Running on empty

Firstly I must apologise for my lack of communication during October. I should probably have posted whatever the blog equivalent of an “out of office” auto-reply is before I went gallivanting off on my adventures.

October was a HUGE month of adventure. I’m talking outdoor adventures here, Tanzanian and Kenyan; adventures on a grand scale... including returning home to Moshi an engaged woman!

That, however, is a tale that shall have to come later. My first grand adventure for October was trekking Mount Kilimanjaro, at 5,895m the highest mountain in Africa and the highest free-standing mountain in the world.

Those of you who know me will already be sighing... AGAIN. I should explain. I first summitted Kili in 2007, for fun and adventure. I summitted again in June 2009 & June 2010 for my job leading trekking groups. So why on earth would I want to clamber up the same giant volcano AGAIN???

All previous treks had been via the same route, Machame, which traverses the southern flank of Kibo (Kili’s main peak). I’d been carrying just a daypack, supported by porters carrying my large gear bag, as is the usual style for trekking Kili (& many other mountainous regions of the world).

This time I wanted to see a completely different side of the mountain, so I chose Rongai Route, approaching from the north-east side. More significantly, I wanted Kili to challenge me, to really push my boundaries. And so I chose a guide I knew and trusted, and who knew I was capable of carrying a load as large as my porters carried. And I chose to explore and sleep overnight in Kili’s summit crater, something very few people have the privilege to experience.

By carrying all my own gear and a bit of group food, and only using two tents between us, we were able to reduce the usual number of porters from three to two (plus cook & guide = crew of 4). This doesn’t sound significant, but it’s startlingly unusual enough that I became a source of gossip across the mountain.

I’d been looking forward to getting away from the stares of Moshi, the constant calls of “Mzungu” (foreigner), of being a minority, of standing out from the crowd. On the mountain, I’d assumed, I’d just blend in with the hundreds of other wazungu. Wrong! From the company’s office staff to the Park Rangers, everyone queried – “just TWO porters”? In response, the Rangers were told by my guide “Look at her pack.” And everywhere I went with my large pack on, eyes followed.

The peanut gallery stares, however, became much more goggle-eyed, & mouths hung agape whenever we set up camp & it became evident to my local audience that I was sharing a tent with my guide. Oh my goodness! Many assumed he’d brought his wife to trek the mountain. The rest just assumed we were... well, you know. Apparently it is just inconceivable in the local psyche that my guide could possibly be sharing a tent with a mzungu woman platonically. Samuel found the entire situation hilarious, and it created much animated conversation & shared laughter between us.

DAY 1: Nalemoru Gate – Simba Camp

A slow start to a trek, as the first day involves more driving than walking. We first had to drive to Marangu Gate (actually our descent route) to pay park fees, before following the mountain-base contours around to the Kenyan side. I lunched at Nalemoru Gate (~2000m altitude) while my crew made final departure preparations. The afternoon’s walk was less than three hours, and a far cry from the lush rainforest environment of the southern side of Kili.

Locals head for the village banana market

For almost an hour we passed through pine plantation forest, interspersed with pockets of maize fields. This is the dry side of the mountain, so it was a hot, dusty, sweaty afternoon. The start of the natural forest marked our entry into the National Park itself. The forest band is narrow on this side; in little more than an hour the vegetation is already changing to the lower bush of the heathers.

We reached Simba Camp (2650m) in plenty of time for my hot chocolate & popcorn, followed by an afternoon stroll. I headed a couple of hundred metres higher, as I knew this trip I was really heading too high, too fast, so I was keen to do everything I could to aid my acclimatisation.

DAY 2: Simba Camp – Third Cave Camp

Unlike the hoo-hah of a dining tent, folding chairs & tables that accompany larger expeditions, I had a simple kitenge cloth laid out as a tablecloth to dine at, picnic style. Dinners were in-tent, as it was generally too dark & cold for outdoor dining by that time of day. Breakfasts though, were enjoyed in the brisk morning air & life-enhancing glow of the morning sun.

Morning view of Kibo from Simba Camp

I had a spectacular view of both Kibo & Mawenzi (Kili’s secondary peak) this morning, before hints of cloud crept in. It was strange seeing them “in reverse” – Kibo right, Mawenzi left. I chucked my pack on the porter’s scales this morning – a respectable 21kg.

As with yesterday, the trail moved steadily upwards. Rongai is a steady ascent route, lacking the more dramatic undulations of Machame. The vegetation continued to decrease in size, moving well into the mooreland zone. Shortly before lunch Samuel & I had fun monkey-ing around in the natural “skylight” of First Cave.

