To Dragon Mountain

Top of the world, Lesotho

It had been percolating for a long time, Kenya being the perfectly fertile soil for loneliness to plant her seeds in me.  Up she sprouted through my most vulnerable little heart as I made my way deeper into South Africa, and further away from those I love and miss so much.  Beyond missing my people from home, I was haunted by the little ghosts of the kids I’d grown so attached to in Kenya: were they safe, eating enough, healthy?  Could they feel how much I missed them?  I thought perhaps I could outrun it, even if it meant only temporarily filling my heart’s fissures with the beauty of this wild country.  But alas, it was not to be: I could neither run not hide from my sad self.

So while I didn’t anesthetize with booze or drugs like so many of my jolly European roommates, I did greedily lap up my personal drug of choice, the great outdoors.  South Africa is the perfect country to be such a junkie, and I took full advantage.  It seemed only appropriate to make my way downwards into Drakensberg, the Dragon Mountains, battling as I was with the monster loneliness.  With Cry, the Beloved Country tucked snugly in my pack, I was eager to see what the fuss was all about.  It didn’t disappoint.  

No Idea

We wound our way through the table mountains and deep velds, hillsides dotted with rotundas, grazing livestock, and segregated black Xhosa neighborhoods: this country, like mine, has a long way to go when it comes to segregation.  I learned how to braai from some gentlemanly South Africans, climbed the second highest waterfall in the world, and even more precariously, climbed down.  On a day trip into Lesotho, I shared homemade maize beer in a smokey rotunda with some local Basotho as they taught me about this their country, the highest in the world.  With every gritty sip I shared from the plastic cup circling the darkened room, I appreciated it more; at least, I tried.

My last day in the berg included a solo hike for which I felt (mostly) prepared.  I slathered myself in SPF 1000, packed liters of water, and carried a well-worn map.  I bought my hiking permit and headed towards the first of the summits before encountering the first of the day’s disasters.  There, staring back at me, was a teenager: a baboon teenager.  I’d been told they were harmless, but I knew better: they were muscles with teeth, rabies with tails, and I was scared out of my wits.  When the teen was joined by her big brother and an entire baboon army, I’d had enough: I fled.  In my hasty escape from their collective barking, I became a ballerina of sorts.  I leapt, and pirouetted, and virtually rolled down the steep incline, ass over teakettle.  I twisted my love handles right out of their cozy little sockets and skewered my unsuspecting forearm on some rusty barbed wire.  I arrived at the base a bloody mess, but invigorated: as far as I was concerned, I’d defeated certain death, Katie 1, Baboon Army 0.  The proprietor, surprised at my sudden return less than 2 hours into a 6 hour hike, gave me some encouragement and convinced me to try again.  I grudgingly made my way back up, determined to find the waterfalls everyone kept talking about and see this trek through.

Once again I arrived to the top, breathless and startled: there, staring back at me, were 3 enormous elands.  I appreciated their less-rabid company and continued across the plateau in quiet, alert for poisonous snakes and trying not to squash any lizards.  Several peaceful sweaty hours later, with my epidermis slowly melting away, I admitted defeat: I was lost, running out of water, and most assuredly, becoming crispy baboon bait, a Katie biltong of sorts.  Sadly, there would be no skinny dipping or scaling waterfalls today.  Instead, if I was lucky, I’d find someone willing to share a frosty consolation beer and some aloe vera.  Though I didn’t fully escape my sadness, I gave myself some credit: at least I escaped the baboons.

Into The Heart of Apartheid

I grew up fascinated with race.  When I look back, I think it was largely due to living on the property where our parents worked, a court- adjudicated school for the most troubled of boys.  Beyond their juvenile delinquent status or ethnicity, we knew the Paradise boys as playmates, protectors, even friends.  My siblings and I understood early that conduct disorders and even criminal behavior were often acts of desperation rather than malice.  For us, race, class, and socioeconomic stigma were trounced by relationship; it was an invaluable education, and one of the most primary influences of my life.

