The mef dreams have been intense.
Mef dreams is a term we coined in south Africa for the vivid dreams people would have while taking their malaria meds. I never experienced them there – only heartburn that left my chest ablaze. But here, my dreams seem to have taken over my nights. I wake up a little dazed while I try to piece together what actually happened and where I am.
And the diversity.
The first one I remember was an episode of the show Dollhouse. Not one I’ve seen mind you, but with characters and a basic plotline that would have worked on the show. Since then there have been dreams about people I haven’t seen in years but who feel as if they were here – in the flesh, and situations that left me relieved to wake up from. I think I might need to keep a dream journal just to get it all down. Mefloqin may be the catalyst but my dreams still might be trying to speak to me.
Last night was the first on a couple of different levels. The first night I truly experienced the tiny rocks common in things like rice and bulgar wheat –dinner was a little crunchy and so we laughed and chewed lightly. And then the water didn’t come on as it usually did, forcing a decision to return to buckets (and replenishing our water stores later) or to wait until this morning. Triumphant, the water was on this morning and I’m now squeaky clean.
Finally, it was the first night I’ve been to sleep before midnight. Oddly, I’m still exhausted as I try to gather myself for the day ahead. Maybe a few more nights of early to bed will allow me the ease of early to rise. For now I’m going to go in search of both breakfast and lunch (as the power is off and I will be on the road most of the day).
Today began with such promise. We (bushdiva (BD) and I) had an actual schedule…three different events that linked in some way to our new life here. First it was supposed to be KK introducing us to the county health department and then explaining the budget she is reviewing for the ministry of health; then K was going to take us over to Cuttington University to introduce us to a few people and show us the bank; and finally we were going to meet with Africare to begin looking for ways we can collaborate.
And it all started off well enough. I awoke to running water and BD already in the process of twisting her freshly washed locks. I followed suit and we were both amazed at how smoothly and quickly the whole thing went. But from there things went south, our 10 am meeting turned into a 1:30 meeting which would have run into our 2pm meeting if that hadn’t been moved to Friday.
Add in forgotten computer cords and dysfunctional internet and the day might have been a total bust…but Africare powered through. After meeting the staff and introducing ourselves it was time for business.
The result?
Tomorrow I will meet with a small group about the waste management/placenta pits at the 14 clinics. Following that I will travel to a nearby clinic to get a feel for what they look like and how they run and will then return to observe a meeting with USAID.
Of course we’ve been warned about the bumpy roads – warned and urged to take precautionary pain killers and motion sickness meds…adventures abound even in the most mundane of activities here!
I’m out of practice.
I’m out of the practice of living in a developing country. And Liberia feels so different from south Africa. Actually I’m unsure if it is really that different or if I’ve just forgotten or been spoiled. Life simply requires more from you here. From washing clothes to shopping in town…there is nothing quick. Today I found myself at Starbucks (the nickname the other volunteers have given to the junction at the main road that has money changers, small market stalls, and a special tea I haven’t tried yet) looking for a cab.
K is seasoned at this and so directed us into a private car functioning as a taxi, four in the back seat and two in the passenger seat, and headed 15 or so minutes up the road. Swerving amid the potholes and honking at oncoming traffic. We were waved through the immigration checkpoint but were warned that sometimes it may be necessary to show our PC ID.
Dropped on the outskirts of town, we headed onto a side road toward an HIV/AIDS project run by the Lutheran church that K has been active with. Young men on motorbikes, some carrying passengers and others seemingly in search of them, craned their necks to get a look or beeped their horns and continued riding.
Inside we were greeted and exchanged pleasantries that turned to an exchange of awkwardness. One of the AIDS counselor trainees explained the training process and how she became involved.
She is HIV +.
Her disclosure then morphed into an explanation of her circumstances: before she knew her status, she got sick and her husband left, leaving her with her three children and the five children of her brother – killed during the war. Now she is without a job, sick, and looking for a better way.
The unasked question sat, clinging to each of us like the drops of sweat on our foreheads and arms. Would we help?
Unsure of the proper response, Bushdiva and I sat quietly, avoiding eye contact and watching K to see how she would field it. There was silence. And after the long pause she responded evenly and with compassion with questions about the woman’s plight. How are the children? What is she doing now? Silence followed the answers. Finally, K thanked the woman for sharing her story, reiterated that things are very hard, and commended her on all she was doing to help herself and her family.
