his Kobe jersey. Any chance he gets he downloads NBA footage to his phone and after practice he can been seen practicing these street savvy moves with gusto. He is talented, a good observer of other people’s weaknesses and is quick to exploit them. He’s a bit of a ball hog but at the end of the day you have to be if you are truly going to be one of the greats and he has the potential, no doubt. Finally there is Mohammed. Also known as Coach, Mohammed is the eldest and BEST player on the court. Aside from being a true athlete he has an amazing sense of humor and contagious laugh. We truly enjoy playing together, are known by all as partners, and when ever it is time for 2-on-2 we step up and play together. We have yet to be beaten and just yesterday we both showed up at the court wearing flip flops and work clothes as neither one of us had time to go home after work to change. In reality neither one of us had really planned on playing but it is commonplace for all of us who play regularly to at least stop by the court to say hello on our way home for the evening. As Mohammed and I stood there and chatted about the pending dinner I wanted to have we were challenged by a few of the guys on the court. Being the fierce competitors that we are we couldn’t tolerate not accepting the challenge, so we accepted without hesitation. Even in flip flops we couldn’t be beaten. He has an exquisite eye for the pass and with time we have learned to read each other incredibly well.

The reason I am having this dinner is because these guys decided to accept me into their little world and treated me as an equal and last weekend they did something incredibly touching. Together, unbeknownst to me, they decided to plan a farewell/exhibition game for me. For weeks they arranged the rosters, invited important people from town and even put an announcement on the local radio station. On the day of the event they all showed up in matching jerseys and arranged benches around the court for the fans who showed up to watch and support us. It was youth vs. old school. You may be surprised to hear this but I played for old school. Every trip down the court they would look to me for the pass and set all these elaborate picks so I could get off a shot. It was fun yet serious and at the conclusion of the game there was a long series of speeches all thanking me for my passion and interest in basketball. Even the superintendent showed up and he remarked that my playing basketball with the locals was probably more helpful that my professional work here. In some ways it might be true. Tonight I hope to thank them by having them all over for dinner. So, even though I struggle in some ways to find solace in nature, my tendency to get outside and play has paid off in spades for me here in Voinjama.

Isolation of nature. Although as I just noted that I have a difficult time taking solace in nature I can strangely say that when I am feeling connected to nature it typically happens when I am in complete isolation from others. Lying in my hammock looking at a sunset, standing on dusty path in the interior of Africa, searching for soothing stones on an abandoned beach; these are the times I feel most alive in nature. When I’m alone and isolated from others I can engage with nature or maybe more correctly I can feel what it’s like to be close to nature. If you bring anyone else into the equation, even a stranger that is not directly relating to me or infiltrating my personal space, I lose it and I am overtook by an urge to move.

I love traveling alone because I can set out for the day and make decisions like, “today – I walk,” and, nobody will take issue with the fact I didn’t visit the famous museum or historical landmark. Or today I sit at the café and people watch for 4 hours. The isolation in my decision making and lack of anxiety about deciding something and wondering about how it will affect someone else is exhilarating. But even then, even when I feel freer than I have ever felt before, if there are people around I need to move. It is only in isolation from others that I feel held by nature. Nature may at times be isolating but the world is a populated place and sometimes isolation is the best prescription for our troubles.

on being an ex-pat

2008-02-28T02:56:00.001-06:00

The evil that is in the world almost always comes of ignorance, and good intentions may do as much harm as malevolence if they lack understanding
~ Albert Camus

Evil and good intentions are the ingredients that make up the recipe for a typical job description of a humanitarian aid worker. An evil occurs, we find it impossible to stand aside and do nothing, so we organize to do good (or at least do something we perceive as good and hope that based on our intervention things get better). Sometimes it works. Other times, as Camus suggests, due to a lack of true understanding, it tragically results in more harm. When more harm happens humanitarian aid workers realize it may have been better to have done nothing at all. But, because it did more harm than good severe pangs of guilt occur and all one can do is try and do something to repair what went wrong. Sometimes it works; sometimes it happens all over again. Here begins a vicious cycle of evil, ignorance, good intentions, success stories, misunderstandings and humanitarian aid.

The end of my contract is drawing near and I am starting to get sensitive. I want to know if I was helpful, I want to be missed, I want to stay, I want to depart gracefully, I want to be told I have done good, and most importantly I want to explain what it’s like to leave a place that has fundamentally touched my soul. Everything that was given to me was given from a place where it seemed there was very little left to give, but it was given nonetheless and I am a better person because of it. My biggest fear is that I’m taking away more than I have given.

I cried three times for no apparent reason in the last 33 hours (twice to the dismay of one friend who had to witness my meltdown and had absolutely no idea what to “do”). I don’t know where to being in terms of organizing the things I have learned and internalized from this experience, but I want to try. You see, I believe people take many things with them as they move about in this world. The things we carry include memories, events, traumas, relational dynamics, broken trust, recollections of selfless support, lessons learned, childhood experiences, the voices of loved ones and the voices of those that have done us harm. As a psychologist I know this process is consistent with the theory of Object Relations. Object Relations theory attests that we internalize major relational players in our lives. An object refers to anyone or anything that is the target of an individual’s instinctual desires. With that being said, once we reach adulthood our psychic house is packed and the voices of our mother, father, mentor, abuser, savior, friend and lover. Out experience of them all are inside our head, ready to comment on any choice, decision or act we ‘choose’ to make during this time we engage in this thing we call life.

application in the ex-pat world

I think this internalization process is what makes the ex-pat population a unique group of people. By definition an expat or expatriate is someone who has taken up residence in a foreign country or in more extreme examples someone who has renounced one’s native land. Where, on the one hand, the melting pot of ethnicities and mixing of so many well traveled people with unique histories and unique world views make for some very interesting conversations, it also has a tendency to destabilize those of us who might have arrived to a new place carrying way too much “baggage.” Now that I think about it maybe it is the nomadic ex-pat who created this idiom. Unfortunately what we carry includes the things we thought we could leave behind exactly in the place they were created. This wish is also known as the quest for a geographical cure whereas something terrible happens and we think that if we move far far away, the pain connected to the event will stay put. In reality, people take their same old lives wherever they go. No place is perfect enough to strip you of that. And some places have a way of magnifying your demons. It’s kind of like a psychic experience of Hotel California. You can check out but you can never leave and the magnification of abandoned demons can sometimes cause people to fall back on very primitive defense leading to some very interesting lifestyle choices; hence my fascination with the ex-pat world.

A 37 year old Dutch wat-san expert left home at the age of16 with his backpack and motorbike and rode through central Europe all the way to South Africa. Upon arrival he jumped on a sail boat. After mastering this new trade he could be found sailing alone for months at a time in very deep waters. When he got bored with this new identity he docked his boat in New Zealand and decided it was time to learn how to fly planes. For the next 2 years he lived illegally in this far off land exchanging his new skill like barter for the things he needed to survive. He has been out of his home country for so long now he has some bizarre form of partial citizenship. When he does go home he stays in an artsy trailer with no electricity or running water on the outskirts of Amsterdam. He rarely, if ever, visits his family and describes them as religious fundamentalists who never understood him. Relationally, he moves from one mission affair to another. Hyperactive by nature it is difficult to get him to sit in one place long enough to truly feel connected to him, but the minute you meet him you realize he has a huge heart; and, as one of my dear friends (and his short time lover) indicates, “even though he doesn’t stick around very long, you will have no regrets with KJ. He is what he is and he doesn’t suggest otherwise.” He knows what he can give and if his partner is satisfied with that then a relationship with him can be nice, while it lasts.

A 41 year old stunningly beautiful gal from Utah has managed UNICEF ex-combatant reintegration projects at a country wide level in a number of exceptionally violent countries (Liberia, Somalia, Kosovo & Niger to name a few) and is currently making a remarkable amount of money at her P3 UN status level. Brilliant and well traveled she demands respect at UN meetings and social events; however, she suffers intensely on the inside and much of what you see is a front. She is a functional alcoholic with childhood demons that are severe and powerful. As a result of her addiction she disappears into her house for days at a time and drinks herself into oblivion. Each and every time she resurfaces with the stamina and endurance of a marathon runner that people barely notice she was missing. She lives in such an intense state of denial that her closest friends either join her in her denial or feel helpless in their attempts to help. Over the last three years she has flaunted her promiscuity with men like Samantha from Sex in the City; but, early in the morning, when the sun is rising and the men are missing, you can hear her start to cry when she realizes she doesn’t even know the name of her latest conquest. Her longest two relationships were with married men who also worked within the UN system. Their respective departures for a new mission (i.e., malicious acts of abandonment) tormented her for months. With each experience of abandonment, the message spoken by the voice of her mother in her head was confirmed: “you are unlovable and everybody will eventually leave you.” She needs help but instead has committed herself to the quest for the geographical cure.

A 17 year old Lebanese teenager was born and raised in Monrovia. His grandparents came to Liberia 30 years ago to escape the war and oppression raging in their own country and his father is a successful businessman in the big city. Forbidden citizenship by Liberian law (as the Liberian Constitution specifically indicates that all citizens have to be of black African decent), this teenage boy hovers between two homes. In Liberia his family only speaks Arabic, eats Lebanese food and interacts with other Lebanese. In Lebanon he doesn’t quite fit in. He can’t really tell where he likes being more; in Liberia, where he an exceptionally privileged outsider who has servants and drivers or in stunningly beautiful Lebanon where his family has been marginalized and maltreated for generations. He has been informed that in a few years, on one his many trips back to his “homeland”, he will need to select a bride to bring back with him to Liberia. He can’t quite phantom what type of girl would sign up for this. This boy idealizes his infamous cousin who owns a number of restaurants in town and is known to be the local Casanova for in-coming slightly naïve ex-pat women as the turnover is quick and the need to feel special is intense. If you look closely enough you can already start to see the same saunter to his step and flirtatious gleam in his eye.

A 35 year old French man who is the regional manager for ICRC. During previous missions he has trekked through mountains in Nepal for 12 days to find a detention center that was said to be torturing Maoist detainees for political reasons. While stationed in Darfur he stood in front of a rebel solider with an AK37 at a checkpoint to get permission to have access to starving children and their sick mothers. This gentleman finds himself somewhat bored in the moderately stable environment that is Liberia; however, he is truly passionate about his organization and their beneficiaries and doesn’t want to get caught up in this ex-pat phenomenon of chasing the next crisis. He is grounded and intelligent and principled. Before he joined ICRC he owned a bar in Prague for 8 years. This was after he had dropped out of a doctorate program for philosophical reasons. A romantic at heart, he has become used to the transitional nature of ex-pat relationships in the humanitarian world. With that said, he can typically be found to be engaging in a exquisitely serious relationship with a new found love during any one of his many interesting missions. He has loved them all but at the end of the day his love for his career has always won out.