Lunch at Second Cave (3450m) was a social affair, as all groups stopped there. One of the benefits of solo-trekking is the socialising with other groups, who seemed intrigued by & happy to talk with me. Another was the pleasure of walking for an hour, or two, without a break if I chose to; a pleasure not generally afforded in groups.

Third Cave (3875m) was our cloudy, rainy camp. I spent some time between the rain showers pottering around in a dry river bed playing with my camera. Life got more social, catching up with William, another guide I’d previously worked with, who expressed complete bewilderment that anyone who worked on the mountain would return to trek it “for fun”. The sky cleared by evening & the night sky, with an all-but-full moon, was spectacular.

DAY 3: Third Cave Camp – Kibo Huts

It was just a morning’s walk from camp to camp today, although we gained over 800m in a long, steady ascent. I had some fun at morning tea, clambering up on a massive rocky outcrop, from where I had a fantastic view across The Saddle towards Mawenzi. I could clearly see all the trails traversing The Saddle, and the little ant dots of the trekkers upon them.

Great view from up top but unfortunately camera at bottom

Kibo Huts (4713m) was a busy place, being a junction for the ascent-descent Marangu Route, as well as being joined by the Rongai Route trekkers. I developed a mild headache today, first AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness - caused by altitude) symptom, but it abated during the evening. Life got even more social, as there were two more Tropical Trails groups in camp, about to descend. I popped downhill for a social catch-up with several guides & cooks I knew: Ramsom, Justaz, Godbless, Amos.

In the afternoon I headed off on my own, traversing the mountain until Barafu (the high camp on Machame Route) was visible in the distance. Midway between the two camps I found perfect solitude & blissful silence. Its places like these that I have “thin moments”, connecting with God naturally.

I was feeling the effects of carrying a full pack today. The first two days were a doddle, but I could definitely feel my body working harder with the increasing altitude today. Appetite affected at dinner – definitely decreased.

DAY 4: Kibo Huts – Uhuru Peak (summit) – Summit Crater Camp

I experienced the novelty of a daytime summit ascent today. Being able to see all the tiny little dots of people descending the impossibly steep looking slope post-summitting, and able to see exactly how steep and high I had to go, I understood the wisdom of a night-time ascent, when your world is reduced to the cone of your headlight & it’s easy to fall into a zone where you lose hours of time. I suspect many more people would give up with a daytime ascent.

Despite nausea allowing only minimal breakfast consumption, I started out strongly, and was still smiling at William’s Point, marking 5000m. From there onwards Kili started becoming the challenge I’d been searching for. Nausea became unrelenting, & I employed every physical and mental technique I knew to tackle the task ahead. My pace became slower and slower (but steady), my steps shorter and shorter; a full breath in & out for every step. Breaks became more frequent. [A benefit of daytime ascending is being able to stop for breaks without starting to freeze to the core.]

For some obscure reason I announced to Samuel, a couple of hundred metres short of attaining the crater rim at Gilman’s Point, that I had to eat an apple. Right then! So I did. Samuel is a patient man.

Reaching Gilman’s Point (5681m) after 5.25 hours was a great relief. From there it was a mere 1.5 hours to the summit, and once we’d passed Stella Point I was on familiar trail to Uhuru Peak. Basically not having eaten all day though, I was having to digging deep for final energy reserves.

Following the crater rim from Gilman's Point to the summit (far background)

I arrived at Uhuru Peak in spectacular style, unexpectedly vomiting everywhere. Well, that’s something else that’ll make this summit stand out from the others!

After photos, we continued a short distance further around the crater rim to our descent point into the crater. Think of a sand-dune with the steepness of a black ski run & you’ll have an idea of our descent route. And descending down a steep scree slope feels much like a moon-walking equivalent of skiing.

Look very carefully just near the shadow & you'll see tents!

Crater Camp, at 5729m is by far and away the highest altitude at which I’ve ever slept. There was only one other group besides ours. It is a stark, moonscape campsite. The entire summit was snow-less, so the glaciers rising in blocks from the volcanic dust looked startling and entirely impossible.

My AMS nausea was unrelenting, so dinner was virtually impossible. My crew weren’t feeling great either, which gave me a small measure of comfort, side-by-side with guilt for being the cause of their discomfort.

DAY 5: Summit Crater Camp – Kibo Huts – Horombo Huts

Samuel & I rose at 6:30am for our “stroll” up to the Reusch Crater rim to gaze down upon the Ash Pit. I say “stroll” in inverted comas, for although I was packless, as soon as the terrain was the slightest bit uphill I was toddling like an old lady with my trekking poles.

It was worth the effort though. From the rim, we could smell the sulphur and see the puffs of smoke emanating from the fumaroles; evidence indeed that Kilimanjaro is merely dormant, not extinct. And centre-stage, the Ash Pit - at 360m across & 120m deep, said to be one of the largest and most perfect examples of its kind in the world.

