Peace Battle Wounds

My leg and Jordan's neck crater. More to come, I'm sure

I went to Europe and All I Got Was This Double Chin

Milan: Monet, Samurai exhibit, rejection of the 3-meal system in favor of one in which I at no time have free space in my stomach, best pizza of my life, even the graffitti impresses me to the point where I thought the subways's graffitti might have been commissioned. I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't.

Venice: My brothers and I used to call our bath-tub "Venice." It has always seemed to me an unreal, magical place. Going there didn't change that.

"Venice defies description. Many have tried, from Goethe to Brodsky, but it has to be seen; felt, and wandered through to be believed, and even then you may have trouble thinkging it real. Yet no theme-park creater could ever have come up with this result of 1400 years of extraordinairy history." (Lonely Planet)

Still, there's a whimsical-seeming system at work, like the next city or planet over is the Jetsons-themed one. On the other hand, its age and history is so evident that it's more like it's the rest of the world that's putting on a show. However you want to think of Venice, it's incredible. On 117 islands, with 150 canals, and 410 bridges. You must commute by boat. You must! Just as you must face the beauty and you must feel the sunlit watery winds through your shampooed hairs. I'd recommend going as a couple, if you have the choice. We saw a few Goths and M remarked it must be hard to find something to be angry about in this magical city where people come from all over the world to be in love. I say I'd probably feel dark myself if I were 16, single, and pimply and I couldn't walk two steps out my front door without running into tonsil-hockey in the streets. The whole romance thing gets exploited too; we had countless photos taken of us during our gondola ride. I wanted to throw my email address at the photogaphers and at least get something out of it. So if you come across any on a random web-album, send 'em to me!

Piazza San Marco: besides its stunning magnificence (sometimes I find it difficult to take in the full picture of things like this. Or, like grocery stores, where I might spend 10 min staring between 2 cereal boxes instead of facing the bountiful rest), has a lot of pigeons. Something I didn't get to do was throw breadcrumbs at a snobby-looking lady and enjoy the aftermath. So if any of you go, that's a cheap activity to consider. Personally, I could not part with any crumbs.

Basilica di San Marco: U-B-E-L-I-E-V-A-B-L-E. You can't even look at the floors of advanced geometric marble splendor because it's so hard to tear your eyes from the golden, colorful, meticulous, dazzzling mosaics all around and above, dating back from the 1060's. Neither of us could refrain from saying things like, "My villagers can't even dig a well!" But it was also somehow nice to think of them and their thatched rooves among mango trees, and to remember that that exists as well as this glittering palace, as well as all the things in between. It's nice to witness the spectrum and remember to be amazed at the variety of the people and places of the planet. (I've had a lot of cheese on this vacation; I guess it's coming out here).

...Guggenheim museum, churches, shops, markets, music, and every other building is a landmark... And getting lost on purpose was the best part:

"A city for meanderers, Venice rewards every minute devoted to penetrating its cat's cradle of intertwined lanes." (L. P.)


Rome: We started out a bit rough with a hotel scam (OK, this 19 year old will now drive you to your room. OK, you can get out here, it's that unmarked door covered in graffiti...) But Rome bounced back as it will enchant anyone who's ever enjoyed two words of history.

Colloseum, Palatine, Forums: awesome, gorgeous, go. We were overwhelmed by all the english-speaking tourists so we played a game in which they overheard us describing false attractions. "So the trapeze show starts at 1:00, right..." "I can't beleive they dressed up that monkey like that. It's kind of cruel. But Very impressive how well he's learned to handle that sword!"

Vatican: even more english speakers, mostly wanting us to pay for their tours. So we spent the first 2-3 hours speaking only Pulaar. We pondered how often-- if ever-- this happened at the Vatican. Sistene chapel: Jeez! I was intimidated by my senior thesis in art! Un-freaking-believable. Not overrated. No wonder Michelangelo is my favorite ninja turtle. Don't ignore the paintings everyone quickly walks by on the way to the chapel either, or you'll miss some Dali's, chagal's; and other gems. the other stuff didn't move me too much.

Gladiator School: how amazing that this exists. I really really wanted to meet the passionate gladiator students and teachers, but unfortunately, once we finally found the place, it was empty. And creepy. Voices that didn't answer, wind opening doors, a dog the size of a bear... "Let's split up!" I suggested. You know how I like my horror flicks.