Bullet-marked trashcan shield used by students,
on original stove in Mandela's home

My perpetual interest in understanding the dynamics that draw us together and tear us apart drove me through all sorts of booklists and influenced my choice of church.  It motivated me to pursue friendships across boundaries of race and class and misinformation: not always comfortable, but always worth it.  It propelled my move to the most segregated of all American cities, and was the reason I chose my workplace over the nationally renown, upper-class competition on the north side.  It was even one of the most significant motivators of this trip, the ultimate study of relationship the world over. 

And so, to South Africa I flew.  I had heard that Johannesburg was the heart of ZA’s racial history, and that Soweto, or the southwest township, was the heart of Joburg.  Knowing very little before I arrived only enhanced my nerves, but I remained steadfast that to Soweto I would go, and in Soweto I would stay.  Happily for me, a young Sowetan entrepreneur opened the most bohemian of hostels right in the heart of the township several years ago, so I had a pad from which to launch.

When I wasn’t writing in the treehouse (!) or schmoozing with the locals around the campfire, I was intrepidly exploring the neighborhood.  And what a neighborhood it was.  I had been coached on how to greet in Zulu and how to politely decline marriage proposals, but I hadn’t been coached on how to manage my emotions.  Because boy did I have some feelings, walking towards Vilakazi street, a few modest blocks boasting the homes of both Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu.  It was here, right here, where young Hector Pieterson was shot and killed by the riot police in 1976, as thousands of students were peacefully protesting the government mandate that their classes be taught in Afrikaans, a language not spoken among the native Africans, and thus, a language wholly ineffective at educating a single student in this segregated community.

The death of this innocent twelve-year-old was the match that lit the flame of the Soweto Uprising, a deadly conflict between unarmed black students and white police.  These students would become the least likely symbol of resistance against the apartheid regime, and would gain, finally, the outspoken international disapproval of world leaders against the system that benefitted few and oppressed many.  Almost 20 years later, their opening act on the world stage culminated in the release of Mandela and the official end of apartheid.  

As I made my way through the neighborhood surrounded by local children being released from the very same school where Hector and his friends boycotted nearly 40 years ago, I tried to swallow the giant lump in my throat.  These young people, many of whom are grandbabies of the uprising, shone with a quiet power, little agents of change from a system that even today doesn’t educate them equally to their white peers in the more affluent surrounding neighborhoods.  More than any other Sowetan encounter, it was these students that inspired me, reminding me to believe in the potential of even the least assuming.  Quite a legacy for young Hector: I’m so very sorry he didn’t live to see it. 

With A Heavy Heart

I thought the Maasai Mara Game Reserve was the most magnificent thing I’d ever seen… until I looked up.  Having (sort of) conquered my nighttime toileting fears, I almost enjoyed my 3:00 am venture through the dozing cows when I suddenly remembered my beloved universe.  There, in the African summer sky seemingly inches above my head, was the equatorial Milky Way.  It was glorious.  There were twinkling stars, and red stars, and shooting stars, and fuzzy stars.  Night shimmied in her starry gown as she danced between the horizons, illuminated by light billions of years old.  I was transfixed, and not a little abashed: the heavens were once again lighting my way.

My celestial romance has become the metaphor of my experience here in Kenya.  When I think I can’t be further intrigued, I meet lively sister wives of the same husband.  When I think I can’t handle more intense beauty, I lose my staring contest with a daddy giraffe, only because he’s dissolving into the tears suddenly hanging from my lashes.  When I think I have no more patience, I find myself surrounded by dozens of staring children, all of whom try to simultaneously touch me.  Breathe Katie, breathe.  When I think I can't be more broken, I watch toddlers wander trash-strewn streets alone in search of food.  When I begin to question the integrity of some with good intentions, I meet teachers who are doing the grueling work of integrating disabled students into their classrooms, trailblazing in a country where the powerful stigma of disability is often commuted to a life sentence of shame.  They are heroes and their commitment restores my hope.