These are just a few of the many fascinating individuals I have met in the massive ex-pat community that makes up humanitarian aid workers. Liberia is the second largest UN mission in Africa and therefore there are so many more I could choose from. Each strikingly unique in their story. Each strikingly unique in their ways. Each somewhat phobic when it comes to commitment. For those who don’t reach the level fear it would take to be called of relationship phobe, they very likely have mastered the concept of serial monogamy, simply based on circumstances. More often than not expats are vacillating between two extremes of engagement: utter enmeshment and extreme autonomy. I am no exception and it reminds me of a fable:

A troupe of porcupines is milling about on a cold winters day. To keep from freezing they move closer together. When close enough to huddle, however they start to poke each other with their quills. In order to stop the pain, they spread apart, but again begin to shiver. This sends them back to each other, and the cycle repeats, as they struggle for a comfortable place between entanglement and freezing.

To me, this fable speaks to a lesson about boundaries and a wildly cited belief that intimacy is a thorny affair. This transition from entanglement to freezing captures what it is like for most independent free thinking humanitarian aid workers to be close to someone else. The experienced outcome of these relational connections (and disconnections) will likely depend on how each party evolves and changes. More often than not everyone moves on and no one has regrets. Typically it is a lesson from one porcupine to another, a mirror of sorts that points to the need to balance concern for self with concern for others. The trick is to balance the two so that one does not dominate or stifle the other.

bittersweet reminiscence

2008-02-21T03:37:00.001-06:00

returning to the idea of saying nothing together

A few months ago I posted about the tragic loss of my dog, puppino. He was taken away ruthlessly and it truly troubled me. I think sometimes we forgot how affected we are about things until something bittersweetly reminiscent happens. Well that something has happened – I have completely fallen in love with another puppy, dama.

Shortly before Sharon left for the states to join her husband she did something very kind – she found me a new little puppy because she was worried. She was worried I was going to be alone and knew how much I loved the canine race. At first I was a bit nervous because; a) I didn’t know if I had it in me to train a new puppy and, b) I didn’t know if I had it in me to attach to another puppy that I would eventually have to say goodbye to when I left. Well both things have occurred in abundance.

Ok, using the work training and abundance in the same sentence might be stretching it but I have trained (albeit minimally with a very permissive mothering style) and securely attached to little miss dama. I was strong for a very long time and really forced her to be an “outside dog.” She was to be a dog that just happened to be living in close proximity to a human being and aside from food, no strings, particularly of the heartstrings variety, would be attached. Dama is smart and feisty and has a whole lot of feminine spunk and therefore, from the onset, it didn’t really seem like she needed me all that much. Where puppino was chill and relaxed and a bit clingy, dama is intense and proliferated and independent.

With these sovereign qualities noted, I still know this much is true, Dama has infiltrated my heart and I am completely smitten with this little firecracker of a dog. Presently she barks at everyone who comes within 50 feet of me and she constantly cooks around the house causing all my colorful Guinean rugs to chaklar (Liberian English for scatter). While performing these feats she often has her pet stuffed reindeer (courtesy of her very thoughtful auntie Sharon) in her mouth.

Unlike Puppino, Dama started learning tricks very quickly and was sitting and shaking by the time she was four months old. She is also able to lie down and roll over on command if she feels like it, but more often than not she’s not so interested in performing these extra tricks for a treat and usually returns to the old reliable shake.

I return to the idea of saying nothing together because she just, this very second, came over and in the sweetest of moods offered me her paw. Sitting here in the dark with my laptop I was touched by her gesture and just sat there with her, paw in hand, for quite some time.

So just like her dear sweet predecessor Puppino, Dama does that thing dogs do when they can’t seem to get their message across. She simply places her paw in my hand, shifts her head to the side and waits. Over and over again with a glint in her eye; it feels like she has something very important to say but since I can’t understand her she decides we should simply say nothing together. Although I will miss her desperately I couldn’t possibly be more satisfied with her adoptive family. Having frequently stopped by for home visits the young boys in the family are fighting over who gets to walk her around town and the father, one of our reliable drivers, speaks oh so proudly to everyone within hearing distance about how dama will soon be joining their family.

lost but hopefully not forgotten

2008-02-17T09:05:00.002-06:00

It has been over a month since I last posted. Much has happened and I am struggling with where to begin. Rather than wait any longer I will simply put some words on the page and see what happens.

A journey across this massive continent, another battle with malaria, meeting new friends, saying good-bye to old ones, touching group sessions, warm welcomes, tragic losses, exciting beginnings, pending transitions……they all seem important yet oh so disconnected from one another.

But I digress, let us begin….

PERSONIFCATIONS, PART TWO

Very early on in my ‘Tuesday’ posts I wrote about a tendency I have to personify the places I visit: seeing countries as people, if you will. Given I have had the opportunity to meet a few more interesting characters in this place we call planet Earth, I will take a moment to describe a few on my new cherished friends:

Guinea
Madame Guinea is a serious lady who has an enchanting effect on those she meets. Stunningly beautiful, tall, perfectly put together and exceptionally aware of the impact she has on people, she doesn’t bother approaching others for what she needs and rather waits to be approached. On the streets you won’t hear her yelling after foreigners or asking for handouts: she is reserved, proud and a bit standoffish. Observing these aforementioned qualities, she is no fool and is well aware that life is not easy. Her childhood was filled with tough times, poverty and dangerous encounters and she has promised herself she will not be duped by anyone ever again. She has learned with time that beauty such as hers can be used to manipulate situations and does not hesitate to do it, given the opportunity. If you are lucky enough to find her at dusk with the sun dancing in her hair and the moon just beginning his desperate search for her, you will very likely see her surrounded by a number of admirers trying to impress her with their flashy cars and Rolex watches while trying to nestle up to her long neck soaked with a faint sent of lilacs. She is a charmer indeed and will very likely place a spell on anyone who crosses her path.

Morocco
Brother Morocco is a complicated fella. Berber by decent he is tough, weathered and hard working. As a small child he loved to play a small hand drum that was given to him by his grandfather. Together with a troupe of friends he used to run tirelessly through the labyrinth of alleys that make up his familiar market and he would play until the sun rose sheepishly over the Atlas Mountains. Every morning he loads his cart full of goods to be sold at the market and rides slowly down his rocky mountain route with his faithful donkey. In the market he pursues shoppers relentlessly and tries to take visiting foreigners for all they got. He does this not out of cruelty or maliciousness but rather because he sees the act of bargaining as a game and views each new customer as a new opponent in a complicated game of strategic trickery. A sucker for the ladies, he can’t help but flirt with each and every one that crosses his path. His only wish is that these women were aware that he does this not because he views them as sexual objects; but, rather because this is what has been modeled to him by his uncles and cousins. Collectively they have decided it is their right to openly comment on the beauty that awes them. But do not be mistaken, brother Morocco is a romantic at heart and hates to see the annoyed look on the faces of the women with whom he is so enamored. What to do? He knows nothing else and is resistant to change. At night, under candlelight, he reads poetry and philosophy and periodically visits ‘la place’ to listen to local music and ruminate about the things he has read. Every night he dreams of meeting the love of his life and making mad passionate love to her in his cozy little mountain cabin.

Egypt
King Cairo’s reputation precedes him and it is true no one should question the dynasty that is Egypt. Given many of his discoveries and creations still exist and remain inspirational yet unexplainable after 3500 years, no one dares to stand and challenge his prowess. His contemporary version of self is a slim well dressed bachelor that likes to smoke apple Shisha at night while hanging out with a close group of male friends. During the day he prays faithfully, visits his mosque and unabashedly believes in God and family. He drives a simple car but works hard and dreams of a stylish upgrade. He rarely uses his head lights at night and fully appreciates the chaos of his city’s traffic. Sarcastic and exquisitely witty with friends and loved ones, he is serious and statuesque in his professional life. Ready to treat his partner as the queen she deserves to be, his found wife will not be left wanting for anything but she will need to learn the rules of the household. If she integrates well, she will live a very comfortable and coddled life filled with precious gems, antique furniture and stylish gowns and scarves.

Grabbed by the Malaria, Part Three
If you can even believe it, I once again tested positive for malaria. The first time this happened (a few short months ago) I was med-evaced out of Voinjama by chopper and was hospitalized at the UN Hospital staffed by Jordanian docs in Monrovia. Not getting any better at the local clinic where I had a drip in my arm hanging off a broken plan branch while listening to mothers delivering babies in the room next door, some very concerned friends and colleagues decided it was time I went to the big city for treatment. My recovery took weeks and after puking on the shoes of a group of Pakistani peacekeepers on the chopper, I learned the hard way that malaria is, in fact, no joke. Having suffered exceptionally bad reactions to the malaria prophylactics I have been caught between a rock and a hard place ever since and returned to the field praying (ok not praying as I would be lying if I said I did this) but wishing very hard with my eyelids pressed tightly together that I would not get malaria again.

While visiting King Cairo with my lovely and amazing parents (who seem to be embracing the freedom of retirement like an adolescent embraces the freedom of life with a driver’s permit), I once again realized these nasty little bugs were swimming around in my bloodstream and I was struck by the thought that they seem to be remarkably drawn to my Midwestern blood. Night after night I cycled through high fever and bone shaking chills. When we reached Cairo I was lucky enough to be put in a hotel that that had a doctor on call.

Dr. Rayban entered my room at 5 pm dressed like a classy European business man. Handsome, wearing a smart suit and flashy tie, he had a quick style of diagnostic assessment and I instantly trusted him. After finishing his examination, he reported that all he could give me was some antibiotics (in case there was a bacteria involved) and paracedomol for the fever. He needed confirmation via laboratory tests before he could treat me for malaria.

Observing I was truly out of it and had been sleeping for the last few hours he noted it was important for me to be up and drinking fluids until more could be done. Interestingly he prescribed TV; well more specifically he prescribed the Egypt vs. Cameroon African Cup game that was very likely playing in his room, but not mine. I compliantly turned on the TV and we watched the game in comfortable silence for a while, cheering and clapping as Egypt went up 4-1. The doctor left my room only to return every 3 hours to check on me. He nodded in approval when he noticed I still had the African Cup game on when he returned.