And then she excused us to say goodbye to the reverend we had come to meet.
Outside, walking toward town with a UN VIP convoy kicking up dust to guide our way, we debriefed. There was no question of truth to her story – only in our ability to help her, and following her, every other person in Liberia with a variation on the same tragic story. For many, death and disease, abandonment and rape, are the backdrop this country is rebuilding on.
There are no easy answers. Giving money to individuals doesn’t solve the systematic ills that need to be righted to establish sustainable change. And so even conversation is hard here…
And so I fumble on, knowing that there is no pattern, no rhythm yet and recognizing that a part of me still expects there should be. I am not as fearless as I want to be in life. The pace of Gbarnga, though no bigger than a small town, throws off my equilibrium. And I must remind myself that I will eventually find my balance and the newness will be forgotten. Until then, I observe, I interact, and I search for my patch of sustaining Blue in the tumult of competing colors.
I hauled my first water…and my second. Apparently the stuff flowing from the taps isn’t potable so instead, we (or in this case, I) join the ranks of my community members and pump a metal handle furiously for five minutes until the water finally emerges slow and shy and crystal clear –though still not clean enough for drinking. And after hoisting the bucket to my head I began the developing world ritual: haul water from one source and pour it into another and then transfer that water into another. In South Africa my father brought huge barrels of water from the farm in the back of his truck and we transferred it to smaller and progressively smaller holding tanks. Here we haul it from the pump to a bucket to the water filters we have perched on various surfaces.
Even so…I love the dichotomy of my experience so far. On one hand I have a hand pump in the yard with chickens scurrying about and on the other I have at least intermittent access to wifi and regular access to electricity. Contradictions abound.
Still inching toward a full life here I slept in this morning and did nothing that resembled work. The challenge for Peace Corps service is often figuring out not only what to begin but how to begin it. Peace Corps Response is even trickier because there is less time to figure it all out. And so instead I walked around with one of the established volunteers, figured out where they go for lunch and hung out a little with their self-adopted host family: mommy, mommy jr, and the four little girls. Courage, about 5 years old, seemed fond of me while Bidi, 9 months, stared on stoically, eyes following the foreigners but neither a smile or a even a grin passing her lips.
Later I was introduced to the internet source at the hospital and from there met one of the missionaries that lives in the area and a Cuttington University (one of two elite schools in Liberia) agriculture student. J, as I’ll refer to him, appears to be a potential friend. He fled to this area during the war. His schooling interrupted, he picked up computers and now works part time as a tech at the hospital while he attends classes.
J provided the first real exchange that I’ve had with a Liberian not associated with PC in some way. He talked to me about local markets where we can purchase vegetables, the viability of planting a garden here –which is apparently high even for such a short stay- and potential travel he’d like to do.
One of the volunteers pointed out that unlike most other PC service where you are alone and become attached to people in your community; our setup lends itself to a more insular lifestyle. I hope J is the first of many Liberian friends that prevent that from happening.
Of course, riding high on both internet and a new found friend, I neglected to see that the gate surrounding the hospital is slightly raised and managed to kick it forcefully and trip fully and publicly in the middle of a small gathering of patients and hospital staff. Graceful even here, I’m thankful that I didn’t break anything and simply laughed at myself on the way home.
Cold water is what stays on my mind. Never mind the almost five hour delay in brussles where all 14 volunteers finally managed to find each other (we aren’t that difficult to spot), or the fact that a man being deported wailed and moaned indecipherably at the back of the plane before mysteriously quieting after three official looking people surrounded him. Never mind either, the liberian man we met en route who told us about the liberia of his childhood and his classmate charles taylor – now on trial in the hauge for crimes against humanity or the amazing ham and parmesan sandwich I had in the airport.
Cold water reigns supreme.
Returned to my previous peace corps bucket bath reality, I find myself minus one ingredient. Hot water. No one heats a bucket of water simply to bathe. Coal is too precious despite time being plentiful. And so each of the last four nights, the fingerprints of a hot clammy day lingering all over my body, I gritted my teeth and whimpered loudly as I trailed cold water over suds.
But tonight, freshly arrived at the place I will call home for the next six months, I was met with surprises. Electricity…and more than that…running water!