We could’ve descended right into the Reusch Crater but, mindful of my low energy reserves & the long day still ahead, I contented myself with playing around on the Furtwangler Glacier on the way back to camp for a breakfast I couldn’t eat.

Post-phantom-breakfast we donned packs and headed across the floor to exit the crater at Stella Point. Throughout the morning I could hear the cheers and whistles of the excited little ants on the summit nearly 200m above us – a strange perspective on it. I wondered whether any of them gazing into the crater might be curious about the little ants they saw down there & decided, caught up in their own euphoria, probably not.

From Stella we retraced our previous day’s route back to Kibo Huts for another unconsumable lunch (not inedible, my cook Maulid was fantastic). The cloud was well & truly in by then. Indeed, just after we’d set out across The Saddle in the afternoon, it began to snow. Fantastic! Walking in the snow is a much greater joy than walking in rain. And it transforms the landscape, the very air, the world.

Zebra Rocks

Shortly before Horombo, and just as the snow ceased, we digressed to check out the spectacular Zebra Rocks. From there it was a pleasant walk down a giant tree groundsel-studded grassy valley to Horombo Huts (3719m).

Still nauseated, and by then stomach-cramping, I took more drugs, crawled into my sleeping bag & prayed for oblivion. I woke briefly hours later, greatly relieved my symptoms had finally subsided.

DAY 6: Horombo Huts – Marangu Gate

A lovely sunny morning, with Kibo & Mawenzi both looking gorgeous in their new mantles of snow. Today Kili had one final challenge to throw at me; or rather, Samuel did. Thankfully I finally managed a tiny breakfast, as I needed all the energy I could muster. My extremely popular guide needed to get back to Moshi for a group briefing in the afternoon, so we were on a mission to get to Marangu Gate (1860m) as quickly as we could. I told him it was lucky I liked a challenge, or I’d have told him “No way, I’m going pole pole (slowly).”

After a pre-departure tipping ceremony & photos with “my guys", we headed off on the long, undulating traverse to Mandara Huts. I had an ever-changing perspective on Mawenzi, and delightful views down over the African plains. Just prior to Mandara, we digressed to check out a mini-volcanic crater. We descended through the heath zone & the (much broader on this side) forest zone, where I reacquainted myself with my favourite flower, Impatiens Kilimanjari, found NOWHERE else in the world other than on this mountain.

Whilst still stopping for plenty of photos, I put my mind in Trailwalker (a 100km team walking endurance event) mode, and we managed to cover the 20.4km distance in 5 hours, 10 minutes. Not bad with a full pack, and running on empty...

On arrival at Marangu Gate, asked in Kiswahili how my trip was, I summed it up: “Nzuri sana lakini nimechoka kabisa.” (Fantastic, but I’m absolutely tired). Maulid told me I’d been strong up there, especially in the crater – an immense compliment. I was pleased to have held my own, and that Samuel knew me well enough not to offer to reduce my load even when I was “doing it tough”. The emotion hit when I spoke to my first friend & the enormity of the challenge I’d successfully tackled began to sink in. Wow! What a trek!

I was hobbling like a bibi mzee (old grandmother) for the next couple of days. Bodies repair quickly though, and memories last a lifetime. Challenges faced and overcome leave their own indelible mark too; on your body, mind, spirit, character. All become stronger, and much is learnt about “self”. I am reminded of one of my favourite quotes:

"Each of us should have his or her own Everest - a testing place in any endeavour where the goal is almost, but not quite, beyond reach.  When you take on a great challenge and persevere, you discover that your abilities are more than you ever imagined, enabling you at times to accomplish the "impossible."  A life lived in this way is infinitely fulfilling." Dr Kenneth Kamler



The business of love

I’ve been meaning for a very long time – about 110 pages worth – to share with you some words from Oliver Sacks’ book “Awakenings.” If you haven't read the book you have likely seen the film, in which Robin Williams and Robert de Niro, amongst others, give brilliant performances.  I digress.  Towards the end of the book Mr. Sacks is describing how some patients become astute & expert navigators of themselves through the trials & tribulations of their Parkinsonism & the effects of L-DOPA (laevodihydroxyphenylalanine) & other medications - eventually developing a deep accommodation of their condition.

He explicates:

"Deep accommodation, rest, care, ingenuity – all of these are essential for the patient on L-DOPA. But more important than all of them, and perhaps a prerequisite for all of them, is the establishment of proper relations with the world, and – in particular – with other human beings, or one other human being, for it is human relations which carry the possibilities of proper being-in-the-world. Feeling the fullness of the presence of the world depends on feeling the fullness of another person, as a person; reality is given to us by the reality of people; reality is taken from us by the unreality of un-people; our sense of reality, of trust, of security, is critically dependent on a human relation. A single good relation is a life-line in trouble, a pole-star and compass in the ocean of trouble: and we see, again and again, in the histories of these patients, how a single relation can extricate them from trouble. Kinship is healing; we are physicians to each other – ‘A faithful friend is the physic of life’ (Browne). The world is the hospital where healing takes place.