At 10pm we had a decision to make. My fever was still 102 and everyone was worried. The doctor was still being limited by the need to have a test to confirm the diagnosis we all assumed to be true. The tricky thing is malaria meds are like Chemo – they wreak havoc on the body and make the poor patient feel like crap. Doctors don’t want to unnecessarily put a patient (or their liver) through such treatment if they don’t need to, hence the need for diagnostic confirmation. The reality was I would either need to miss my flight and go with him to the clinic in the morning or get on the plane and deal with it when I got back to Liberia. I very quickly sat up and said let me go home. My poor worried parents looked at me like I was certifiably crazy, “What is wrong with our daughter? She just asked to be sent back to a third world, post-conflict country for medical treatment. And, by the way did she just say home?” But, as every ex-pat in Africa knows, it is much easier to get treated for malaria in Africa than to go home and stump their local general practitioner with this bizarre tropical symptom presentation. Western doctors have no idea what to do for malaria and in Africa malaria is the equivalent to the common cold, it just happens to be all that more dangerous and tragically successful in taking away the lives of vulnerable babies and precious loved ones.

I returned to Monrovia sans luggage (after a 10 hour lay over in Casablanca) and went directly to the local clinic. I was quickly administered a very simple paracheck. All it takes is a drop of blood on a small plastic test strip: the equivalent in the west would be a home pregnancy test – 5 minutes and the big looming question is answered. Positive as expected I was handed a plastic baggie of meds went home and slept for the next 18 hours.

I returned to Voinjama to the delight of dama who, even after 3 weeks, hadn’t forgotten her doting mother and I did indeed feel like I was home once again. The simplicity of life had returned and work was once again touching my soul. Several days after my return I ran into a dear friend from Nigeria who, after we greeted one another with a kiss on the cheek said, “Gomah you feel warm.” Oh dear lord I thought, not again. I went home and took my temp and he was correct – 101.

I had to admit I felt a bit off. I had played basketball earlier that day and had felt unprecedently tired, needing to rest frequently. ‘Frequently’ in this case was approximately every ten minutes which is pretty disruptive to a basketball game. I was hassled by my local crew of ballers who all commented on my evident loss of stamina. I just figured I needed a few more days of cardio to get me back in shape. I had to admit I had welcomed the vices of vacation like a smoker welcomes a found pack of cigarettes in a packed away winter jacket and had indulged in every new found delight while getting to know the aforementioned Brother Morocco and King Cairo.

Needless to say I needed to get a confirmation and once again returned to the local clinic for a paracheck. The staff recognized me immediately and looked a bit anxious given my poor recovery performance a few months back. I think they were afraid their typically successful efforts with local patients would once again fail with this fair skinned outsider. But, fortunately for us all, after a small adjustment to the medications (which if anyone is interested simply meant cutting the yellow pills out of the package of white and yellow pills), I rallied and smiled two days later when I heard one of my staff members say – “see now, she is turning into a true African, malaria can’t even keep her down.”

berber charm and babouche madness

2008-01-19T15:41:00.000-06:00

January 14, 2008, Marrakech Morocco.

I arrived in Casablanca at 11 am after accidentally disembarking from my plane when it made a brief stop in Sierra Leon. Consistent with my symptoms of vehicular narcolepsy, I seemed to have slept through the announcement that we were going to stop to let some passengers off (only 1 short hour after we took off). When we landed I naturally disembarked. Even though I can admit the flight felt exceptionally brief, I was under the assumption it was a direct flight from Monrovia and and was a little disoriented from my 4 am departure. THe plane landed and I simply got off. Immediately after I entered the customs station I realized my mistake and was forced to beg an attendant to allow me to re-board. Luckily I was able to go out an ‘employee only’ side entrance, hustle down a restricted section of the tarmac and reboard. I was so ashamed of my wee little misstep I’ll have you know I did not make any more mistakes like that for the remainder of the trip to Casablanca. Upon arrival I had a brief 45 minute lay over and then was quickly whisked off to Marrakech - my 3 day holiday destination stopover.

Marrakech is a quaint little market town near the Atlas Mountains. Home to the infamous Argan oils that hold amazing medicinal and cosmetic powers, Marrakech is charming, romantic and invigorating. After checking into my exquisite little riad, I quickly signed up for a facial, massage and soak in the in-house hamman. Following a hot soak and painful/pleasurable exfoliation treatment, I had THE best facial and believed everyone I was paying for services and argan product when they informed me I was looking 10 years younger.

Next came the explo. Based on the fact I am directionally challenged and, as my mother would say, “can get lost in a paper bag” I will fully admit I was completely lost for the first 47 hours of my stay in Marrakech. The minute I left the front door of my riad, I was hopelessly lost and this lasted for two solid days. But it never seemed to matter because there wasn’t really anywhere to go and fortunately for me I quickly discovered there was always a young man nearby willing to point me in the right direction for a few dirhams which progressively got much cheaper as I became more aware of the local prices (my first human taxi took me for some serious money but hey it was late and I was a lost American – what can I expect).

A few of my saviors became so used to seeing me hesitate at any given labyrinth juncture, they would simply pass by me and without a word nudge me in the right direction or pass by with out making eye contact with a lifted finger pointing me in the right direction. How they knew where I was going I have no idea but they were always right and I never questioned them. While shuffling through the maze of cobblestone streets (at high speeds I might add if you are to keep up with the locals) you see shops full of Moroccan classics like colorful light fixtures, rugs, scarves and jewelry. You also frequently pass by local Berber tribesmen on donkey drawn carts weaving in and out of mainstream traffic.

The men in Morocco are relentless flirts and I have to admit I was taken aback by what first felt like an aggressive manner in which they expressed interest in the female passerbyer. But, my skin quickly thickened and I soon realized they were harmless; once acclimated, I had the honor of meeting a few very interesting and helpful individuals.

Moroccan store owners are notorious for their ability to bargain and I was quickly told by my riad attendant that I should use the rule of thumb of 65% to start my bargaining posturing. “65% I thought! How dare they try and swindle me like that!” A typical American, I had very little experience bargaining and quickly became quite tired of the ‘game.’ Rather than get frustrated however I came up with my own little trick. Instead of trying to bargain the savvy shop owners down in price as they expected, I would say I’ll give you a slightly smaller amount for two! I usually took them by surprise and had much better luck in my efforts to bring down the price and can now say I am the happy owner of two of everything I decided to purchase. A blue and a red silk scarf, a pair of orange and black leather babouches, a grey and a pink key chain……it’s that simple – two for the price of almost half of one! The shop owner very likely still made a huge profit on me but psychologically I felt as if I was playing the game proper and was oh so proud of all my loot…….now if I can only manage to fit it all in my luggage.

striking rock and finding diamonds

2008-01-09T03:39:00.000-06:00

On the 287th day I am beginning to prepare for my second r & r, my second respite from this place I now call home. I have to admit that even though I’m tired, the nomad in me has been activated and once activated she is difficult to control. The itch to move about is strange indeed. At first it’s as if a storm settles in my head. During the gale everything gets blurry and the road starts to call my name; in muted whispers at first but gradually, as the time to stir draws near, the storm lifts and the voices feel like a beckon calling me to another land.

In five short days I board a plane first to Casablanca and Marrakech and then on to Cairo to meet the rents for an explo of one of the wonders of the world with my very own Egyptologist. For those of you who have been communicating regularly with me in the last few weeks likely just giggled at the fact I once again mentioned the infamous Egyptologist, but seriously who gets to say they are having a ‘tologist’ of any sort accompany them on a trip; let alone an Egyptologist along for a ride down the Nile. I’ll admit I’m bluffing right now (as they would say here) but I feel the urge, so please forgive me for this wee transgression.

Professionally, I feel as if I have been striking rock and this is why I so desperately need the break. In the last few days I have had to completely shut down two of our projects. This is not because we had completed our work there but rather because we ran out of funding. One of the projects was in Bong County, my former home. The place I was known as Gomah no longer exists, or at least professionally. Personally, I have no doubt that I could one day return and find a smiling face that remembers that ever so slightly strange bright woman who had a dog named Puppino who loyally followed her to the basketball court every evening. The other project we closed was in Dukkor (aka. Monrovia); the home of Morris one of the many tiny souls who took a fierce hold of my heart.

Yesterday we spent the day burning confidential documents and processing our departure. I was struck by the fact that no matter where you are, if you are human, saying goodbye is never easy and when you add the grim reality of these counselors current situations to the mix - closures, terminations, and goodbyes simply feel like salt on the wounds. When we visited the communities I wad quickly reminded that even though we were leaving the need is no less; and, possible slightly more, given we offered them a venue to express their problems. Now it appears as if we were abandoning them and cannot finish what we have started.

In this moment I ache with love for them all and it’s difficult to capture the pain behind these words. I know tomorrow I won’t feel so low only because they will persist, they will carry on and they will inspire. At any given moment when I’m not sure how I will cope with the tragedy of it all I just think about what I am frequently reminded, “Gomah this too shall pass, things come and things go and you never know which is a blessing and which is a curse.”

Before I move on I have to say that the civilized conscience should not be enduring or accepting the global reality as we know it. What is happening in much the world today should simply be unacceptable to the rest of humanity and humanitarian efforts as we know them seem to be missing the mark. They constantly are on the chase after the “sexy” conflicts and front page crises, leaving behind those who have started to mend but still need help. If survivors are going to actualize their potential we need to stay in places long enough to see them begin to realize some of their dreams rather than abandon the ships we have helped start to build.

Personally, I feel like I am finding diamonds everywhere. As I have mentioned in a previous post Liberian is currently in the Time of Mending and it takes time to truly become trusted and to find individuals with whom you can truly connect. Let’s just say I have found a few three karat diamonds in the mix. Nine months after my arrival people are seeing me for me (and I for them) and we are all reminded that we primates are much more similar than we are different. Cultural missteps aside, I feel like I have found a few people that I must have been destined to meet as their arrival in my life has been oh so perfectly timed and healing to my soul.

falling or flying

2008-01-04T11:49:00.000-06:00

A pious man explained to his followers: “it is evil to take lives and noble to save them. Each day I pledge to save a hundred lives. I drop my net in the lake and scoop out a hundred fishes. I place the fishes on the bank, where they flop and twirl. ‘Don’t be scared,’ I tell those fishes. ‘I am saving you from drowning.’ Soon enough, the fishes grow calm and lie still. Yet, sad to say I am always too late. The fishes expire. And because it is evil to waste anything, I take those dead fishes to market and I sell them for a good price. With the money I receive, I buy more nets so I can save more fishes.”
~ Anonymous (from Amy Tan’s Saving Fish From Drowning)

Perspective. Perspective. Perspective.
Falling or flying / saving or drowning – how do we ever know?