Indian restaurant: this gave me an odd language overload. I was trying to remember my few words of Hindi while hearing Italian, speaking english to M, and still most inclined to speak to other people in French, Pulaar, or even wolof. M got fuzzy feelings of global friendship especially when japanese tourists came in. We decided everyone should eat everyone else's food to stop war. I mean, who wouls ever want to bomb India after eating a delicious samosa (the question mark on this keyboard doesn't work) Bring on the middle-eastern cuisine. (But forgive my village for having awful food).

Bookstore: Rome had the biggest one I saw, with 4 aisles of english books. Bliss! I literally took my pulse and asked M if he thought I had a fever. It was thrilling. I've since treated myself a few times and can now do so at a regular breathing rate.

French Fries: You know how when you go on vacation, for example, to Europe, you have to bypass things like hamburgers that you can get at home (question mark) That's why a Peace Corps vacation is dangerous. There falls nothing in this bypass-category except corn mush. I have yet to see corn-mush on a menu. Therefore, I am rendered unable to bypass anything. I went to Italy and all I got was this double chin. And I love it!

Catacombs, ruins, pasta, paninis, churches, Trevi...

Madrid: hyssen, Placa Mayor, Reina Sophia, oldest restaurant in the world (certified by Guiness Records), Sol, Movies with big buckets of popcorn, La Latina, tapas...
To my high school sweethearts: Tessa is doing fabulously in her glamorous Spanish life. She speaks in a rapid perfect spanish that I sometimes couldn't believe was coming out of her mouth, even if I was staring at her. She knows the coolest restaurants (one is a japanese buffet with a CONVEYER BELT. It went in both directions so we gave up pretending to pay any attention to each other and just said things like, "Spring rolls coming up.. three left.. two.. shoot! Reach over NO, get it before these people, go, go!" This place would never be able to stay in business if I lived in Madrid. Lucky for them, Madrid likes size zeros more than complete ultimate fulfillment. There was a particularly hilarious incident here involving essa's arm in sauce over the belt and me crying from laughing so hard.. but I think you had to be there...) Back to Tess: She teaches english to adults and some adorable kids. I spoke to the latter about monekys and snakes and living here. I may have accidentally called them selfish too, "Yes, we have a school, but no tile floors like this, or decorations, or lights, or books, or... any of this... Anyway, the monkeys..." Tessa has a lovely apartment with a cushy couch, and many other wonderful things I fully enjoyed (fridge, microwave, washing machine, TV...) She dresses fashionably and is basically married to Felipe (I still love that name), who is the male version of Tessa. They make lists of travel destinations like other people make grocery lists. But don't go thinking she takes it for granted. She was very sensative to the things overwhelming me and sometimes quoted bits of THIS BLOG to me. I was touched to know she thought of my experience while living it up in hers.

It was very hard to leave. Tessa clearly needs me as a roommate. Thus, I am tragically torn between the debts of friendship and the debts to society. Now I'm in Kédougou sweating on my own sweat with a throbbing earache. Clearly, I made the wrong choice. Tessa! Bacon! Cheese! Come back to me!

lifescapes from a train (venice---rome)

white sheets drying
perfectly spaced like
well brushed teeth
next to polka dotted dresses
I could wear
the line ends
the little farmhouse fades---
roof top gardens grow
like house hair-- blossoms
braided through tomatoes, basil,
parts of a recipe
I could find---
vineyards in whose
perfectly measured
rows, I'd fit, holding
my lover's hand, even,
and the grapes that would
stain my fingers
I can almost taste---
that man with the mo-ped
looks like a friend
he'd give me rides to the
post office, just
to have my hands
on his waist---
the playground where
a little boy with
my eyes could
step on the sky
seated in swings before
my stretched--out
hands---
the mountain
that reaches the
high clouds, tall
enough to watch over
it all, but it
could fit snugly
in my window---
----------------
if this-- were
my stop---
-

Pizza Corps in Milan

Peace Corps volunteers whould not be allowed to go to fashion capitals like Milan without some sort of makeover intervention in between. There's a reality show idea: fix up the young sloppy PCVs (skinny enough to be on television) so they don't embarass themselves. I volunteer myself. But no, I have my flipflops only and they so far appear to be the only flipflops in country. My best skirt is held together with a safety pin. Don't get me started on M.
No matter, we're used to being stared at and are still living the high life! We might be able to get by without drawing attention to ourselves if we didn't react bizarrely and oooh and ahhh and mundane things. But for 2.5 years, M has only been on a snowy Vienna vacation and in 1 year, I hadn't left Africa. So a few things provoked more impressed reactions from us than they would normal people. These things include but are in no way limited to: grass, flowers, real roads, nice cars, tall buildings, other peoples' clothes, hot water, chairs, airplane food, vending machines, airports, public bathrooms, the perceived cleanliness of rats (do they shampoo them here?), driving ability, prevalence of english signs and speakers, lack of sweat... Then there are things that are actually Awesome, that no one should take for granted: good coffee, cheese, gelato, pizza, chocolate, Monet, the duomo, amazing architecture everywhere, a happy hour in which you get one drink and an all-you-can-eat buffet of deliciousness, and what might be my favorite thing: bookstores!