I’d be lying if I said there aren’t reunions I’m looking forward to.  My people.  Coffee.  Plumbing.  A hot bath.  Chocolate.  Coffee.  Long walks.  Wine and beer!  Salad.  Dancing.  Coffee.  If I’m honest, even other mzungus.  The market comes to a screeching halt as vendors openly gape, children chase my car screaming “mzungu, mzungu”, babies burst into fearful tears certain I’m a ghost.  It’s uncomfortable and isolating, experiencing life as a minority.  As the only person devoid of the deeply rich color of my Kenyan friends, I now have the smallest insight into what my friends of color regularly experience at home.  And I’m humbled.

Like the other lessons I’ve learned here though, it enforces what I already believed: that under our race and culture and ethnicity, we’re more alike than we are different.  Parents everywhere want their children to be educated and fed and safe.  Children everywhere want to run and learn and explore.  Teachers everywhere want to help and teach and transform.  Humans all want to belong and befriend and believe.  And maybe all of us, every once in awhile, just want to pee under the galaxy. 

*I will post with minimal photos until I have enough wifi to upload more, thanks for your patience!!

To Sirua Aulo Academy

Perched on a hill overlooking the Rift Valley sits a school, a school set apart by more than it’s idyllic location high in the Transmara.  This is a school that defies a corrupt governmental education system by achieving the highest marks in the county, three years running.  This is a school that defies tribal conflict by intentionally pursuing diversity, including over seven tribal ethnicities among both staff and students.  This is a school that defies the injustice of poverty by educating orphans through sponsorship, orphans who make up nearly a third of their student body.  This school is Sirua Aulo Academy (SAA).

Founder, Director, Friend, Emmanuel

I was sent here in the capacity that my background as a Speech Pathologist could be helpful, as SAA is determined to include children of all abilities.  This too is anomalous in Kenya, as the stigma of disability runs deep and often results in children being secreted away by parents motivated by fear and misunderstanding.  While I did my best to build some programming to contribute to this vision, I mostly just tried to learn as much as I could from these remarkable teachers and students who were gracious enough to invite me into their world. 

I was daily blown away.  Emmanuel is a quiet man of commanding presence, a real community leader.  His office was a constant revolution of parents, teachers, and students: always students.  Some to peruse his loaded bookshelves while others scattered around him to eat their lunches, still others simply to receive the palm of his hand to their little foreheads, a blessing within a greeting, the way of the Maasai.  And in the midst of it all, he made the time each morning to take chai together as he gently helped me understand all I was experiencing.

Six days a week, SAA teachers begin their sessions at 5:00am and end at 9:00pm; theirs is a boarding school like most schools in the country, but not once did I hear a complaint.  They have upwards of 60 students in their classrooms, all of whom are eager to learn, some of whom share both a chair and a desk.  They have neither electricity nor plumbing, but rely on solar panels to generate their evening light and the river two kilometers away for their washing: though they’ve successfully drilled a well, they have not yet raised enough funding for a pump.  On top of their rigorous schedule, SAA teachers believe in wholistic education, and work towards that end by incorporating both a virtue and a mentorship program to ensure maturity beyond academic.  Their effort is clearly not lost: SAA students are, without exception, charming little humans. 

As luck would have it, my last day coincided with  SAA’s Thanksgiving celebration, a day when the entire community gathers to honor the year’s successes and generate dreams for the future. Children, chiefs, and generations came together in tribal dance and song, in prayers and blessings, in speeches and trophies, in bestowing full scholarships on deserving young women to attend secondary school.  A bull was slaughtered alongside buckets of chapati as families posed for photos and children proudly introduced mamas to teachers.  This year we also celebrated the grand opening of Sirua Aulo High School.  Maasai, Kisii, and Kipsigis will no longer engage in tribal turf wars on the adjacent hillside, but like the rest of SAA students, will sit alongside one another and learn how to change the world.  Sirua Aulo Academy showed me that hope for the future is one student at a time, empowered and supported by a beautiful brightly-beaded community, a community to whom I'm incredibly grateful.  Asante sana friends, asante sana! 

To find out more about how you can become involved in what Emmanuel and his team are accomplishing in rural Kenya, visit siruaauloschools.sc.ke

On Safari!