I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately. At first it was just because my dear father gifted me a Zune for my birthday and I was appreciating the thoughtfulness of him taking the time to not only find it but ship it half way around the globe so I could have something new, something special, for my birthday. I was listening simply because I was curious about this new gadget and all the features. Eventually, however I began to savor the lyrics of the songs I was discovering. It was as if the words were dancing privately for me and at times it became possible to not feel so alone. Some of the lyrics found me exactly when I needed them; waiting inside the songs, for the perfect time, the exact moment I needed them most.

The dust is heavy right now. It’s so heavy it has a tendency to drown butterflies and make ten year old boys riding on the back of fully loaded trucks appear to be 90 years old. The dust gets caught in every crack and crevasse and dulls the skin to a pale shade of grey representing if nothing else, age. They call this time ya -ne -pay-pay. I get the feeling it’s a time for reflection but maybe it’s just my time for reflection and I’m projecting.

Because as I just alluded to, I’m currently existing in this time of reflection and have yet to complete it, it seems my best words have either been spent already or are yet to be discovered. The only words I have right now are not able to describe what is happening to me so I will pause and return to this train of thought when I am better equipped.

happy merry christmas

2007-12-26T08:06:00.000-06:00

It was Christmas and I had nothing to do. I was hoping to sleep in but the three gentlemen who came to fix my fence squelched that idea. It was 6:22 and I was roused awake by the sound of them pounding nails directly in front of my window. I grabbed my Zune, made some coffee and transitioned out to my hammock.

My divine hammock, gifted to me to from a staff member in Gbarnga, is presently hanging in the most perfect of spots on my patio. While swinging gently in its cozy comforts, I had a perfect view of a beautiful mango tree that has three tall palm trees hovering in the background. The sky was glowing orange and it seemed it too was in the process of waking up.

“Good morning gentleman, Merry Christmas!” I said settling into my hammock with my hot cup of coffee. The three of them, each holding a simple tool to get their contracted job done, smiled widely. Already sweating in the morning sun, they each giggled a bit and then energetically wished me a "happy merry Christmas." I asked for their names and heard Mohammed, Varlee and Mohammed in response. It seems one in four men in this predominantly Muslim town are called Mohammed. Each one I have interacted with in the last few days has wished me a very merry Christmas.

Because I was far away from my friends and family during the holiday season (sitting alone in sweltering heat) I tried to talk myself into accepting the fact that today was going to feel like any other day. After a few minutes I realized my attempt to deny the importance this holiday holds in my schema of the calendar year was not working and I felt myself desperately wanting something special to happen. Although I hadn’t gone as far as to look for gifts from Santa under my Mango tree, my leg shook impatiently in expectation.

Eight o’clock. Nothing. Nine o’clock. Nothing. Ten o’clock eleven o’clock: nothing, nothing. There was nothing at noon either. But then all of a sudden there was a knock at the gate and Kolii my very petite, very sweet security guard quickly got up to assess the situation. A stickler for rules, she rarely lets anyone in without my permission. Even people who have come to visit me on more than one occasion are under her fierce scrutiny and they frequently find themselves calling me on their cell phones from the gate seeking my support so they can get permission to come in. If she wasn’t briefed about a pending arrival, nobody was getting in. Today’s visitors were different. The minute she saw them she quickly opened the gate with a big smile on her face and allowed them to enter.

I looked up and saw Korpoo, my hard-working humble housekeeper dressed immaculately in a traditional Liberian outfit followed by her two children, Mohammed and Mawata. They were also dressed beautifully in a pressed suit and flowing blue lacy dress. On their heads sat small blue bowls.

They all smiled matching grins and the children’s resemblance to their mother was striking. Their father had apparently abandoned them when they were living in the refugee camps in Guinea a few years ago and it was evident that Korpoo was working hard at being both mother and father to these well-behaved, well-mannered children.

Dama worships Korpoo and therefore started running circles around this small family as they walked towards me. Korpoo quickly announced they had brought me food for Christmas. They gingerly sat their large bowls on the table and I took a quick peak. In one was sliced plantains, another was full of rice, the third had my most favorite okra soup and the forth had a fully cooked chicken covered in another delicious sauce. It was enough to feed 4 and so I quickly said what all Liberians say when food is around, “let’s eat.”

“Let’s eat” sounds basic but it’s a powerful expression here in Liberia. It took me a while to understand it fully but once I realized what happened after someone said it, I was moved. No matter how familiar or unfamiliar you are with somebody, if you walk by them while they are eating, they will quickly wave you over and say “let’s eat.” You hear it everywhere and it’s amazing to sit in a local restaurant where the idea of individual orders means very little. This is especially powerful for a Western woman who is used to the process of a la carte orders and separate checks. Spoons are passed around and everyone simply eats.

Korpoo and her lovely children giggled and graciously declined my offer to eat, sating they were heading to church. Korpoo stressed the food was a gift to me for Christmas and I should enjoy it throughout the day. I was touched and given I’m not much of a cook I was a bit relieved to discover that I wouldn’t be eating Raman noodles for my Christmas dinner. I sent them off with handfuls of chocolate that my mother had been sweet enough to send to me from Wisconsin and I settled back into my hammock feeling much less apprehensive about the day. The holiday spirit was brisling in my heart.

A few minutes later there was another knock at the front gate and Kolii repeated what she had done minutes earlier, took one peek and then opened the gate energetically.
This time it was Loupoo, my head counselor for the Voinjama clinical team. A brilliant woman who endured a life of being told she couldn’t do the things she wanted to do because she was an orphaned girl. As a direct result of this experience she had grown into a fiercely independent feminist who refuses to take no for an answer. She too was surrounded by a troop of young children some of which were her biological children; others were step-children she had adopted from her husband’s previous relationship. Also, dressed beautifully, they all carried gifts of local food.

I blushed a little thinking they would be embarrassed to find out they were not the first to give me food and was slightly worried they wouldn’t know what to do once they saw my already packed kitchen table; but, they did not blink an eye at the spread and didn’t seem surprised to discover others have already brought gifts. Loupoo quietly stated, “Garmai you are loved here, you see.” They unloaded their bundles and humbly refused my request to eat. They too had a church service to attend to.

Throughout the day others came bearing small gifts and I probably received about 20 text messages wishing me a “happy merry Christmas,” “rich fortunes in the New Year” and “wondrous sprinkles of blessings over this holiday season.” Although I’m sure I stumbled throughout the day, ignorant to local culture and tradition, I was flattered by what happened and only hope I will be forgiven for any of my clueless missteps.

a message to those that whisper

2007-12-21T02:58:00.000-06:00

During the Time of Confusion, everyone realized that some part of their essence was extremely fragile. For some it was their body, for others it was their faith and still others believed it was their culture. Their very sense of community was at risk of being destroyed. Although the Time of Confusion followed the Time of Possibility, where as the name suggests, anything seemed possible, the community elders and societal memory keepers recalled that before The Time of Possibility arrived, the Time of Oppression reigned.

The Time of Oppression occurred shortly after The Time of Slavery ended in a land far far away. The Time of Oppression was a direct result of a decision to return former slaves to their homeland. Where some of these fair skinned people in that far off land saw the return of these people as an opportunity, a chance to return home, others saw it as an opportunity to get rid of these recently freed people. To them, if these people (people they viewed as less than human) could not be kept as property, than they should not be kept at all.

The returned people returned home knowing only one thing – oppression. What else could they do but recreate what they knew best? This is when Mississippi surfaced in Africa. The Time of Oppression was filled with inhumane treatment of the indigenous people that were living here when the returned arrived. Brothers kept as property, children kept as slaves; the torment was so reminiscent it was ire.

This period of time lasted a relatively short time in history – about a decade – but the people who returned with this new knowledge about how to rule absolutely still hold much of the power. Even today their decendants have the money, the opportunities and the authority. In this way, The Time of Oppression never truly ended.

Eventually the indigenous people learned what all ruled people eventually learn. They are not lesser or weaker than and if they stand up and speak out they can move towards a Time of Equality. After speaking out and standing proud, a time of peace covered the land like a soft blanket. During this time businesses thrived and tourism flourished. Visitors from neighboring African nations came to visit the beautiful beaches and foreign investors noticed this land was, in fact, a land of rich resources.

This transition marked the beginning of the Time of Possibility. But from time to time, for reasons that can’t always be understood, the terrifying feelings of subjugation surface again, suggesting that the Time of Oppression, like the Time of Slavery in that far off land, never entirely ended. The Time of Confusion occurred shortly thereafter and was filled with 14 years of war, torture, displacement and terror. Today the land and its people are still healing from its occurrence.

Now even though a clear distinction has been made between the different times in the history of this nation, the separation is not as clear cut as one would think. The effect of each age is felt by the next and sometimes the quintessence of one age mixes with another in such a way that one can be confused about what age they are actually existing in. This puzzlement can result in many things. Sometimes terrible mistakes are made but other times unexpected breakthroughs occur. These infiltrations only occur because the people temporarily forget the established rules of their time.

Today this nation is in The Time of Mending. Although for some this time has fostered compassion and forgiveness, for others the wounds feel too deep and too raw, resulting in feelings of bitterness and animosity. This bitterness is unfortunate for many reasons, the worst of which being the effect it has had on the outsider impression of the current state of this nation.

In the halls of humanitarian buildings and corridors of ex-pat housing powerful whispers can be heard suggesting this country does not have a culture, a civilized way of life, a soul. These whispers are contagious and when a fellow outsider breathes it in they at risk of being infected by its message. After infection, there is little that can be done to change their minds. As a believer in the Time of Possibility and a participant in the Time of Mending I refuse to breathe in these toxic whispers and would like to try and discredit their message.

Take for example Mohammed & Nama. You wouldn’t notice them at first; they are not the sort of people one notices. Everything about their clothes and their demeanor makes them blend into the crowd. More often than not they would be overlooked. But just about everyone could learn something from them and their personal and collective stories.