Coming from Senegal has completely colored the way in which we take in Italy. Sometimes it's silly-- last night I saw a dog out of the corner of my eyes and burst out laughing when I realized I'd assumed it was a warthog. We made kissy noises at the annoying street peddlers, but since many came from Senegal (are we surprised?), they recognized it as a "no" sound. Neither of us has more than 10 words in Italian and are prone to answering in Pulaar or french even though most people speak english. Whenever I wanted to say yes, I'd always say, "Eyo. Oui! I mean SI!" It is nice and strange to be able to hold hands in public. Shorts SHOCK us. I literally started blushing last night when I passed a girl who seemed to be going out in her underwear. I have become a nun.

Speaking of nuns, the cathedral in the duomo made us open-mouth gape for the entire duration of our visit. At first we though of how our villagers would fall over themselves if they ever saw this. We felt depressed on their behalf, thinking about where they are in 2009, while the Italians made these high ornate walls and stained glass glory by the early 1300's, also without electricity or modern technology.

But as I watched the masses file in, light candles, and rub brass emblems, I realized how much I respect villagers' piety. It's easy to be religious in the grand gorgeous cathedral with colored light beaming from the windows, ceilings and carvings and pillars breathtakingly grandiose. The monument of thousands of years of thousands of people's adament belief loom like tactile proof. You don't feel alone and the miraculousness of the structure makes it easy to believe in other miracles.

In my village, kids study faded wooden prayer tablets by the light of a bonfire. They put mats down in the sand and press their foreheads to the dirt. Cows and chickens and babies scream all around in the buzzing heat. They shut it out and one man sings the prayer. Mat and dirt and goats and sun: these are the patrons of their church. They stand and kneel and press their heads to the gorund. This is faith.

(vacation to be continued...)

Tessa, Nachos, and Kittens (three of my favorite things/ beings)

4/17
Tessa's visit was lovely! I hope she agrees. We had a bit of a tough time trying to see "real" Senegal in a week-- without too much discomfort. She could've handled more, but I became oddly nervous that she'd hate Senegal. Senegal has sort of become my embarassing crazy uncle (which I don't really have!) who is really a lovely person once you get to know him.

She understood, of course. Everyone had been making her nervous with Africa horror strories anyway. So we stuck around Dakar and Toubab Diallaw and you can ask her yourself if she felt any horror! (Tess, help me out here. The lizard and cockroach don't count!) We had lots of delicious food, heard some live music, became quickly renowned pastry shop patrons, enjoyed the beach, played lots of charades... we did things I didn't know were possible in Senegal, like ORDER PIZZA in an air-conditioned hotel room with an english movie channel and a mini fridge! WHAT?! I couldn't recognize my awesome life. Even when I opened the door to the pastry/ pizza delivery guy who laughed to see that it was US again.

We really felt like we were living it up. Tessa would convert the price tags out loud to euros because it all seemed so cheap to her. Michele and I, however, moaned with guilt about spendng so much. "We're on vacation!" we yelled to perplexed Tess. Michele and I also forced ourselves to submerge in the freezing water, crazily screaming, "Remember how hot it is in Kedougou!" I think those were the only painful parts of the trip, though.

Highlights include accepting an invitation to ataaya on Goree Island. This surprised Tessa as well as the inviters who are used to tourists ignoring them. But I had to show her the senegalese hospitality that defines the country! It's hard to catch in Dakar, with the ripping off and begging hands thrust in your face. But away from that, we happily sat on a mat as our hosts happily prepared the tea. They cooked and poured it back and forth, the daily dance of the ataaya you can see across the country. One had been to Spain so could shoot the Spanish with Tess, and the rest were appropriately pumped about my Pulaar. I asked a guy to give her a Senegalese name and he was visibly honored. He took the task seriously, and after a few minutes of pondering, setted on "Salimatou." Then he played a song from his phone about loving Salimatou. Now that's crazy uncle Senegal.

We also took a pirogue across Lac Rose. It really was pink, and warm as bathwater. We had a good giggle floating in it then getting doused with a bucket of water once we emerged. We almost joined a dance class, but it was too pricey. Personally, I was also having falshbacks of our botched attempt to join a retired broadway dance class a few years back (think Lucille Ball and ballet). So instead we watched and immitated in secret. Better for us all!