"The essential thing is feeling at home in the world, knowing in the depths of one’s being that one has a real place in the home of the world ...

"... One sees that beautiful and ultimate metaphysical truth, which has been stated by poets and physicians and metaphysicians in all ages – by Leibniz and Donne and Dante and Freud: that Eros is the oldest and strongest of the gods; that love is the alpha and omega of being; and that the work of healing, of rendering whole is, first and last, the business of love."

(pp.271-3, Awakenings, Oliver Sacks, Vintage Books 1999)

 

Upon first reading, I thought strongly of my boyfriend, who has described falling in love with me as an awakening.  It is not my story to share with you why that is so.  Suffice to say, I'm sure that many people would describe falling in love in similar terms; the very act or process of opening yourself up to another person also opens you up to yourself, to possibilities, to hope, to emotion, to life.

It has always been my personal opinion that love cannot be denied forever and that trying to do so is only half-living. Yes, love hurts sometimes; and the more deeply you love, the more you open yourself to the potential for hurt. But I’ll take the highs and lows of love over the “safe” monotony of the cocooned grey "protect myself from hurt" middle-ground any day.

Upon typing the passage out, however, my thoughts turned towards the Kili Kids, each of whom is grappling with the individual “trials and tribulations” that life has already dealt them in their short lives. Each and every one has a story that makes you question "why?"  Why has this innocent child, this beautiful soul, been dealt such blows already?  Never mind another train of thought, those questions alone lead to an entire other rail network.

It struck me though, that there is still love in their stories.  And that of all the things every person involved in Committee Assist (Kili Kids) - from the founder and directors, the children's "Mum" and "Aunties", to the volunteers, fundraisers, life-long & one-off donors - is contributing and striving for; of all the “essentials of life” we’re trying to provide (family, a safe environment, health, clothing, food, education/vocation, etc.); what it really boils down to is giving these children love.

"...love is the alpha and omega of being;...

the work of healing, of rendering whole is, first and last, the business of love."

Despite all the difficulties and disadvantages of growing up in an orphanage, in an institution that by its very nature can but attempt to imitate family life (albeit sometimes very well), a great amount of healing – physical, emotional, psychological – has already occurred. Yes, there are struggles, but these children are also full of love.  They are such friendly, welcoming, loving children.  That irrespressible life force, love,  is alive within them.  And it is the solemn task and responsibility of everyone involved with them, to encourage and nurture the work of healing that is the business of love.  I certainly hope and pray that Kili Kids will continue to be a home for these children where healing takes place.

Memorial Festival

Weekends in Moshi can be a little quiet, so at Hostel Hoff we make our own fun. The latest “event”... Memorial Festival.

My goodness, what a hoot! Memorial Markets run several days a week. It consists of ramshackle log stalls with corrugated iron &/or hessian sack rooves, and open areas of trestle tables & wooden carts piled high with clothing. Everything is packed tightly together, and the place is a riot of noise and colour. If you were “directionally-challenged” it would be easy to get completely disoriented down all the little laneways between the stalls.

The markets are set in an open, dusty area which gets horrendously hot as soon as the sun emerges. The occasional vehicle blaring music passes through – pedalling politics or religion. Folks are yelling everywhere, pedalling their wares. A few mentally-ill men gesticulate wildly, rounding out the yelling cacophony. Most Hoffers seem to find their first visit quite overwhelming, although having negotiated the crush of humanity in plenty of Guangzhou (China) markets when I lived there, these are quite tame crowd-wise by comparison. Still, it pays to be aware of your personal belongings at all times!

I don’t know where all the goods come from – China, India, American charity cast-offs, goodness only knows. Some of the clothes there are SCARY! It was perfect for our needs. We were there on a mission: to each purchase the most awful complete outfit we could whilst spending no more than 2,000 TSh (approx. AU$2). It was fun!

I became the “Polyester Jumpsuit Queen”, managing to locate three of the hideous garments. The locals certainly got a few giggles as they watched us trying on various outfits over our clothes. One of the Hoff guys even got some applause from the surrounding ladies when he pulled on a pair of green floral-jungle ladies three-quarter pants.

Then all we needed to do was head back to town to purchase drinks and nibbles and await the arrival of Saturday, and the Memorial Festival...

Walkabout - Kenya and back in a day

Lake Chala is a spectacular volcanic caldera lake which straddles the border between Tanzania and Kenya. It is as firmly encircled by fascinating tales and claims as by its crater walls.