Mohammed is a 44 year old father of three who speaks fluent Mandingo, French and English. Highly educated, blissfully content with life, exceptionally athletic - there are moments it appears as if his feet don’t actually hit the ground. He is an avid believer both in the natural as well as the supernatural. With ease and confidence of only those who truly believe, he shares stories about talking catfish and miniature men he visits in his father’s village. Local tradition suggests catfish are the ruler of the inland rivers and their wise eyes and long whiskers are proof that they live to be hundreds of thousands of years old. Their wisdom is infamous and their advise priceless. The miniature men are tricksters and if one is not careful and accommodating to their mysterious requests one is at risk of being cursed or cloaked with bad luck. Mohammed listens to them carefully and constantly observes their strange requests. He credits all his good luck to his connection to these supernatural forces.

Nama is an auntie to many, mother to none. The war took away everything and everyone she had and yet she was not broken. A few weeks ago during a session on grief and loss we examined the possibility of speaking to our lost loved ones. The group very quickly informed me that they have a traditional way of doing this. The process is called The Passage. In Liberia the distinction between the living and the dead is much less absolute and much more fluid than it is for us in the West. People will unresolved issues are frequently seen passing between worlds and anytime someone visits the interior farmlands on their own, they are prepared to be visited by a lost loved one with something to say.

For Nama her frequent visitors were her young children that were tragically taken away from her during the war. Young innocent babies taken as collateral damage during the Time of Confusion, she both looked forward to and dreaded their appearance in her day to day life.

A resident of Massabolahun, Nama was forced to flea to the interior during one of the most heinous attacks on a local village in Liberia. Acts of cannibalism, gang rapes, homes full of families set on fire and mass decapitations occurred in abundance over a 2 week period of time. Survivors were forced to flea deep into the interior to avoid the rebels brief reign of terror. Nama was fortunate enough to escape one hell only to experience another, the slow unjust death of her two children taken by starvation and sickness. She grieved hard and never fully recovered from this loss but she is strong and carries on in the way only an enlightened survivor can - with grace and grit and a profound understanding of humanity and all its faces.

Prior to this group session Nama was frequently visited by her young children. Sometimes she heard their giggles of laugher, other times she heard their cries of slow painful suffering. She constantly tired to find them but they were elusive. During group she decided she would be the first to attempt to contact her loved ones. Collectively the group decided they would need to first have the bread and the kool-aid that we typically shared at the end of each group. When anyone is having a burial or funeral service the first thing the community does is bring dishes of food to feed the grieving family as a token of tenderness. By eating the bread first we would be acting in accordance with this tradition.

After finishing the bread Nama rose and slowly moved to the corner of the room. From there she explained that Passages between the living and the dead are most powerful at points of contrast. She took a minute to gather her thoughts and then she quickly started to talk to her little ones as if she had no doubt they would eventually talk back. She described the circumstances of their departure from the village, the events in the forest, how she buried their bodies under a tree she has never been able to find again and how she eventually forced herself to treck back to the village for help. She explained the tremendous amount of guilt she felt (both then and now) and described how desperately she missed them. Then she emotionally asked for forgiveness for her actions and inability to protect them. Then she paused. A few minutes later she started speaking as if she was her own children. “Mommie, it’s ok, we know, we were there and we understand, it is not your fault. You did everything you could do and you loved us deeply but you must move on. We let you pass.”

That was how I learned about the process of moving through the passage. With every difficult loss locals find the space and time to ask for the ability to pass. If granted they will stop being haunted by the lost loved one and live more frequently and freely in the land of the living.

Message to the outside whisperers: If this isn’t culture than I don’t know what is. So please, I beg you whisperers from the outside world, please be patient and curious about this mending nation and you too may one day be given the opportunity to experience the culture of Liberia. Not seeing it doesn’t mean it’s not there and if you’re only given the chance to be here for a very short period of time please don’t hold it against them if they decide not to share. They are in the Time of Mending, have justified difficulties with trust and need to focus on survival. The darning process is not an easy one and although at times it looks messy and disorganized, deep down, in this nations heart of hearts, there is a people with a sense of culture that we young nations of the West can only dream of.

celebrating the anniversary of my birth

2007-11-21T03:22:00.000-06:00

I nearly thought this would be the year that shook me. You know one of those birthdays where I would fall into a funk or a much deeper state of depression simple because avoiding the existential impact of it all feels much too daunting. This day, embedded in a sea of much less meaningful days, can be the reminder that every minute, every second we are getting older….moving closer to death….but fortunately, for me, it wasn’t. I have to thank this new group of friends in Voinjama for this.

On Saturday night, the eve of my birthday, Jen an exceptionally gracious and thoughtful community developer with ARC offered to host a dinner. In honor of my Wisconsin roots, she announced we would dine of chili, beer, banana chips, guacamole and salsa. Remarkable don’t you think? Who thinks to do that? Some of the ingredients were creative replacements due to the lack of supplies available up here in Lofa County but all in all it was dead on and I felt as if I was doing a little night time tailgating in preparation for a much awaited Hawkeye/Badger game.

The ARC compound is basic but it has this stellar palava hut (a round clay structure with a palm leave rooftop). Jen had covered all the tables with African cloth and placed candles, plenty of candles in every nook and cranny. The wine and beer were copiously available and the audience was ready to party. Michael, a quirky Canadian who directs a very interesting organizing called Right To Play brought a HUGE sound system that had a microphone in case we wanted to karaoke. A number of other guests brought their I-Pods as a contribution to the ambiance. The music was eclectic, classic, funky, jazzy, contemporary worldly and booty shaking. All the sounds were played in the right order and fully appreciated by all.

I was having a delightful time. Great food, great conversation, amazing music, perfect weather and all along the way everyone kept checking their watches waiting for the moment they could officially send me proper well wishes for my big day.

At the stroke of midnight Jen brought out a key lime pie and everyone sang me happy birthday. Given the frequency this song is utilized, you’d think someone could think up a better birthday jingle – but this familiar jingle is indeed the song that is utilized world wide and in that moment I was moved and soothed by the familiarity of the message. After that Istavan, a UN Human Rights Observer, and Right To Play Michael got on the microphone and announced that everyone should come forward and send me a birthday message in their native language. At that moment the diversity of the crowd was salient and flooded our consciousness like a wave in the ocean. 21 in attendance, 17 rose and stood in a straight line by the sound system to share their message. Ghana, Egypt, France, Morocco, Peru, Pakistan, Hungary, Romania, Russia, Liberia (Mandingo, Kissi, Bande and Loma), Nigeria, Turkey, Gambia, Ethiopia, Holland, Switzerland & America: it was a true melting pot of cultures, a linguistic pot of chili if you will and it felt like I was given spoon full after spoon full of well wishes from across the globe.

To put it simply or perhaps simplistically, it was perfect. I felt youthful and loved by all.

Interpersonal ambiguity
My recent move and interpersonal experiences have caused me to think about the ambiguity in human relationships. The thoughtful gestures done by recent strangers felt exceptionally genuine and I’m not sure I deserved any of it. I hadn’t yet earned their attention or their respect.

I say this because I had only just arrived in Lofa a few short weeks ago and aside from being utterly willing to engage in any sort of sporty activity, I hadn’t really done much to get to know anyone. I wasn’t attending many social functions and I wasn’t really trying to mingle at the clubhouse or PakBat (the only two dinner time options). Now that I reflect back I think I was protecting myself.

International work can be trying when we think about relationships because at the end of the day everyone is constantly coming and going and if you take the time to let someone in you are destined to grieve their departure in due time. In recent months I have had to deal with the loss of Sharon, my dear sweet sista in addition to a number of other meaningful actors in Dukkor and I wasn’t sure I could handle the grieving process again. The ironic thing about loss and relationships is that it is only those important meaningful ones that burn when you lose them. If you don’t care enough to let anyone in you will be saved from the pain of loss but you also fail to benefit from the connection. For the last few weeks I had been avoiding connection.

Prior to this party I found myself struggling once again with the dilemma of feeling extremely. It was if I had been forced to choose between the ones was I readily able to tolerate and the ones I would have to deal with if I showed up and allowed myself to be seen again. Due to the fact I hadn’t quite decided, I don’t think I had really put any genuine effort into getting to know anyone. Maybe they all knew what I was going through and could relate. Some managed to notice certain things about me nonetheless. Michael even commented on the fact that he appreciated how my laughter became silent and shaking if he managed to say something that truly cracked me up.

This party and the survival of yet another birthday highlighted many things for me. Life and relationships are linguistic and energetic ambiguities. And, more importantly connection seems to be about the ambiguities of human relationships. A relationship between two people, just like a sequence of words, is ambiguous if it is open to different interpretations. We can have similar views or different views but we are both a part of it and both definers of our shared reality. If two people have differing views about their relationship -I don’t mean just about its state, I meant about its very nature – then that difference can affect their entire course of their lives.

mud & the relentless quest for H2O

2007-11-13T03:30:00.001-06:00

October 31, 2007

After a long weekend in Dukkor it was time for me to travel back to my new home, Voinjama. Over the course of the weekend I felt myself stretched for time and had the unfortunate feeling of spending a little bit of time with everybody and not enough quality time with anybody. One of my identified gems in the midst of sea of lovely precious stones was also dealing with the pressure of multiple interested parties in his time and energy, leaving us sans a moment for our much appreciated b & g time. Even though he hosted me graciously, we were ultimately denied that piece of quality time we almost instantly learned to appreciate when it comes to our friendship dynamic. The time we share is typically filled with reading our most recent literary ideas, appreciating a stunning or even subtle sunset or slowing sipping on coffee while chatting about the nuances of life, love and patience.

Although I should consider myself lucky that I have finally reached a point where I actually have to be planful about how I spend my time in the big city (rather than sitting around hoping someone, anyone, would take the time to befriend me) I also know one my weaknesses has always been saying no when it comes to requests for my time. From here on out I will need to be thoughtful and cognizant of my wants and needs, otherwise I will disappoint everyone, including myself. I left Dukkor feeling as if I had finished a huge bag of unbuttered, unsalted popcorn – saturated yet unsatisfied.

I spent one day and one night in Gbarnga. Scheduled to hit the road early the next morning, we hoped to hit the most difficult parts of the road by midday. It seemed we had a good plan. It was dry and it was bright and if something did happen to us, plenty of other NGO or UN vehicles would be on the road to offer support.