----------------------
I'm putting nachos on this blog as an honor to Tessa. Also, because we talked about them on her trip, thus intensifying my already dangerous year-long yearning for them. This inspired the following events. Also, Thomas getting cheese in a carepackage (HINT!). That is the bigger half of the nacho battle right there. Which says something as the rest of the battle involved:
-getting corn (OK, this is not at all in the viscinity of hard)
-pounding it.. haha this is how much I love nachos, people! Luckily I was spared most of the pounding once someone kindly reminded me they have machines for this in Kedougou.
-mix cornmeal with flour, baknig powder, salt, water, and oil
-make a dough
-roll the dough on the table with an empty wine bottle (FYI this is because we don't have a rolling pin; not because I'm weird)
-next you're supposed to bake them in the oven, but our oven didn't really work too well. So we fried them!
-procure avocado, tomato, hot pepper, onion, and garlic from the market, and chicken from someone else's package.
-Love life.

It all took about 5 hours. Oh how I miss 2 minute microwaved nachos! But these were INCREDIBLE. OK, the chips were not that awesome, but after a year of dreaming, these had to be the best nachos I've ever had or will have in my life. I took photos. It was a huge platter-- I licked it clean.

----------------------
Kittens:

We got 'em! They're the first I've seen in the village. My dad bought them to kill mice. I'm happy because they won't be my responsibility (especially after I leave. i think it's irresponsible to adopt only to abandon), I loathe mice, and they're so cute! The cuter one will be my new best friend. He comes to visit me every morning to mooch off my oatmeal-and-honey breakfast. All it has to eat is the same corn mush the rest of us eat, if you're wondering why he likes oatmeal. Wolof for "cat" is "mous mous" so I named him "mooch mooch." Today Mooch ate a scorpion carcus off my bedroom floor. My young mom/ older sister killed it (scorpion, not kitten) while I was showing her how to make french fries from the floor.

These are a few of my favorite things....

Cataracts Out of the Bag

"Oh the iris is coming out, dat's really not good..."

Four health workers took their vacation from the US (originally Hungary x2, Jamaica, and NJ) to Senegal to perform miracles. A 5 minute simple cataract surgery in the US has never occurred in Kedougou. Thus, many blind or nearly-blind citizens of the surrounding area who never would have gotten the chance otherwise, can now see. Being a part of it is probably the coolest thing I've ever done.

And what exactly did I do? Did it involve a crescent blade and lots of "oops" peppering my speech?

A Day in the Life of Me/ Restoring Sight to Blind Lepers

(OK OK, that may sound slightly pretentious... In actuality there was only one obvious leper.)