The Tanzania-Kenya border biscects Lake Chala (photo courtesy of Google Earth)

Lake Chala is alleged to have a depth of about 3000m; incredible for a lake that has a surface area of about 4 sq km! Interestingly, this is also more than twice the depth of Africa’s officially recorded deepest lake (& 2nd deepest lake in the world), Lake Tanganyika, which at 1470m deep is a shallow puddle in comparison.

Rumours abound of the mzungu (foreigner) taken by a crocodile many years ago, or a few months ago, or a few weeks ago, depending on who you ask. The lake may, or may not, since have been cleared of crocs by throwing poisoned goat/cattle carcasses into it. The poisoned carcasses would no doubt have decimated the claimed population of “critically endangered endemic” Lake Chala Tilapia (fish). Perhaps the poor fish weren’t critically endangered until their lake was poisoned???

Curiosity got the better of me... a little research revealed that the badly mutilated body of an 18-year old British gap-year student was retrieved from Lake Chala by Kenyan Navy divers after she went missing whilst swimming at dusk with friends in March 2002. Crocodiles did live in the lake, believed to be Nile or Mamba crocs, which have a reputation as man-eaters. Interestingly, the poor girl & her friends had apparently been told by locals (& had consulted their Rough Guide) & been told the lake was safe to swim in.

Hmmm. So... in 2010, to swim or not to swim? Bilharzia/Schistosomiasis anyone? Who knows? Crocs anymore? Apparently not.

Lake Chala is blessed with a delightful campsite on the Tanzanian side, the destination for our little group’s August weekend getaway. Never mind the notoriety of the actual lake, getting there proved quite an adventure in itself...

After a 45-minute dala-dala ride (always a canned-sardine experience) we arrived at the Hibo township bus station & were accosted by taxi drivers with whom we tried to negotiate our ride to Lake Chala. The first cabbie quoted 100,000TSh, which had us all in stitches, incredulous looks on our faces. We obviously hit the negotiation end-point when we got down to 20,000TSh though, as the cabbies let us walk away.

We strolled out to the main road & caught the eye of another cabbie, who could only be persuaded down to the same price, so we jumped in after we’d loaded our bags into the boot he managed to open by reaching behind the passenger seat & pulling on some ingenious home-made wire boot-latch mechanism.

Ten minutes down the main road we turned on to a dirt one, which is where the fun really began. As you’ve probably already gathered, the cab wasn’t in the best condition. The cabbie carefully negotiated the various road bumps and ditches. After a while we came upon an extensive roadwork section that was in the process of being graded, so there were long ridges of dirt narrowing the driveable width. We paused to allow an approaching bicycle with massively long wooden beams across its rear rack to slow & pull over perpendicularly to the road so we could pass.

A short distance further, we had to pull over close to the wall to allow another vehicle to pass; which is when the futile tyre-spinning of the front wheels began. Given all the passenger & luggage weight in the rear, a rear-wheel vehicle would’ve fared better. After several back & forwards attempts to get out of the ditch, during which we came unnervingly close to scraping the earth wall beside us, we all clambered out to push the cab out. Once onto solid ground, the cabbie continued to the top of the rise for good measure before stopping to let us all back in.

As if we hadn’t had enough fun already, a short distance further on, up the next rise, we hit a rock and then the cab stalled & wouldn’t re-start, sounding unnervingly dead. Then a motorbike, overloaded with grass, attempted to pass close to the earth wall, got bogged in the dirt, and stalled too. Of course, the grader then almost drove up our bum before stopping. We clambered out again and, with the added assistance of a couple of residents drawn to the spectacle, pushed the taxi uphill a short way. Our cabbie then gestured we should push the cab downhill again, as he tried to jumpstart in reverse. I had no idea this was even possible, and on the first two attempts it certainly didn’t seem to be. On the third though... hey presto, the engine kicked in, to cheers of elation all round.

Hmmm... this road is getting crowded (photo courtesy of Eirian Waters)

We made the rest of the distance carefully and uneventfully to the Lake Chala campsite. Here we had the joy of being the only residents, and after a quick rearrangement of gear in our 8-man tent, we set off on our afternoon walk around the lake.

Now, before you picture a water-side stroll, I’d best enlighten you. Being volcanic, Lake Chala is ringed by very steep walls. We embarked on a clockwise circuit, firstly striking out wide through the flatter surrounding country in hopes of seeing elephants. We saw copious quantities of elephant dung, but no elephants.