Sylle my driver for this leg of the trip is much different from Ab who I mentioned in the last post. Both trustworthy and serious, somehow they embody similar traits in very different ways. Ab is private, predictable and somewhat disconnected in his interpersonal style. Sylle is chronically outgoing, engaged and thoughtful. Last month when we traveled to Guinea, Sylle was friendly with everyone we encountered and even purchased a bagful of tea and gave it out to the soldiers working at the numerous roadblocks. A Guinean by ancestry you can tell he is proud and connected to his country and wants others to appreciate all the nuances of its beauty without forcing it down your throat. Persistently generous, I frequently witnessed Sylle giving things out and purchasing food items in bulk so it can be shared by all. Just yesterday I watched as he quietly gave a few bucks to a small boy who was genuinely working on the roads. Here in Voinjama we get so used to seeing entitled, slightly harsh ex-combatants sitting around and demanding money from passerbyers on the road (via makeshift roadblocks and false claims of progress) one is inevitably at risk of losing the ability to notice when someone is actually trying. Sylle always notices.

About an hour into our return trip Sylle noticed something, actually we all noticed. After struggling for 10 minutes in 4 wheel drive to get through a 6 foot deep ravine, we surfaced only to realize something was seriously wrong with the car. I suppose I should mention that when I say ‘we’ I mean myself, Sylle, Augustine (our security coordinator coming to investigate the 1500 gallons of stolen fuel), Fatima and Special, Augustine’s mother and niece, and Amatu the elderly mother of one of our local counselors who wanted to visit her dying brother in a village, deep in the interior.

Due to a hard knock to the underside of the engine, the water tank had been punctured. I was quickly informed that the water tank is important because it prevents the engine from overheating. Once the water is finished the engine is quick to start smoking and parts get spoiled. No worries however - Sylle had a plan. We would continue moving until the indicator light showed us we were in trouble and then we would add more water to the tank. His hope was that we would need to stop two or three times before we hit ZorZor and then our colleagues in Voinjama could send another car.

Although a good plan for water tanks with hairline fractures, or tank’s injury was much more severe and we quickly realized we would only be able to travel 2-3 miles before needing to fill the water tank again. A completely empty tank seems to need approximately 10 gallons of water for it to be restabilized and cooled off. For a car full of people stranded with no water around, that’s a lot of water. Dear sweet Special put it right when she whispered “this car can drink” while witnessing Sylle fill the tank for the fifth time.

The good news is there is small village after small village scattered along the major highways in Liberia and it is a rare occasion that one travels too far with out reaching a small collection of mud huts and some people. Unfortunately for us not all of these villages have a well, let alone a water pump. First stop, second stop, third stop we were lucky enough to find small huts with some combination of an extended family milling around. At each hut a young girl was typically cooking or washing; the boys were sweeping or trying to knock oranges out of nearby trees. Each time we stopped, Sylle would get out of the car and do a big ‘hello how are you what news’ kind of introduction and then proceed to beg for water. More often than not the young woman found cooking would simply get up without pause, find a large bucket or bowl and go get some water. Every once in a while we witnessed a small inkling of hesitation cross one of their faces – this pause was tied to the fact these poor women had trekked all morning with 20 gallon containers on their head to bring this much needed water to their households. In the interior water is a hot commodity. It became even more evident that we were indicators of bad karma when Sylle kept saying ‘a little more please…just a little more.’ Kindness to strangers was customary so they couldn’t dare say no as they were being quietly stripped of something they constantly work so hard to have around.

After a few successful fill ups on the roadside we hit some wide open space. This beautiful stretch of land was filled with palm trees, thick green brush, and mid-land rice fiends. At this point we needed to get a little more creative about how we were going to get water. I had two empty water bottles and Fatima had a small bucket. So the deal became this: the indicator light would go on, Sylle would pop the hood and I would grab the bucket and scan the environment for water. Usually there were a few potholes on the road filled with rainwater for the night before. Sometimes this water was clean enough to use, more often than not it wasn’t. Sylle would start to cool off the engine with the small stock of water we had managed to save from the last fill up and I would start walking in search of water.

The women in the back couldn’t help due to the fact we didn’t have any other buckets and because Sylle had eventually forbidden them from getting out of the car. Earlier in the day when we were conquering the rough spots of the road Fatima had herself a bit of a panic attack and begged Sylle to let her get out and walk. The walk took too long and Sylle was annoyed. Fatima later told us that she had been in UNHCR transport truck that had flipped over during the war. Now she was triggered whenever she was in a vehicle on bumpy roads. Her anxiety was somewhat contagions and poor Amatu began to suffer from car sickness and periodically vomited in a small black plastic bag in the back seat. Sylle was tired of having to organize everyone while knowing that for every second he wasn’t driving after having filled the water tank meant less ground we would eventually cover. From time to time, if you listened closely enough, you could hear Fatima’s whispered prayers.

Approximately four hours later, only half way to ZorZor, something happened to reinforce poor Fatima’s phobia of driving. As I mentioned earlier NGO cars generally look out for each other during the rainy season. In Lofa County this connection is especially close, partly because everyone has needed something in the past. Karma, debts and a joint feeling of helplessness seem to connect people in Lofa. Due to this bizarre connection there is actually a delightful energy on the road and when one finds themselves stopped in the service of assessing the latest stuck truck and possible escape routes, it feels like we are all on the same team. Everyone has an idea and no one is afraid to get dirty.

Following our 21st stop for water, Musu and a car load of ARC workers pulled up and asked if they could help. Sylle and Musu knew each other from the refugee camps in Guinea; it was clear they were close because Sylle didn’t even bother with the pleasantries. He just said, I will hook up the chain from the front hitch and you will pull us. They hooked up the 20 foot chain and Sylle put the car in neutral. For about 3 miles it worked. Sylle's new idea was that they would pull us to ZorZor and we would transfer to another car; let’s forget about the water tank. However, every bump caused a problem because the differing speeds of the vehicles caused a significant amount of slack and the cars would eventually shake roughly when the resistance was checked. It even made me nervous enough that I turned to Fatima and said I think now is the time to pray, this doesn’t feel like a very good idea.

After approximately 7-10 miles of being pulled the resistance checked so hard the chain snapped off the front of our vehicle and flew at high speeds towards the ARC vehicle. The metal hook slammed into the back window and shattered the glass. Sitting just on the other side of the window was one of 7 civilian passengers. Shattered glass cut skin just above the left eye of one of the passengers. Her upper left arm was also cut badly. An exceptionally frightening experience, everyone was affected in their own way. The young woman who was cut and a few others fell silent in shock; two of the men became angry and agitated secondary to feelings of helplessness, others just paced around and shook their heads. All of this managed to re-traumatize poor Fatima

Slowly… slowly… we moved down the road. Within an hour I was covered head to tow in mud. We had probably made approximately 77 stops for water. Dama was also a mess and had brown mud all over her nose and feet. One stop carried Sylle and Dama and I approximately a mile and a half up the road and into the interior in search of water. I quickly learned how to listen to the sounds of the landscape and felt it in my bones when water was near by. Finding it was always a relief and I recall thinking thank God I didn’t take a position Afghanistan.

Once we hit ZorZor it was around 9 pm but Sylle and I were in some sort of trance. We didn’t want to waste time calling anyone in Voinjama or Monrovia and simply started discussing how we could get our hands on bigger containers so that we would have to make less stops to beg for water along the reminder of the journey. This leg of the trip should typically take about 2 hours. We figured we would be lucky if it took 6. Even though we had plenty of money, nobody was selling. All we wanted was to purchase one or two of those large plastic containers seen all over the country. Holding approximately 20 gallons of water, we figured it would allow us to get though two episodes of overheating. Shuffling door to door covered head to toe in mud everybody had a container but nobody wanted to give theirs up. Finally Sylle asked one guy if we could rent his. We would give the guy 150 liberties (roughly 3 dollars) and he would give half the money back when we returned it next time we drove though town. He agreed but made it clear he wanted his container back.

We started moving again and just like the previous 6 hours of the trip we did what it took to keep the engine cool and the car moving. We all were exhausted and Sylle and I survived on small bags of peanuts we purchased from some of the young girls who gave up their precious supply of water to muddy strangers. It was Halloween and the UN clubhouse was having a costume party in Voinjama; for one split second I figured I had a great costume – I could arrive covered in mud and report I was one of those roadside helpers who station themselves at the various rough spots to help stuck trucks with the hopes of getting a small dash. Upon arrival however the party felt like a distant dream and all I could think about was a shower. I drifted off to sleep dreaming of the relentless quest for H2O.

escaping the olive green veil

2007-11-05T05:46:00.000-06:00

escaping the olive green veil only to get stuck in the mud

October 26, 2007
Rolling onto my side on the hard mattress, underneath an olive green mosquito net, I listen to the now familiar background soundtrack to my mornings: rosters crowing, the call to prayer at a nearby mosque and Dama’s muted squeaks of joy as she rustles around in the gravel. I clean the sleepers from my eyes and I realize today I travel. For an idle moment I sit at the edge of my mattress with the mosquito net resting like an olive green veil on my back: slowly I surface from my cozy cocoon.

In that moment I feel almost rested but well aware a tough day on bumpy roads is going to wreck havoc on my settled state of mind. Who would have thought sitting inactive in a land cruiser can make one feel as if they had finished a triathlon. In an effort to return to a state of mindless grace, I shuffle to the kitchen. With Dama at my heels, I start to prepare my percolator to make a hot cup of coffee. Before I ignite the flame I take slow deep inhales of the aroma coming from the cylinder of the greatly appreciated French coffee I carefully carried from Guinea.

My idleness is short lived. In the faint, delicate light of a new day I receive a call informing me that one of the drivers has been fired and approximately 1500 gallons of fuel had been stolen from our already scarce supply. I hang up the phone feeling slightly deflated as I tend to take all these unfortunate events against our well meaning NGO personally. Today it feels like I was once again figuratively kicked in the gut.

I start packing for my long journey to my old home, Gbarnga. This time Dama will travel with me because she needs to get her shots and there is only one vet in all of Liberia. This vet was trained in Denmark in the late 60s, speaks fluent Danish, and returned to Liberia in the late 70s. Rather than leave (something he could have done with a valid passport) he remained throughout the war. Suffering direct attacks and a number of armed robberies due to the fact he and his family was well known, he felt he had no other option than stay. His family was here and here was where he felt he belonged. His house, what used to be a beautiful 70s style villa, is centrally located in Mamba Point, Dukkor (the local name for Monrovia, the name I prefer to use as I am constantly disturbed by all the references to American presidents in this country). Presently, if you don’t take the time to look closely enough, you will not notice the gentle doctor and his entire family still live in this house. To the naked eye it looks like an unlivable abandoned burnt out casualty of the war.