-I start by donning scrubs of a beautiful blue that splatter with iodine and eye fluids hourly. I also get a hairnet and face mask and can't wear outdoor shoes on the operating room floor.
-Wipe down everything with alcohol. It's weird trying to reconnect with my American germaphobia after losing all standards of cleanliness in this country.
-Next I fill syringes with nerve-blocking drugs. I tap them in the air and feel cool.
-Run around and open packets of things like wexel sponges, miostat, various blades, needles, syringes, gloves, drapes, provisc, satures... during the surgery as well. The first couple of days this stressed me out (WHAT are you saying to me and where is it ahhh?!) but I got the hang of it.
-Find patients' correct lens (for which they'd been previously measured). Most go posterior cortex, but if something goes wrong and the posterior is injured, I run and get an anterior one.
-Dress patients in scrubs and a hairnet that may or may not already be wet with eye liquids, saline, blood... (we don't have a lot to work with!) If the patient's last name is Camara, my joking cousin, I will at this point tell them not to steal the scrubs. Hilarity ensues.
-Lead them to the OR and assure them 200 times no one will steal their broken flip flops and dirty head rags while they're gone. Help them climb up on table. Tell them not to fall because we only feel like doing one operation for them.
-If Dr. Donald McDonald II is operating (he and Judith switch off), he's probably singing by this point. I will make fun of his voice with the patient and we'll have a lovely little private giggle.
-Clean the eye area with iodine swipes and explain why they should not move during the surgery and that we can give them more medicine if it hurts.
-Standby to counterpush microscope as surgeon places a sterile cap on it. If anyone touches this or the drape or nurse's table or gloves, they will freak out and have to change everything.
-Give patient a drop of viximox, turn on the microscope light, and hold up face drape so patient doesn't suffocate. I use an old cut out box to make sure they maintain breathing capacity. I'm not sure how any OR has ever functioned without me.
-Watch as surgeon clamps open the eye and threads through back of eyeball and clamps it down so that it's looking down, enabling him/her to make a cut above. Sometimes this already hurts the patient and I have to hold them down and tell them we'll give them more painkillers. Then make said painkillers.
-Next, the surgeon snips the main cut above the iris through which (s)he'll do most of the prodding/ extracting/ inserting. The line of this cut is then cauterized (burned) so that it stops bleeding. Sometimes it smokes and smells, but is otherwise quite cool. This is extremely painful if the patient's nerves have not been properly blocked.
-Stand around gawking (I was glad to have a face mask the 1st day while I couldn't shut my mouth) as surgeon enters eye, spins milky full moon of cataract to surface, and drags/ sucks it out of the entry wound. That is the most exciting part and the lens's always surprise me with how big they are. They look like odd gummy candies until they dry out. I collected them one morning to show the others, so they rattled around in a little box.
(By the way, the "others" are doing lamer jobs like handing out glasses, testing eyesight (harder than it sounds for people unused to characters inked on paper. Even the villager-geared version with pictures of snakes confuse them to the point at which they feel like that have to explain to the idiot toubab that that is actually NOT a snake, it is a squiggle on paper...) The worst job, though, is telling people who travelled who-knows-how-far that they actually have glaucoma, not cataracts, we can't do anything for them, they'll never see, and they should not continue to seek help.)
-Surgeon removes clouds from eyes and replaces the old yellow (once- black!) lens with a new one. I open it with a flourish over the nurse's table, careful not to touch anything.
-Opening things, moving chins, table, microscope magnification, pleading with patients to stop moving, watching everyone working there roll their eyes over their masks for various reasons....
-When the lens is in, the edges of the iris hydrated to seal, the suture sewn, and the pupil pressure appropriately low, tbe silken stitch is removed, the eye rolls back, and we're done.
-Put in 4 eye drops, remind surgeon to inject steroids (they're allowed to forget this one thing when I'm there to remind them-- they don't do any of this stuff in America which a machine does it all!)
-Patch up eye with gauze and tell patient not to take it off, come back tomorrow morning EALRY, Dr. will remove it and give medicine... If Allah wills it, they will see a little tomorrow, more the next day, and so on for a moon.
-Patient thanks profusely, blesses us, and asks where the shoes are. I lead him/her off the bed (one lady jumped and I had to catch her...) and away. They get their stuff with advil and instructions. We're all happy.
-Repeat 9-15 times a day, sometimes for 12 hours. Mentally apologize to feet.

(Of all the surgeons and fellow nurses, I'm the only one who attended every single one of the 107 surgeries! Am I an expert now? Anyone wanna let me take a stab at their eye?)

At first I felt useless and insultingly unqualified to be there. What could I possibly offer? But I began to realize: a lot.
Doctors tend to be people who care, of course. But to reach the point at which you cut peoples’ bodies like a machine, you have to detach yourself. It’s hard to operate on your mother because you can’t just think of her as a body that will have to handle the pain of your cuts. But when you can’t speak the same language or communicate anything, it’s easier, sometimes automatic. You have to emotionally cut them off and stop trying to empathize or you’ll drive yourself crazy. Here’s where I could contribute.
I couldn’t translate everything the doctors would normally explain in the US. There are no Pulaar words for “cataract,” “lens,” “cortex,” “anesthesia,” “implant…” But I can get the point across in villager-terms. (She is removing your malady and replacing it with new thing for your eye. It will help you see.) I could ask how much it hurt; tell them it was going well; that they are brave.
It’s a terrifying experience to have an operation anywhere. But these poor souls have been blind for who-knows-how-long, missing fingers and toes due to related accidents, have never been to a hospital, are hearing fast foreign chatter and laughter and shouts all around them, don’t understand these physical medical explanations, most likely remember their last operations were genital cutting, are at the mercy of strangers they can’t see… TERRIFYING. I was glad to be there and make bad jokes and dance as I led them out once it was over.
During these surgeries, too, I held shaking fingers. The first times I did, the surgeons and nurse each individually noticed and said things like, “Oh! Good idea!” (Back to the empathy block.) I loved that I could do this, knowing it’s probably never done in Senegal. Here, doctors are powerful men who explain nothing and comfort less. Furthermore, I liked defying the anti-physical affection rule. I was especially crossing the standard line when I held men’s hands. But they squeezed back after a minute, hopefully slightly less terrified. I may not be qualified to operate, but I can still help!
The best part, of course, is telling people (Inchallah!) they will see again. They’re ecstatic. I well up. I asked a few people what they wanted to see and got these answers: the road, my wife and kids, Hadi Souare’s beautiful face! (“You’re blind; you don’t know that I’m beautiful!” “Yes, but I still know it.” Aww!)
It’s awesome awesome awesome. These surgeons are miracle machines and I was honored to be part of the magic. (Also honored to have the opportunity to work in an OR without all the years of study and sleepless nights that usually precede… sorry med students! You should’ve joined the Peace Corps!) People can see who thought it was impossible.