We overshot the point where we should’ve clambered back up to the hilltops, so decided to bush-bash from the road we’d found ourselves on (well & truly into Kenya by then). The bush-bashing was not a comfortable experience, as it was through acacia bushes/trees & I can now confirm their thorns are NASTY! Very sharp points, and hooked thorns, so they snare you just like a fish hook; indeed a couple of deeply embedded ones actually exited my skin again. Part-way up I got a decent stab in a finger-tip which bled beautifully, at which point I announced that, given I was bleeding, we must be having fun.

It was a great relief to gain the rim. We gazed somewhat lustfully at the strikingly blue water below; the lush forested slopes ringing it in stark contrast to the dusty semi-arid surrounding plains. In pursuit of a suitable patch of shade for lunch we stumbled upon a path down to the water – bliss. The others swam while I relaxed in the shade & photographed them swimming out to the bouy which they assumed was the Tanzania/Kenya border marker.

Back up on the rim, we indulged in various “border antics” before continuing our lake circumnavigation. We had to remove an acacia-thorn roadblock to pass by the abandoned and decrepit “Lake Chala Safari Lodge”, spectacularly located on one of the highpoints overlooking the lake. I wonder what the history is there? More intrigue!

Straddling the border

Border pyramid (photo courtesy of Eirian Waters)

It was a scorchingly hot afternoon and our path was often little more than a footpad, so a few more acacia thorn piercings were collected enroute, but we made it back to camp with an hour or so of daylight to spare.

Dinner was cooked over a wood BBQ: vegetable skewers, maize cobs, and frankfurter sausages, accompanied by cold pasta in a tomato sauce. I wasn’t enthused by the crunchy maize, although everyone else seemed to relish theirs & complimented me on my cooking of them. Many of the vegetable skewers were only half-cooked, but no-one seemed to mind. Dessert was “Smores”, which I’d never heard of. You place digestive biscuits on the BBQ with chocolate on top (to melt). In the meantime you toast a marshmallow. Then the whole lot gets sandwiched together in a gooey, melty mess.

After a pleasant lake-side morning the next day, we faced the final hurdle of returning home. We were given a lift back to Himo in the back of a ute, which flew down the single-lane dirt road doing at least 70km/hr whenever possible. Needless to say, it was a much quicker trip than our taxi ride out had been.

Finally, we squashed into a dala-dala again. As we embarked one small child exclaimed “Mzungu, mzungu”, so I said hello. The child shyly replied, so I asked “How are you?” as I caught several amused, indulgent smiles around me. And so we finally reached home, sweaty, filthy, but exultant, having had ourselves another Tanzanian adventure.

Facets

My official title roles are Medical Co-ordinator and Volunteers Co-ordinator (Tanzania).  In reality, I find myself assisting with many other tasks too.  Here are just a few of the many facets of my day-to-day working life...

First Aider - "Auntie Auntie, plaster plaster"

Working in the office

Dala-dala driver...

... doing the after-school pickup

IT technician (not that I actually have the faintest idea)

Photojournalist - capturing the building progress at Rainbow Ridge

Moving Mountains

I’ve just finished reading a fascinating book called “Moving Mountains” by Claire Bertschinger. She was an ICRC (International Committee of the Red Cross) nurse for many years, working in war zones around the world; including Ethiopia, Lebanon and Afghanistan.

It was reporter Michael Buerk’s images of her walking amongst the dying refugees of war & famine-torn Ethiopia, choosing which children would be accepted into the ICRC supplementary feeding program (& hence, invested with god-like power, which children would live & which would die) that became the inspiration for Live Aid.

As Michael himself is quoted inside the cover:

“The story of the woman who inspired Live Aid, one of the true heroines of our times. Claire is the dyslexic tomboy who grew up to spend her life patching up humanity’s self-inflicted wounds, working with the wounded, the sick and the dying, in the battlefields and famine camps of the late twentieth century; a life often lived beyond breaking point that threatened to destroy her. An ordinary woman who did extraordinary things and really did move mountains.”

I won’t say it was an enjoyable read, but it was an inspiring one. This is a woman who really did push herself to the limits. In fact, towards the end of the book she was quite broken, both physically by malaria, and mentally, finally having to recognize that everyone has a breaking point and that she had to stop & put herself first, investing in her own care. And at that time she returned to Ethiopia with Michael Buerk, and confronted the guilt that had been consuming her for twenty years about her actions there, finally reconciling her inner demons.

The rest of the world saw her as such an angel, yet she spent two decades consumed by guilt, building a distorted picture of herself as a monster for her actions in Ethiopia. It made me think about humans’ inability to comprehend lives different to our own, about how much more profound and defining any experience is for the individual(s) involved than can ever be perceived from the “outside” perspective of others.

How hard you have to listen, to really hear with your heart, to catch even a glimmer of the reality of another’s existence.