The electricity is only from 6 pm to 7 am, but that’s when it is dark so it works out well. The water holds no such schedule and flows sporadically but there is a pump in the yard so I can’t complain. Still…even straight from the pipes and out through a shower head, cold water is cold water. And so this evening I took my inaugural shower wincing only sporadically as I rinsed the four hour drive across pock marked asphalt down the roach stuffed drain.
Bucket bath aside, this experience is shaping up to be the anti-south africa. More than a change in hemispheres, everything has been turned on its head. Rather than the solitary american in my village I now have four roomates (two will be heading out in the next two weeks). Instead of a host country national counterpart to introduce me into the community and to provide guidance on my work here, I have been plopped into an area without any real connection to anyone or anything here – the work I’m suppsed to do is based out of monrovia.
That said, some things never change. As Bushdiva (my fellow newbie in country) and I asked about our assignment we were informed that it is rather fluid and we might benefit from thinking about ways we want to get involved with the community and surrounding NGOs while our appointed duties come together.
A quiet aside, I nicknamed my sitemate bushdiva because despite her protestations, we both know she is a diva…at least as diva as she can be under our living circumstances. Case in point, this evening as i settled into the sound of crickets and some relaxation she prepared for her cold water shower. A few minutes later she returned and calmly asked for my help. I followed her into the bathroom where she handed me some cardboard and then pointed at the tub, “get him.”
The him in this reference was a florida-sized cockroach, the kind about the length of my big toe. I laughed but dutifully picked him up and threw him outside. Small price to pay in the scheme of things….she is the neat freak among us and I look forward to reaping the benefits of her cleanliness.
I was struck by her furtive glances. Flashlight shining into the darkness, every towering flower and blooming bush suddenly a threat to safety and a sense of home. More than her favorite purse or credit cards, the thief that held up my friend this weekend stole her peace of mind.
Watching her from my car until her gate slammed shut with her safely inside and I was struck that beyond any true bodily harm we might inflict or have inflicted on us, the treachery we impose on each other is a stealing of …
…home, peace, faith.
The other day I lost a friend. He didn’t die. He may not even know he is gone from me. But his actions have stolen a piece of my faith in people. In the idea that someone might think of me and what I offer in friendship as something valuable enough to not throw away on a whim. And so my faith has slipped. Maybe it isn’t stolen…maybe just misplaced for a while.
And more than time or energy or any tangible thing, my faith in the basic goodness of people…the human capacity for compassion and respect…has been upset.
And in no way is it the same as my dear sweet beautiful friend searching for a piece of peace that once greeted her with open arms at her own doorstep. Watching her from the car I found myself wishing vile things on this person that disrupted the space she inhabits…the space she brightens so effortlessly under almost any circumstance.
And he has no idea. Probably never stopped to think that what he actually stole is more priceless and impossible to replace than the possessions he snatched.
Peace and faith and home appear sturdy and lasting but in truth are such fragile notions that we hold onto. Shaken at their foundation and it is hard to imagine getting a sense of them back, but for the sake of my friend I hope against all my lost faith, that it is indeed possible.
Tags: bay, friends, observations
No matter how small my world may feel, the people in it are huge. These looming figures that make an impact even when I least realize…and all the more when I know it is happening. And the older I get – time passing in a steady quickening stream- the more people there are to have an impact.
A few weeks ago I ventured to Baltimore for my peace corps reunion. Every two years we assemble ourselves in a specific location for no other reason than we shared an important time and as a result share a common bond. And they are family – complete with all the quirks that make families at once the same and unique in everyone’s life.
And upon my return I was met by a number of folks from my past assembling themselves into some event, conversation, destination, or experience in my present. People who I have thought of – or haven’t – over the years.
At once it takes me back. I am reminded of who I was 20 or even 2 years ago. The ways I have changed and the things that remain unchanged even as time flows by…taking concrete memories and leaving nostalgia in its wake.