NOTABLE PATIENTS
(now that I’m done with the heart-warming part)
-A really old senile guy kept laughing and moving every part of his body. I had to clamp down his head so hard it made my arms ache. His son and Michele held his arms and feet. Sometimes performing miracles is hard work.
-A guy kept saying I was his wife and then praying extensively. When we finished, I couldn’t get him off the table for 5 minutes while he prayed enthusiastically and blessed us (amina…)
-One adorable tiny old lady kept saying, “Thank you thank you!” (always 2x) loudly and joltingly especially when the surgeon gave her a shot or made a cut. I had to keep saying, “You’re welcome, but please stop talking…”
-As I was explaining to one lady that she should tell me if anything hurts a lot, she said, “Just don’t hurt me!” I laughed, but she continued to say that everyone said it hurt a lot. I asked for names and she answered, “EVERYONE!” Judith was crushed when I translated and I told the woman she made the doctor sad. “Good,” she retorted. “She hurts people.” But, alas, at the end she had to admit it didn’t hurt so much, and she was thankful, and fine, she’d pass on the word that it wasn’t so bad.
-When we were about to start on one woman, we were talking (in English!) and we laughed about something. So did the woman. We looked at her in surprise and laughed harder. So did the woman, blind, under a drape, without a word of English in her head. On and on, and we all laughed harder for a good long minute, unable to stop and operate. I, of course, was the last one to stop.
-One old man smelled worse than the normal bad smells and we found out why. He started shouting something I couldn’t understand so I got his son to come in, thinking he was just scared. Then he took out his penis. Somehow, my first reaction was embarrassment for him as he’s probably a Muslim who wouldn’t want four women witnessing this. He had to pee. Judith was literally in the middle of his eyeball. Michele and I frantically thrust a kidney tray at him. He filled it and when Michele reached for it, he just dropped it on us instead. Rather than help the peed-on toubab girls, the Senegalese doctor who’d been watching rushed the son out of the room. He later explained that it was traumatizing for a son to see his father’s penis. This pee-throwing happened two more times. This guy had a lot of pee and apparently was unable to interpret our screams of agonized disgust as “Don’t do that!” Thank Allah for scrubs.
-The next day, more pee. But not thrown at me, just on the floor. I couldn’t get mad at that. These people are old, blind, and used to popping squats anywhere. Instead I got mad that no hospital worker would clean it up.
-One lady got turned around of the operating table and refused to be led out the door. She didn’t believe it was the right way and got semi-violent. She said she’d just sleep there since the door was apparently so far.
-Everyone’s favorite lady was an adorable slightly chubby tiny woman who couldn’t go 5 minutes without giggling. Her giggle made our hearts melt like snicker bars in Senegal. Unfortunately, we had to cancel her operation. Once on the table, she had a panic attack and her giggles turned to sobs. We brought in her daughter, duct-taped her head down, and tried everything, but she wouldn’t stop thrashing. So, she’s still blind. However, I felt better when she started her giggles up again as she walked out the door, holding our hands. I apologized and she said, “Don’t be sorry, I’m happy to be off the table!” Seeing isn’t everything, I guess.

(But it’s pretty fantastic.)

Ndota Yangu

My heaven would have fields of coffee growing in coffee-colored soil. Avocados, citrus, mangoes, flowers, and green as far as the eye can see. Women hold on their heads bundles of bananas fanning outward like giant pinecones. Music that can lift you while the drums keep you steady. Perfect weather, ease with strangers... Tanzania.
Along the slow trails of the mountain of peoples' dreams, thousands of people sigh in disbelief. They stack rounded rocks on top of each other: towers of anonymous evidence. Circles on circles, the porters climb with stangers' bags on their heads like moving stone tower testaments. The line between life and rock blurs in the haze of the sun whom you climb to meet.
In the green valleys below, a different dream. It sings a song your body knows, that your memory had forgotten. Sound of music mountains make an arena of the Ngoro Ngoro crater. Elephants, gazelles, waterbuck, water baffalo, zebra, hyenas, lions, rhinos, hippos, babboons all dance among each other and a bird for every feeling you have yet to feel. The zebras pose modern art against a backdrop of water color impressionism. Taking it all in settles you. This prehistoric Eden recalls some biological memory of the real world before mechanical buzzing overpowered its song.
Turn up the hoofbeat, let the grasses aplaud, listen with awe as your bones sing along.