It made me wonder about all the praise and admiration I received from everyone before I came to Tanzania, and will probably continue to receive on my return. Not that I’d ever compare my relatively safe and comfortable experience here to the horrors Claire encountered, but still, I don’t get it. Why am I perceived as so “brave” and “amazing”? Is it simply because I’ve put into actions something that others would like to do but, through circumstance, choice or self doubt, have never done themselves? It makes me uncomfortable. I certainly didn’t feel brave before I left, in fact I was scared shitless, and I certainly don’t feel brave now.

The mundane reality is it’s still the same life. Yes, there are all sorts of “exotic” cultural differences to negotiate, and the ache of missing special loved ones and missing home... but I still go to work Monday to Friday, and exhausted at the end of the week I still think “TGIF” and cherish my weekends. Just like working at home, there are good days and there are bad days; days of immense frustration or challenges, and days where a simple hug, kiss or quiet moment with a child can leave me on cloud nine. I don’t really feel that I’m doing anything particularly special. In my orthotics job, I guess I’d carved out a bit of a specialist niche, and it was fulfilling to know I was doing something that not just anyone could do, and I could see the physical evidence of the improvement I was making to children’s lives. [Although I have to admit, it was easy to lose sight of that in the everyday stresses of the job.]

And I wonder: am I really making a difference here? Would it really matter if I wasn’t here; if I hadn’t come? Someone would be here looking after these children, somehow. I’m not doing anything particularly amazing – many, many people could fulfil this role. Will I go home having left any sort of lasting legacy or will I be just another forgotten face in the endless parade of faces in these children’s lives?

And what does that endless parade of faces do to these children? What effect does it have on them, the endless cycle of attachment, farewells and loss that will be the legacy of their childhood? Do we “short term” volunteers do more harm than good?

I wonder... I think I’d like to track down some reading on the topic. Someone somewhere must’ve done some research.

It’s the folks who’ve started Committee Assist, who work year after year after year, voluntarily, to run the organisation, to build Rainbow Ridge, and to raise the funds that ensure the continued care of these children who are the heroes. And the children’s “Mum” Margaret, and all the local staff “aunties”, who are here for the long haul, who are the stable presence in the children’s lives.

Finally though, my mind dredges up a quote from Mother Teresa:

“We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean.  But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.”

Where would these children be without Committee Assist, and every person involved in Committee Assist in any way, from the founder to the smallest donation given? These children have come from tragic circumstances and horrendous backgrounds. With all the inherent inadequacies of institutional life compared to an ideal stable family, these children have so much more than they had before: they are being fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Most importantly, they are being cared for and loved, provided a stable environment in which to grow and thrive.

To be a part of this is an immense privilege. It doesn’t matter if my individual contribution fades in the mists of time in years to come. I’ve been a part of something truly amazing, and that is enough...

How do you not fall in love when a little angel sleeps in your arms???

Muggings, drugs, detentions, parties & poi...

Oh boy, oh boy, what a month! Mid-month we had a major change of routine as the children returned to school after a holiday of about five weeks duration. There was a mad rush of covering exercise books the Friday prior, and suddenly the children were bringing me their school backpacks: “Aunty, Aunty, my bag is broken.” All you mothers out there, imagine the return-to-school chaos with 24 children! The treadle sewing machine certainly got a workout, as did my hand sewing skills. On one particularly tough leather hand-stitching job I acquired several thumb punctures from the eye end of the needle – ouch!

Doing things by hand is the norm here. As I’ve said to Ian, I’ll probably come home from Tanzania & stand mesmerized in front of appliances such as the washing machine, saying “Look... it goes around... and around... and the clothes come out clean... amazing!” A bit like Eeyore in Winnie-the-Pooh who, upon being given a burst balloon & an empty honey pot for his birthday, then spent hours repeatedly putting the balloon into the pot & then out again, saying “It goes in and out like anything,” as happy as could be.

I broke a small boy’s heart one day. One poor little lad had only just woken from his afternoon nap & was still quite bleary when I began my regular first aid session. He had a small partly-healed wound on his forehead which needed a little Savlon, but no plaster. Oh my goodness, he was devastated. He stood in the office doorway, tears streaming down his little face as he just cried and cried “Plaster, plaster” over & over. Even a good cuddle failed to stem his tears.

On 20th July life here took a more serious turn for us all, with two of our female volunteers being mugged as they walked to Kili Kids in the broad daylight of late morning. The first thing either of them knew of their attackers was when one of them was on the ground unconscious from being struck across the head with a lump of wood. After a trip to the police station (which the police insisted on BEFORE hospital), then a medical clinic, we had to take our injured girl to KCMC (Kilimanjaro Christian Medical Centre) for an emergency CT scan to rule out a brain haemorrhage, as she had blood draining from her ear. Most scary!