Doug is a dear friend and mentor from Chicago, and was the first person who helped me believe in myself to make this trip a reality.  He is married to another dear friend Nicole, and together they parent Arabella and her soon-to-arrive sibling.  They’ve traveled all over the world, lived in Kenya for several years, and are my go-to people for all sorts of things.  Unbeknownst to him, Doug has also become a bit of a model of the kind of man I’d like to find someday; together he and Nicole give me hope for marriage.  So when Doug told me the Maasai Mara was a must, I believed him.

Our safari began several hours before dawn as Emmanuel and I began the monster truck off-roading that is driving in Maasai Kenya.  As we edged closer to the reserve entrance, Emmanuel pulled off the road and announced this is where we’d picnic for breakfast: I nearly had a heart attack.  My adrenaline had been surging since the night before as I laid awake imagining elephants and lions and hippos: I hadn’t slept a wink.  Were we supposed to get out of the car?  Wouldn’t the lions smell our chai and eat us for breakfast?  What the hell is that noise?

  

Laughing, he laid a shuka down as a blanket and explained the dreadful noise was in fact a lion, but a lion in pain.  It was a haunting kind of bellowing, and a sad relief when the poor beast finally fell silent.  As he pointed out the impalas and zebras hiding shyly among the surrounding trees, he shared stories of growing up on this magical family property.  He talked of racing giraffes and protecting livestock from lions, his deep love and respect for his animal neighbors clearly evident.  For me, safari was an exotic lifelong dream.  For Emmanuel, safari was his home and I was honored to be his guest.

It was as enchanting an experience as I’ve ever had, and one I’ll never forget.  Emmanuel’s laser vision was a nice complement to my googly eyes, and together we saw it all.  In the wild, giraffes are as big as dinosaurs and painfully beautiful.  I learned not to test a mama elephant’s patience, and that some birds look like Fruit Loops.  I now know what a lioness smells like after she’s had brunch, and that baby zebras look like fuzzy little peaches.  It was an incomparable day, but that’s no surprise; this is an incomparable place.  Doug was right: it was indeed the most magnificent place on earth.

To The Land Of Maasai

The adventure began the moment I sat down in Ken’s car, a dashing Tanzanian who would take me all the way from Sister Freda’s to the land of the Maasai.  County after county, Ken explained both the tribal and economic background, all the while answering my ceaseless questions.  The men in the opaque river full of crocodiles?  Harvesting sand for building, “a very dangerous job indeed”.  The reason for the wood planks of inverted 10 inch nails dotting the roadways?  Corrupt police checkpoints: we’d be stopped multiple times.  Why so many adults sitting idly along the road?  Nothing else to do, “there is no work here."
  

Road!

We made our way into Nandi county where the road carved a path through forests of Blue Gum trees and thousands of acres of florescent green tealeaves, one of Kenya’s primary exports.  I was startled to see the roadside idlers disappear, which Ken explained as the direct result of having a water source: here it is both productive and “ever green, Katie, ever green”.  We continued south and slightly east as men chiseled blocks of brick and concrete in the infernal afternoon heat, assuredly for less than a dollar a day.   Women gracefully carried 10 gallon buckets of water atop their heads, while children carried baby siblings home from school, finally back in session after the holidays.  I shuddered at the billboard proudly advertising cockfights, and did my best not to have a heat stroke as I sweated the entirety of my body fluid into Ken’s passenger seat.

I marveled my way through the sublime Rift Valley, ogling the hills that produced fossils of our earliest ancestors.  Then suddenly, finally, gloriously, we arrived; the astounding Transmara.  The bright red of the earth and the even brighter red of the traditional shukas worn by the meandering Maasai was enhanced by the brilliant green of the surrounding landscape.  Hills dotted with acacia trees, grazing herds, and family manyattas were blanketed by fluffy clouds and the hot hot hot sun.  Turkeys waded through ditches of stagnant water as men discretely bathed under the bridge. Roads devolved into muddy hills and valleys of enormous stony holes several feet deep, populated almost exclusively by herds of cows, goats, sheep, and donkeys on their way to be watered at the river.  