Kill-A-Woman-Jaro

Alternate Title: My Dad's Idea of a Vacation

Day 1
Am impressed with state of alive-ness. Would recommend m&ms to any future climbers. Saw white-tailed colobus monkeys with haunting faces. Am already cold. Spent at least 5 minutes gushing about the reviving powers of ORS (Oral Rehydration Solution) to dad. He must already think I'm off my rocker. I may terribly jinx things by saying so, but it looks like I may be more comfortable and well-fed and lazy on this climb than in daily village life. We only walk at granny-pace for a couple hours and then laze around in tents eating popcorn and tea. It's awesome. Our trail is called Rongai and I'm impatiently awaiting an opportunity to use the punchline, "You've got the Rong-gai!"

Day 2
POPCORN, AVOCADO, ORANGE, POTATO-CARROT-PEPPER BISQUE, LEEK SOUP, TOMATO-TALAPA RICE, TEA, TOAST...

Ramson is our awesome guide who isn't even sketchy to me. He said he guided 2 women before the US election who angrily said Obama will most certainly not win. We asked where they were from and while he was struggling to remember, I suggested, "Texas?" Correct. We explained people can be stupid. He said they were not very nice. We explained people who are stupid are often racist. We were disappointed to hear that they both made it to the summit.

Other conversation ranged from: education, Muslims (who are not well-liked here! I'm trying to be quick in reporting how AWESOME my Souree family is), tree-grafting, farm subsidation, unmarried people, crops, economies...

We're apparently doing decently. We passed a girl today who had to go back down and call an ambulance.. Hatari! (Danger)

Day 3
Woke up full of snot but with a great view of the snowcaps to compensate. Got chips AND popcorn AND the most awesome fried banana AND pancakes! WHAT IS GOING ON?! WHERE AM I? The men (everyone else) sang spirituals.

In the middle of the night, I starting shaking with laughter... I was remembering baba yangu (my dad) ask about toilet paper. He's an avid student of the ways of African wiping. He's impressively open about it considering the first time he heard about it was from me a few days ago. He keeps asking me to explain again, but I appreciate his efforts and willingness to adapt. We realized they probably did carry t.p. for us though, so he went to ask. Awkwardly. "So, do you have the, uh, toilet paper... or do you just do the, uh, you know, with the water?" (mimed wiping butt as befuddled guides and porters stared on.) He repeated it a couple times before looking to me for help (as I was holding in giggles). In that moment with all helpless and confused eyes on me, after we'd all just watched my dad stutter about water and wiggle his fingers around his rear end... I has a decision to make. What I really wanted to do was tell my dad I'd made the whole thing up and that's why they didn't understand. Can you imagine? Instead I took the lamer route and said clearly, "Toilet paper or water?" And the guy said, "Ah, you want toilet paper!" and gave us some.

(Apologies to my dad for including this...)

People I know of Who've climbed Kilimanjaro:
Dana: my friend, but also an insane fitness type. Runs every day, IN SENEGAL. Is otherwise intelligent. Said when she reached the summit, she sat down, cried, and thought she would die. Also that she'd love to do it again...
Emily: Smoker. Said it was a mountain of diarrhea and to bring imodium. When she returned, she had long-lasting lung problems
Kevin: Former marine
Mandy: A better version of myself, but also comparatively normal
Family of Cindy's friend: My mum tried to comfort me with the tale of how this Whole Family made it up, Quote: "And they're not in any GREAT shape... well... they do all have their own personal trainers, but..."
Obese Woman in Girly Magazine: Fulfilled her lifelong dream of losing enough weight to climb to the top. I wish she were the only person I knew about. I think of her often. I would send her flowers if I could.

Day 4
Passed a gravesite, and dad left. His heart didn't take to the altitude well, and there was no reason to risk it, and every reason not to. So I have his warm jacket, headlamp, energy "gu", and half an empty tent. And a midnight wake-up call to embark on the final stretch to the top of Kilimanjaro.