I know the place all of these people hold in my past, in my head, in my heart. And though in so many ways it doesn’t matter, I can’t help but wonder what place I hold in theirs.
the notion of home has always been less place and more people. a military brat traipsing with my family hither and yon, the word home has always conjured up the faces of my parents and sister assembled hodge podge on my parents’ bed. it never mattered where the bed was, only that we were all there.
the first time it wasn’t home was upon my return from new zealand. my experiences, my heart, had expanded and invited someone else in and so home was less finite than my nuclear family.
it has since had to retract (love never dies but sometimes it takes a permanent sabbatical to a place that is simply away), but the experience shuffled my notion of home. when i arrived in the bay i was already smitten by the weather and quirkiness of the people, the old architecture and the natural beauty. i assumed i’d like oakland but didn’t consider much beyond that. how was i to know this place would seep into me and feel like the place i’m supposed to be?
home as actual location? how could it be?
and yet i find myself with favorite eating spots, and places of refuge. i know my neighborhood and the homeless people nearby have personalities. i have friends for any occasion…any…
and so today, beaten down by circumstance, i found myself on the floor of my friend’s kitchen, eating rich delicious brownies, playing with a cat-like dog, and laughing in spite of myself.
and it isn’t an anomaly. this whole week. hell, any given week, i can find myself amidst the laughter of friends, nestled in the comfort of people who haved settled themselves into the rhythm of my life. and i love it. it scares me, but i love it.
such a silly thing to fear, but i’ve never been married to a place. military at my roots, every two to four years is reason enough to pack up my whole life and try something new. and while i often miss people, place always seemed arbitrary.
only now it doesn’t. now my apartment fits me and is my refuge from the world beyond my antique glass. now understanding ways to get around the city are less novelty and more roots. now the people feel a part of the place. or maybe for once the place feels a part of the people.
and it scares me that i feel so connected. i’m fearful that it feels so fragile. i’m amazed that i care.
but i do.
this spring i discovered a park not far from my house. and when the weather is nice i can take a blanket and a book and contemplate the magnolia tree providing shade or listen to a friend play the guitar to the frenzied fanfare of every toddler in the park…and that feels as homey as anything…feels as homey as everything here.
Tags: bay, family, friends, transition
death seems to be in the air. seemingly contagious. fawcett, jackson, mcman. today mcnair.
people react in a myriad of ways. a return to 1985 with folks crying and falling out over micheal. bereaved as if he were family. as if they knew him more intimately than simply his voice in song. there are tributes and recollections by friends about lives lived.
i find myself thinking about what they didn’t do. i wonder how each one left this world…not literally, but in terms of their aspirations. the dreams that still made them smile to themselves when the thought crossed their minds.
i imagine ed and farah left fulfilled. maybe an unfair assumption but she was sick and he was old- both conditions provide you with the short view on life. the absence of expectation that tomorrow is promised. tim mcgraw wrote a song about it – the idea that living like you were dying.
only we all are.
i have a few facebook friends who inspire me to live like i’m dying. people who decided to go against rote living. the idea that life is just a series of habits repeated because its all you know or is the farthest thing from what you fear.
and i live like that in spurts. bundles of time where i stretch and reach and experience myself, my life, as if the moment i’m in is the only moment there is.
i want to more moments. i’m working on it.
i’m not a religious person so it may seem a strange thing to struggle with…but i was brought up in a religious family. and my ideals haven’t strayed far from where they started. so grace isn’t foreign to me.
i think of grace as a gift we are wish to receive and as such should be willing to give.
but right now i’m not being very gracious.
the whole world is mourning micheal jackson and i find myself bitter. bitter that he is being honored without any real mention of his misdeeds. as if in death he has managed to shed any guilt or affiliation with inappropriate acts with children.
and who am i to judge? dead now, why does it matter?
only, i can’t imagine being one of those children and seeing the face of the man who did things to to me and the world singing his praises, crying for his passing, honoring his memory.
and it makes me angry. and a little sick.
only that isn’t gracious.
we all have our demons. we all have the misdeeds that make us human. the ones we aspire to learn from so we can be better people. and today, next year, or on my death bed, i would hate to be held to the worst incarnation of myself and not the moment i was able to get myself together and be a better me.
grace is a gift i want for myself…
but i struggle, maybe unfairly. i’m angry that americans have pencil memories. angry that as we celebrate the passing of a pop icon that we have removed him from human dimensions and made him conveniently infallible.
we are doing that. as media. as fans.
and yet i blame michael.
so i’m working on that. working to offer grace to a man in death that i don’t know. a troubled man now gone. i’m working to extend the gift i hope others will extend to me always as i struggle to be a better person.
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