Mini Maasai Larusi and His Herd

My View

What I later learned about these fascinating people lent insight into my initial observations.  The Maasai were the only one of 42 Kenyan tribes with a standing army when the British colonized the country in the 19th century: they were Kenya’s warriors and Britain’s fear.  As a result, communal Maasai lands were taken by the government, reservations were created, and their nomadic community was forever changed.  Maasai were kept from political leadership and were last to receive government resources and infrastructure including paved roads, electricity, and indoor plumbing.  This remains true even today; ignorance can take generations to unlearn.

My senses were nearly blown by the time we arrived to Emmanuel’s homestead where I’d be living for the next two weeks.  Emmanuel and his wife Lillian would go on to become dear friends and mentors, people I deeply respect and admire.  In that first evening though, I enjoyed the easy company of their son Shiloh, gave myself a pep talk (or several) about living with critters both real and imagined, and took my first bucket shower.  I was home.

Once Upon A Time

I remember my first encounter with the power of story.  I was in second grade, and so deeply engrossed in Danny’s adventures with his pet dinosaur that I was unaware of my little classmates transitioning from their desks to the carpet.  I finally surfaced to realize that not only was Mr.Bollinger scolding me, but the entire class was staring at me.  This may also have been my first memory of the power of blush as it flooded my chubby cheeks, a sensation I would never completely outgrow.  Oh, the shame.  I put my head down on my desk and sniffled silent tears behind my foggy Coke bottle glasses, feeling so embarrassed: how could I be so absent from the world around me?  More to the point, how could I be so present in someone else’s?

I think we live in a world created and sustained by story.  We each have our own, whether or not we fully own it.  We may or may not ascribe to a faith that is, at the end of the day, a story on which we stake our lives.  Places have story, like the golf club I visited in Kitale, a social club once used to hold slaves as they were shipped from Uganda to the awaiting slave ships in Tanzania.  Do the club members sense ghosts as they sip their club specials and watch their children swim?  Even the air we breathe, story: I write as my nostrils once again detect the noxious black smoke of the pyre behind our playground, the daily burning of the plastic bottles strewn across our compound, collected and transformed into a toxic, oxygenated cocktail.

I think story is as tangible as water.  It has weight and volume and viscosity and takes up more space than anything on earth.  You can see it, and touch it, and transform it into Kenyan chai, and ice, and steam for your facial.  But it’s impossible to really hold onto, or put parameters on: story has no clear beginning or end, but continuously transforms and enlarges us as we share it with others.  Our individual little droplets become puddles, and creeks, and rivers, and oceans.  Together, for better or worse, we have power.  We can sustain, create, teem with life.  We can form the boundaries of the land, cut canyons through prehistoric rock, resurrect arid fields of dying crops.  Or we can poison entire communities with disease, flood families onto rooftops in hope of rescue.  We can become hot sewage or hot springs.  A single drop can short a fuse.  But a hydroponic plant can generate electricity for an entire community.  Alone, our little ounces will eventually, inevitably evaporate.  Together, like water, the sky isn’t even our limit.

In a funny way, my first month here in Kenya has been for me the ultimate “Danny and the Dinosaur,” a complete departure from my own world into an epic narrative on the other side of the world.  This is a saga in which few women are allowed dialogue, a world in which orphaned children live in the quiet shame of not yet knowing their own history, about the wells from which they were drawn.  A story that's left my heart broken and my mind reeling as I scramble to find the hope I profess to believe under the rubble of the marginalized lives my beloved kids are currently living.  I don't have answers, and if I'm honest, I don't expect to find any that will effectively change their lives, or make me feel any better.  But I know that we need water to survive.  So maybe we need to be the water to survive, to become drinks for the thirsty and currents to shore for the drowning.  It seems the least we could do for one another; it seems the least we could do for Saida.

To learn more about you can become involved in the lives of the world's most vulnerable, visit villagevolunteers.org or halftheskymovement.org