The road between Voinjama and Gbarnga is approximately 320 miles and should take at a maximum 5 hours but in the rainy season, anything is possible. In the moments I am packing for this journey I feel my heart quicken with excitement just like it does every time I prepare for a new journey. Propelled by the idea of discovery I move quickly and feel energized by my coffee. Somewhere along the way, in the split second it took me to gingerly place my beloved headlamp into the secret pocket on my well used backpack, something in me shifts: the electrifying excitement from a moment ago is replaced by a hard merciless feeling of exhaustion that has lived inside me ever since. But then just as quickly, it shifts again. A synapse in my brain fires and I am struck by an idea that reminds me to charge my tiny gifted I-Pod shuffle. I contemplate the fact that I will be looking at some of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen with an exciting new mix of music playing softly in my ears. I am once again brisling with excitement.

Ab, my very muscular Dukkor driver with a gentle disposition arrives promptly on time and we are off. The road is less familiar than the recognizable road between Dukkor and Gbarnga but the landscape is even more stunning and I sit comfortably with one foot out the window. All of a sudden Ab is struck by a memory, clicks and shakes his head. I ask him what he is thinking about and he begins to tell me a long story. I am delighted by his openness and pleasantly listen as he tells me a story about living in the bush for two years as an adolescent.

At the age of fourteen Ab had decided that he needed to know what it felt like to live deep in the interior. So, he packed up his things and moved to a farm his family owned hundreds of miles away from his childhood home. On the day he departed he made one simple agreement with his father: he would go into the interior and build a small little palm hut and farm their land. He would remain there until something happened suggesting he should do otherwise. There was no time line put in place but Ab sensed he would be there for a while. The work was hard, harder than he had expected, and after 27 months he finally decided to resettle in Dukkor. The event that occurred giving him permission to leave was a fallen tree, or should I say two fallen trees.

On two separate occasions a tree fell on Ab, pinning his leg and his arm to the ground. This he states assertively was the sign – nature telling him he was wanted there no longer. I silently and selfishly appreciate the fact that nature had pushed him away; otherwise, I would not have been given the honor of getting to know this exquisitely stoic and exceptionally serious individual.

The road was bad but maneuverable. Unfortunately it was bumpy enough to cause Dama to suffer from car sickness causing her to vomit fresh rice all over the back seat. At first I actually thought she must have knocked Abs lunch over because the rice was so undigested. This discovery was not as intriguing to Ab given he was barely tolerating the fact the dog was in the car, let alone puking all over it. Throughout our journey I frequently caught him looking at me with a raised eyebrow and a suspicious look suggesting he found the fact that my engaging with Dama in a loving motherly sort of way (a way we in the west frequently tend to treat our canines) was ever so slightly disturbing. The equilivant in the West would likely be something like having to ride cross country with a guy and his pet chicken.

Only once did we hit a spot where we spun out of control and found ourselves balancing on two wheels uncomfortably close to the raven that ran parallel to the roadside. Fortunately for us, aside from the fact that Ab is a brilliant story teller, he is also an exceptional driver and after some maneuvering and digging we were safely set free. The next time we passed a rough spot I actually saw someone point at Ab and say – “oh I know that guy; he’s good he won’t be getting stuck in no mud today.” You have no idea how good it feels to know they are talking about your driver at times like these.

Just as we near Belefani (the district site that houses five of my counselors) a young boys starts waving his arms and screaming. At first I ignore him because people are frequently waving down cars for rides or small dashes for pretending to do work on the damaged roads but then something about his behavior causes me to pause,
Ab, What’s he taking about?
Oh, he’s just saying that there are some baboons in the trees back there.
Baboons!!! Stop! We must go back!
You want to see some Baboons?
YES! Of course – Ab they are in the wild!
Ok we go back.

Gingerly, we slowly back up. Approximately 14 children and teenagers are resting casually underneath the Tuesday market stands near the side of the road. I jump out of the car and scream, Baboons! Where?

A few of them casually lift their arm and point to the trees behind me. I spin around. At first I see nothing. Like a bad hunter I squint and shuffle around but again I see nothing. Ab gets out of the car takes one look and then stands behind me and points over my shoulder so I can follow his finger. I try but again see nothing. Ab starts to get a bit annoyed and says, Gomah – they are right there can’t you see. Right there!

Finally he says, Gomah look at where all the braches are moving. They are there. I look and then finally I see! The branches are moving because a baby is standing on a branch while hanging from another. He is jumping up and down playfully. He waits and does it again and then waits and finally a few trees over I notice a much larger baboon doing the exact same thing. I realize it must be his father and they are mimicking each other. After a while it becomes clear dad is getting tired of the game but his son can’t get enough so they continue playing. A third baboon rests against a thick branch a few feet below – in my mind it is mom getting a much deserved rest.

I can’t believe it! Real live baboons in the wild swinging in trees 200 feet away from me. I start to dance around a little and do that mini-squat thing we primates tend to do when we get excited. My excitement and squeals of joy intrigue the group of kids at the market and they all get up and start acting as excited as I am about spotting the baboons. They start asking questions like, haven’t you seen baboons before? And I’m like, Ah no! And, then their like, Oh have you seen monkeys? Even though I may have seen a few, I’m like, Ah No! They all crack up and try to help me find the best angle to see these amazing creatures with whom we share 99% of our DNA. I settle in as if I have arrived.

Ab waits patiently for a while but then finally says, Gomah it is time. I pout and make a big deal out of it, which cracks up the kids who are gathered around watching me watching the baboons. With my head bowed and my bottom lip pouted I shuffle slowly to the car.

I realize that I have yet to arrive at my stuck in the mud story and have not relayed the details of my 12 hour trip back to Voinjama; but, rather than wait, I will post and teach those of you who are curious enough a little about what it feels like to be engaged in the business of waiting.

game on

2007-10-16T04:45:00.000-05:00

Game on: the experience of a western girl playing basketball with Liberian ex combatants and Pakistani peacekeepers

When I stepped on the court the locals took one look at my first shot and simply said “she can play.” The peacekeepers were not sold so easily and appeared a little more disturbed by my appearance. At first I couldn’t tell if it was the white legs, the need for a sports bra or the cultural perceptions about gender roles. With time and familiarity it didn’t seem to matter too much for some, for others it clearly did, but the feminist in me wasn’t going to tolerate any of it, so in an ever so slightly sassy manner, I stood my ground on a court overflowing with testosterone.

The Pakistanis, dressed in matching green and red warm ups have approximately 9 plastic balls and a plan. They begin standard warm-up procedures, which seems a bit odd in this post conflict Liberian setting but, I have seen stranger things; and, given my own eccentricities, I was a huge fan of the oddity of it all. Very quickly I noticed they all could shoot and some clearly were quite savvy about the game. Two of them were remarkably tall, one of which is painstakingly slim and the other has a serious vertical jump. A number of others, sporting classic middle-eastern beards, had a good eye for the court and a very serious attitude. Most of them have dark bushy mustaches and for some reason I couldn’t quite take these guys seriously. I noticed a few of them refused to shake my hand and others avoided direct body contact with me. At the end of the day it seemed we were all were struggling with the subtleties of it all. However, with time and exposure, we managed to eventually take each others talents seriously. No one quite knew what to do with the fact that something like this has never happened here before and everybody felt a bit confused about the rules of engagement; but, eventually I started to get pushed around and when one guy eventually knocked me to the ground, I knew that they knew I could play.

The local guys are only 4 in number so I can’t tell if they recruited me because they thought I might be able to play or simply because they needed a warm body. Of the four, only one has any skill. The other three are athletic but sloppy and somewhat lazy which gets me agitated quickly. My agitation is partly the result of genetics - I take after my father and am fiercely competitive. The remaining part is tied to my firm belief in defense and teamwork and showy sloppiness drives me crazy. I begin to swear like a sailor and make sly comments about Jesus, Mary and Joseph which might have actually endured to me a few of the players. Although I was all smiles and laughs before and after the game, during the game I was a raging competitor and, aside from Patrick, our very talented point guard, nobody quite knows what to do with me. .

It became evident the Pakistanis are VERY used to wining and tend to be cherry pickers even when they are ahead. It takes some time, but Patrick and I find a groove and the others manage to rebound a little and clean up their acts. We eventually managed to pull ahead and I have to admit I was beside myself when we actually won. After the game the Pakistanis pull out a massive blue cooler with exquisitely clear filtered cold water and graciously serve us in tin coffee cups. All the show and edginess is gone and they are once again a bit timid in their interactions with me. I realize they too love the game and suffer from self inflicted pangs of competitiveness.

Just as easily as it was turned off, it is turned back on and we are all once again relating to one another based on some established developing world gender status quo. Although at some point in the game I became first a player, it quickly wore off and, as the game solidified into a memory, I was once again first a woman. We chat for a while and decide it will be important for us to play every day and add an extra morning practice on Sundays to begin at 6:30. This is serious – no more resting and rock collecting for gv…..all I can say to this is bring it – game on!

a stone, the sky and a few books

2007-10-15T03:55:00.000-05:00

One month back in country and I find myself struggling to reengage with my previously mentioned business of not seeming. I wish I could say it was an easy transition and, after a restful break, I was back to my ‘new’ self. But of course change is never that easy, so I am left struggling. Maybe I am reacting to the fact that I find most things interesting and everything else either profoundly touching or completely overwhelming.

First of all I have moved. From my old home Gbarnga, where I was know by many and called Gomah, I have transitioned father into the interior to Voinjama and have been gifted the name Garmai (Ga-my). A beautiful county nested on the border with Guinea, Lofa is likely the Colorado of Liberia. Rolling hills, lush green forests, rumors of a few wild elephants and slightly cooler temperatures suggests it’s a much better fit for a girl like me.

Since my recent move from to Lofa county, I have spent most my days trying to be helpful and profoundly inspiring. This quest is so I can impress my very intelligent and very passionate group of counselors. When I’m not attempting that, I can be found sitting around wishing I had my hammock.

I used to love to be occupied. If life wasn’t hectic I felt like I was being lazy but now chaos seems like an escape from the realty this community faces and I doubt I will find all the excitement of being busy satisfying again. My life, for reasons beyond my control, has been pared down to the simplest human elements – life & death, wakefulness & sleep, suffering & enlightenment, hunger & satisfaction, enjoyment & torture…. Dichotomies of extremes, there is no masking or shades of grey here - it is both refreshing and exquisitely frightening.