Day 5
I will never come back to Kilimanjaro.
It was epicly gorgeous. The sun rose over a whole half of the earth as if I were watching from a space ship. The glaciers were too massive to be real. Snow, valleys, mountains, world beyond. Amazing. Too bad I was rather distracted by the difficulty I found in living to appreciate it all even half as much as it deserved.
It snowed in the night-- a foot that covered the tent I had to myself. I didn't sleep a wink before I was summoned at midnight. We ended up leaving 20 Minutes late but somehow I channeled my Herculean side on the way up and passed everyone else. So we were the first to reach the crater edge with still over an hour before sunrise. Without a moon, it was pitch black except for the strings of headlamps below that crawled like snakes of pearl or broken Christmas lights. Then the stars came our and I was encouraged to see a meteor while Ramson turned snow yellow. He kept complimenting my speed. Then I couldn't breathe.
I guess there's a height which just flips my acclimatization switch. One minute I was singing, "Hakuna Matata" in my head and the enxt I felt like the grim reaper was slow dancing wiht me. A lot of it must have been mental-- once I stopped blocking out every thought that wasn't "One foot, Next foot, breathe, Hakuna Matata...", I unintentionally gave myself free reign to freak out. I suddenly realized I was light-headed, dizzy, exhausted, and colder than I've ever been in my life. I had hand-warmers that are not supposed to go directly on your skin because they could burn you-- and I couldn't even feel them! I thought they didn't work until several hours later once I'd descended to warmer weather. It was good I had my dad's jacket, but I remember thinking there could never be enough clothes to combat this.
This is when I started hating Ramson. More specifically, I wanted to stab my ski pole through his torso. I could tell he'd been bragging to the other guides as we passed them about my speed. At the time it fed my ego, but I was starting to realize this was not what I wanted from a guide. He was sure I wanted to get to the Uhuru sign like all his other clients, get the proof-picture, and then give him a big tip. Actually, I honestly just wanted to makle a beline for the nearest bed. Instead I wimpered weak protests as he dragged me. Then I couldn't keep my eyes open. The sign was apparently on the other side of Africa. Every time he revised his description of its location (see that light? there. no, just beyond that bend... no, past those rocks), my grip tightened on my ski pole. I would have cried if I weren't so tired.
Seeing the sun rise over such a massive curve of the horizen, past mountains, cities, countries-- is something I'll never forget. The glaciers can't be described, even by photo. It truly was the most spectacular set of views anyone could ever see without drugs. Still, I was panicked about never being able to walk my body away from the scene to give it all my awe. The rest of life is more beautiful than any mountain top.
My guide seemed to disagree. When my battaries died and he couldn't take my photo, he refused to leave until someone else gave us their batteries. I allowed the crazy search at first so I could rest. But once I realized he had no intention of letting me leave-- even after we fought-- I worried. I accepted a Dutch couples' offer to take and email me my photo. I hope they don't. I could not look worse that I must have in that photo. I can't emphasize this enough. I honestly wouldn't be surprised to see it on some joke bad-picture website instead of in my inbox.
Ramson was still not happy that I didn't have my own copy of the famous photo that gets him more tip money. When I yelled at him a final time to let it go and get me off this blasted mountain, he took off in a huff. Now I wasn't exactly missing his company, but I still didn't appreciate that this speck in the distance had all my water, food, belongings, and was supposed to be keeping me from plummeting to my death. I was already tripping over my own two feet even when I did have my eyes open. Luckily, he seemed to get over his tantrum before the crater. Then he went back to yelling at me to go faster. (This was actually necessary for my own health to get to a lower altitude.)
As we descended in a frighteningly fast straight slide down, breathing returned to my repetoire of autonomy. The dragged-by-elbow-tripping-over-rocks-miraculously-not-twisting-ankle method has claimed my legs' and knees' lives for the time being, but we made it. (I lost Dana's bracelet in the snow around this point, but this appeals to her poetic sense. I just miss my pretty bracelet.)
I am never coming back here.
We met up with my dad on the Merangue route. I struggled to explain to him that maybe his way was better. Although I have a certain sense of accomplishment and bragging rights, the climb really wasn't fun-- especially without company (Ramson doesn't count). I know he's disappointed, but even scenes of suns that rise like dreams-- aren't worth a heart attack. I'm disturbed by the importance people put into reaching the summit. The annual deaths, the more plentiful ambulences, the tears, the gravesites... Why are we so obsessed with reaching signs that seem to say, "I came as close to dying without dying to reach this sign!" Thumbs up, christmas card, gift shop tee-shirt... It's sick, really.
As I was putting myself through it, I thought about all the pain I've put myself through this year. I decided pain that gives people mosquito nets or tells a girl that she can go farther= worth it. Pain for fame/ a bad photograph= not worth it.

Day 6
Life is beautiful again. The way down was a beautiful walk at the end of which was beer. In beer, as in life, I'd recommend "Safari" over "Kilimanjaro."
I smell awful.