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.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
a psychologist who tries to write
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.
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.
Friday, March 14, 2008
greetings and misappraised misfortune
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.
Friday, March 7, 2008
the glory of the mustard seed
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.
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.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
on being an ex-pat
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.
~ 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.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
bittersweet reminiscence
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.
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.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
lost but hopefully not forgotten
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.”
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.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