Fortunately her CT was clear, but she had to stay in hospital overnight for observation. We sent her friend home for some TLC of her own, as she’d spent all day being “the strong one” for her friend despite being very emotionally traumatised herself, and I stayed in the hospital overnight. I’ve kept folks company overnight in Aussie hospitals and know it’s never a good night’s sleep, but this was an eye-opener. Its BYO food in hospital here (so you’d better hope someone loves you) and blankets seem to be a bit of a BYO commodity too.

We were extremely fortunate to be in a four-bed room with only one other patient for most of the night; a bibi mzee (very old grandmother) who appeared to have just had a right trans-femoral (above-knee) amputation. She was obviously in considerable pain, & regularly keened quietly.  The other rooms were very over-crowded & the corridor was lined on both sides with beds, mostly of the low-slung camping style, literally top-to-toe. It was almost like a scene out of a war or natural-disaster zone hospital.

Extra room companions came & went. For most of the night there was a man in a nearby room snoring so loudly he sounded like a passable rendition of the ENTIRE Serengeti Hippo Pool. And as a sweet counter-point, somewhere close by a woman was singing softly. In the early hours the singing was replaced by the sound of vomiting. “Ow, ow, ow...” keened Bibi over & over in a lament universally recognizable as the song of pain. And I pondered whether Hippo Man was several rooms away or was, in fact, on the level below us.

Post-discharge the following afternoon I drove our girls home – a much better place to recuperate. Despite having been so injured, she expressed her desire to stay in Tanz. A wonderful, wonderful friend of Kili Kids, the American Dr. Greg, checked our girl every day, and finally recommended she return to her home country, as the damage to her hearing was not resolving. It was a very sad end to her very foreshortened visit; she flew out a few nights ago.

There have also been various scandalous relationship happenings amongst the wazungu population of Moshi. Drunken sexual behaviour, relationship infidelities... lately I’ve felt a little like I’m living in a soapie. Lots of small-town gossip.

Last Sunday I finally went with a few others on an out-of-town excursion to the village of one of our hostel Masai guards. We rode in a mini-bus (not as small as the dalla-dallas), then walked for maybe 20mins or so through the maize fields to the boma. We spent a while sitting & playing with the children, as the adults were still in church. I became a hero to one small girl when I removed a splinter from her thumb, and she henceforth attached herself to me like a little limpet.

 

We were shown inside a couple of the village dwellings; some were round huts, but others looked like Western houses. No electricity or running water of course. We then all walked further through the maize to a small clearing beneath a tree, where the young men did their jumping-dancing-singing for absolutely ages. Eventually the wazungu were cajoled into joining in. Finally we returned to the dwellings, and sat outside for a cup of hot, sweet Masai tea. It was a dusty but very enjoyable day.

Does this photo look like I’m cutting white powder (with a credit card) at the orphanage? Yes, it looks highly suspicious, and yes, it’s exactly what it looks like! Rest easy, I haven’t gone off the rails. One of our kids required a medication in a 20mg dose. Unfortunately it can only be sourced here in a 30mg capsule form, so I was given a little lesson by the pharmacist on how to dismantle the capsules, reduce the dosage by a third, and reassemble. Crude at best, but we have to work with what we’ve got. I guess it’ll look good on my resume (LOL).

In a typical “nothing according to plan” kind of day, I spent several hours yesterday afternoon at the Immigration offices with a friend who’d been “arrested” for volunteering without having obtained a residence permit. It was a very protracted affair, with the locals doing lots of arguing, and repeated interviews of my friend interspersed with much waiting around. Eventually everyone was released an hour after the offices closed, with my friend having signed a statement & paid the expected fine. It’s a quick, although expensive way to get a residence permit. On Monday he’ll receive the same permit I’ve been waiting almost two months to have processed!

It was lovely to head back to Hoff after all that, knowing I had a good BBQ feast to look forward to. We had a “J” themed combined farewell / 21st birthday party. The costumes were quite varied.

Jewellery-wearer, Jacobite, Jillaroo & Jew

The birthday boy dressed as a Jack-in-a-box & his sister as a Jigsaw puzzle. There were Jack & Jill (as in, went up the hill), a couple of Jews, Jesus, a Jacobite, jewellery-wearer, jitterbug, joker, jester, junkie, just-dead, jellybean, and many others. I went as a Jillaroo, which I had to spend all evening explaining to the non-Aussies.

For some unknown reason our cook found the sight of me in my Jillaroo costume hysterically funny – I think it was mostly the hat. She kept calling me a policeman, and standing to attention at the sight of me before bursting forth in fits of giggles.  The evening was rounded out with performances of poi (fire-twirling) from a couple of our Hoffers – very spectacular. I might have to take lessons...