An example of the simplicity of it all can be given with the stone that sits here on my desk. A grey stone cut in half by a vein of white. It took me most of Saturday to find it. Many stones were rejected first. I didn’t set out into my neighborhood with a particular idea of the stone in my mind, I just thought I’d recognize it when I found it. As I searched I developed certain requirements. It had to fit comfortable in my hand, preferable gray and be smooth (a soothing stone of sorts for those who know of my college collection). So that was my day, yes my entire Saturday. I spent Sunday recovering.

It wasn’t always like this. It used to be that a day was worthless to me if I hadn’t produced a certain amount of work. That I noticed or didn’t notice the guard’s new shirt, the fruit on the trees, the long collective yet silent journey of the women heading to market – these things were beside the point. But that’s changed now.

In a few weeks I will be living alone. Sharon has left and Andre will be completing his fellowship, but that doesn’t bother me. Or maybe just a little but I know no one could replace Sharon so I accept the loneliness as a respectful gesture of the profound impact she had on me and although Andre’s presence has been refreshing and inspirational, he too needs to go - his own journey is calling him and there is much to be done. At the end of the day it would take an unusual individual to keep me company, remarkable they both managed. I hope I’m not making any of this sound bad. I’m only back one month and I am already fishing for sympathy.

If you wonder what it is I do or see while lying in the hammock I would say I either read or watch the clouds in the sky. Both of which I tend to experience almost unbearably beautiful. What I read touches me because most of the stories are so unlike my current reality. What I see in the sky touches me because I can’t believe it actually is my current reality. That’s what I do watch the clouds and read. Sometimes I even pretend to write and post it on this silly blog site of mine. I know I’m not fooling anyone but I find it almost unbearable touching that you are taking the time to read this right now. Enough of me. Please somebody… send me something to think about.

cadance

2007-10-10T03:48:00.000-05:00

I’m never been much of a collector. Aside from a pretty impressive pencil collection in the 4th grade, I can’t recall collecting much of anything until one day I realized I was a collector of stories. My conscious awareness of this tendency occurred shortly after I decided to become a psychologist and; although, many people would think an interest in stories is directly connected to such a professional identity, I would have to say it doesn’t have to be and for some reason I have always had an intense desire to keep it separate. Of course this is not without saying that it has been helpful for the psychologist in me to be interested in stories, but I consider this overlap to be serendipity rather than intricately interrelated. I love stories and I think I would love stories even if I was an engineer.

I realized this important differential the day my dear friends gave me a CD entitled, the retells.

The Retells is a CD filled with short 3-5 minute stories that I had asked friends to repeat over and over again over the years. Recorded in the story teller’s voice, every story began with: ‘Gwen would always tell me to tell her the one about’….and then they would re-tell the story I so frequently asked them to tell over the years. I cried so hard driving down I-70 in my 10 foot U-Haul moving from Colorado to NYC that I had to pull over in order to prevent an accident. The tears were tied both to the fits of laughter I endured based on the substance of the silly stories as well as to feeling touched by the love and knowledge that I was truly known by those that I adore most.

The stories were tales of accomplishment, embarrassment, pride, shame and humor. No matter what the story is about, I love the way in which a meaningful personal story tends to have dramatic nuances and a personalized cadance. For example, my dear sweet friend Yophy, an exceptionally hilarious story teller, always managed to bring in a number of ridiculous analogies or bizaree descriptions of the circumstances she would find herself in; and, she always artistically placed one sarcastic one liner in the perfect space. She tells the story in the exact same manner each and every time, with one exception. With time and knowledge about what I love about her stories, she changes her story telling style in only one slight manner. Just as she approaches the part of her story that I grow to love best, she dramatically pauses, allowing the silence to fill with my apprehension and excitement.

My time in Liberia has taught me something new about what one is to do with a gifted story. I have realized that although part of me was destined to come here to listen to stories so that I could bring them back to share with the world; part of me has also been beckoned here to do something entirely different. I have realized that some stories are given to another so they could be put to rest. So now, out of respect, I have learned that I will be leaving some stories behind. Having been a collector of stories of sorts, a relentless searcher for a good tale, I find myself struggling with this new category of response to a shared tale, but I respect the need for peace and will honor it profoundly.

Looking forward to tomorrow and the days to come I have promised myself and my beloved story tellers that I will show up and listen with all the gusto that I show up for the ones I love to hear over and over again. For the ones that need to be left behind I have decided that I will carry them with me to the beautiful Liberian coast, far from the interior, and drop them like stones, one by one into the ocean.

For those of who are wondering ‘why now’ about this topic I have to say that story has been on my mind both consciously as well as unconsciously because I have the honor of hosting a consultant and recipient of the University of Minnesota Human Rights Clinic Fellowship, Andre Heuer. Andre is a gifted story teller and avid collector. His thoughts on his experience here in Liberia and more about his project can be read at: http://andresjourney.blogspot.com

fork in the road

2007-09-20T05:31:00.002-05:00

Alice came to a fork in the road. "Which road do I take?" she asked."Where do you want to go?" responded the Cheshire cat."I don't know," Alice answered."Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter." ~Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

I’m back in Liberia and I find myself thinking about many different things. First, I’ve returned hoping to see something that may not have ever been here ...or maybe it’s been here all along but I haven’t been about to see it due to self inflicted blinders. Everything I encounter remains confusing and disheartening, but I have never felt so welcomed. Five of my fellas from basketball and two pals from the various task forces I take part in phoned me in the 20 minutes I stood in the customs line at the airport, all claiming I was desperately missed; and, as soon as I jumped in my car to begin my trip back to Gbarnga, my favorite driver threw in our most favorite of tapes and we sang at the top of our lungs all the way home. And, yes it did, in fact, feel like home.

It was a curvy road but I knew the bends well and the journey felt comforting and familiar. Calling this place in which I am currently existing home is slightly ironic given this journey occurred a few short days after I stood proudly in my very own piece of real estate I purchased in Denver: that’s right, while back in mile high city I stood in this empty loft feeling as if the nomad in me had settled, even if just a tiny bit, and I enjoyed the silence of my space. So the question is - how is it possible for one individual to have two conflicting experiences of home? Maybe as the Cheshire cat suggests…….it doesn’t matter.

they fell in love many times

2007-09-09T10:58:00.000-05:00

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, and always with the same person."
- Mignon McLaughlin

I awoke in the dark at 5:21 after finally managing to get a full night of sleep: rest I desperately needed. The weather outside is a bit chilly. I turn the deck chair and arrange everything so that I am facing the massive mountains of Breckenridge. The moon shines above and I cover my legs with a fleece blanket and place a steaming hot cup of coffee on the arm of my chair. By 6:17 the sky is bright -instantly informing me that another day has if fact arrived. It wasn’t an explosive sunrise or remarkable in any visual sort of way, but being awake and present at the moment night changes to day or day changes to night is always breathtaking for me and makes me feel so incredibly small while somehow reminding me that I am an integral part of things.

To my right is the giant glassed in dinning hall in a multimillion dollar house where the bride and groom will be holding their reception. Fifty round paper Chinese lights hang from the ceiling and white table cloths cover tall intimate tables. The house has been rented by the bride and groom for the purposes of hosting their closest friends and to facilitate the celebration of their nuptials. Heaters are set up outside so people can gather like moths in the night to keep warm during the reception.

I arrived exhausted and fatigued from West Africa two short days ago sans luggage, sans gifts, sans energy; but, due to the fact I am surround by such familiar individuals, such loving one, I feel soothed and reenergized. These friends of mine, friends I almost feel unworthy of, surround me and engulf me in a warm blanket of concern and curiosity and my heart aches at their tenderness towards this friend whose careen choice forces her to repeatedly abandon them and not be around for the important events in their lives. They give me undeserved credit for my endeavors and I sit alone wishing that they could only understand that their ability to do what they do – teach, nurse, design, advocate, build, create, love, procreate, settle, invest………..far surpassing my confused attempt at creating a career for myself.

On my left I see a lovely waterfall and an unending pine forest. Ahead a beautiful balcony facing the slopes of Breckenridge ski resort. At this time of year, the visual is a mixed palate of different shades of green. Lights glimmer in the valley only making this snapshot even more enchanting at night and I look forward to being present as the day unfolds into another night…….

plus one
They wanted to keep it small: something that is easy to say but amazingly difficult to do. Because they are so loving and interesting and outgoing in such different ways their closest friends and family already outnumber their desired size. So they make a big decision – no plus ones. Although a nice idea, the reality is that single individuals often bring unimportant charters from their own lives simply so they have “a date.” These unknowns, these “fillers” take up a lot of unnecessary space and cost a lot. Obliviously, for single people this can feel like another hit to an already marginalized existence - the uncompleted goal of coulpdome. Being single is a transitional point between childhood and commitment. No one is believed when they say “but wait, I am happy, I am complete I am me fully, and yes…I am still single.”

I have never been one of those people who take fillers to weddings and at the tender age of 30 I have attended far more wedding single than as a couple. Even though there were moments in my early twenties where I was struck by pangs of anxiety thinking about what table I would be sat at or paying for hotel rooms and renting cars solo, I grew into appreciating the aura of a wedding as a single observer and have a very interesting set of wedding attendance memories as a single gal.

Following a very meaningful but slightly challenging wedding attendance in Sanibel Island, Florida a few years ago, where I was forced to splurge on all of the aforementioned logistical necessities while in grad school; feeling exceptionally poor and tired of my unrequited love affair with a dear friend of 4 years, I attended a wedding solo because I couldn’t image not being there. I simply adored the couple and rank them in my top five of couples who truly know how to do this thing we call marriage. In attendance would be the first love of my life and he would be attending with his girlfriend. I managed the anxiety and had the most amazing time with the bride to be on the eve of the ceremony, connected with other amazing individuals, enjoyed the couple and the company and ended the night sitting on the balcony with the groomsmen smoking a cigar. The ex and I had a tender moment and I felt confident, beautiful and completely ok with being alone.

But I digress……The reason I even mention plus one is that the groom may have given me the most touching compliment about this state of oneness. While arranging the guest list a few months back the groom told the bride the following: “Let’s leave the option of plus one on Gwen’s invitation because I know that if she were to check that space she would want to be bringing someone amazing, someone I would want to meet.” Even now, as I write this, I tear up at the subtle way in which he complimented me and the way in which these two people truly know me.

I had an amazing time, surrounded by love, hope, excitement and memories and I realized that even though I saw so many beautiful things with my eyes sitting on that deck in Breckenridge, the most beautiful thing I experienced that weekend was felt with my heart.