Jaari and Meta

in tribute to jaari,

i have a video of a woman dancing.
she dances in a world that seems so removed from my current reality.
it's a world of unexplainable
contrasts.

on a perfect fall day, drinking water from the tap and snuggled in my bed and i receive news from her namesake that the woman has passed.

i have a video of a woman dancing
that helps me connect to a continent
that i now love like my own blood

Her family and the entire village will face east, and trust that Allah has given and Allah takes away.
and life will continue

She died while giving birth
the perpetual mother. Africa
The baby lived
at least as long as it took the news to travel to here
and In'Sha' Allah
longer

in denver, close to three hospitals, i question the circumstances of life
a woman my age
wise and beautiful
the teacher of my dear friend
Her husband allowing me to slowly pull the water
from the well
for their garden on
mornings before the heat takes all will

what could we do?
clear a field for health huts
buy a round of malaria medicine
for another season of heat and death

We could-
pray.

i have a video of a woman dancing.
and when the questions become too much
i watch it
and try to trust

There are four essential tools and medicines that are used in bandaging a leprosy patient: 1. a scalpel to scrape away the dead skin encompassing the wounds, 2. Dettol combined with tap water to clean the wounded area, 3. gauze and Betadine ointment to keep the wound from bleeding out, and 4. many rolls of hand loom rolled bandages to tie in a tight bow once wrapped around the diseased areas. When a wound is said to be brutally painful or if it is more open than the area of an American quarter, Mag Sulph (A truncated medicinal title for magnesium sulfate) and Turpentine is added generously to the wound before the application of gauze.

I sat perched on a metal stool in a small somber room; the electricity was out at the time or maybe the clinic didn't want to waste energy. The paint on the walls was peeling and the overhead fan was dusty and covered in cobwebs. All around me were metal tables with an array of sharp surgical instruments, bottles of hard to pronounce antibiotics, poultices the size of elephant feet, and boxes full of rubber gloves. A peculiar altar made from wood with stairs leading up to its center was located in the exact middle of the room. Chairs sat low against its sides as if there was a ceremony about to take place. 

Amanda spoke to me from the other side of the room. It was something along the lines of, "Where are Jackie and Maeve?" They had come along with us but apparently had weak stomachs when it came to blood.

My mouth was full of sweet Indian chew called Paan; I could only respond to her question in consonants. I shrugged and instead of the pointless attempt to get words across to her, I started pointing at random lethal looking tools in the room and grimacing. She responded with the same wide-eyed trepidation. Outside the dark, depressing room a crowd was forming.

The clinic doctor, ironically a leper himself, sat quietly on a silver stool like mine. He wore a long tan Indian shirt called a kurta and jeans with a pair of black slippers. Lepers wore slippers because most of the time they had missing fingers that were incapable of tying laces. M.D. leper had all of his fingers but Amanda later told me that his feet were both victims of the terrible affliction. He turned to the door behind us and with a Hindi whoop summoned in the crowd.

They came through the door in pairs. Some had missing fingers, some had missing hands, some had missing limbs, and some appeared perfectly fine. The doctor greeted each patient warmly as they climbed (sometimes too literally) up the crooked stairs onto the central altar. Amanda and my job consisted of holding the flashlight close to the patients' wounds; it was in this way that we were close to the action. 
    
Amanda and I both cringed together when the doctor scraped the wounds of each patient. Most of them couldn't feel the scalpel chiseling away but a few did and it was a horrible experience for us as well. After the first five minutes we met eyes and I knew that we were both considering leaving but we stuck with it and helped M.D. leper whenever he asked for assistance. The grotesque nature of our job was somewhat diminished in our minds near the end of the bandaging, but the lingering smell of decaying skin and acrid medicines still stung out noses.

The crowd dwindled outside slowly. Each patient waddled out of the room with a big smile on their faces. Before they dispersed completely I got the chance to talk with a few of them. The conversation was fractured:

“I like your shoes,” I said, pointing to a man’s comfortable looking loafers. He was the last patient and had no toes or fingers.

“Hello,” the old man said.

I pointed at his shoes and said, “Acha.” Good.

He smiled a toothy grin and said, “Dhanyavaad.” Thanks.

“Life,” the man asked after a short moment of silence.

“Huh?”

“Lifes?”

“Umm.”

“Lives wire?”

“Livewire?”

“Live se?” he said a little agitated now.

“Oh, I’m from America. Mai America se hu.”

“Ah,” he laughed. “There.” Pause. “Sneakers.”

I clapped him on the back. I liked him.

After a little more confused banter, Amanda and I headed out. We had completed our job for that Saturday. When I was leaving I flexed my hands to make sure my fingers still worked. I wiggled my toes in the confines of my shoes and bent my knees to be assured of my well being. As the auto-rickshaw made bellows of dirt rise behind its furious race to the front gates of the clinic I took one last look back and saw a handful of the patients we had just treated talking animatedly and happily together. I smiled to myself. Even in the grips of a terrible disease there was still hope and laughter left to spare, and that made me happy.

Early Dawn Fog in the Himalayan Foothills

Sunkissed Himalayas

A typical morning in my atypical Kathmandu life:

A persistent buzzing prods my consciousness. My eyes stir, fuzzy blue sky greets me. I must be in Dolpa. What is that sound… crickets? No, too… unpredictable.  Birds? No, too… artificial. Ah! The dreamy shutters in my brain swing open and I register my surroundings. I’m in Kathmandu, in my room on the roof of my Nepali family’s home. The blue is a painted ceiling, not sky; the cacophony comes from the world outside. I’ve woken with the bus horns and restless dogs. Sluggishly, I command my wrist to rise to head level, bring it close to focus the blurry numbers against my terrible vision. 6:00 AM, the black shapes blare. Damn.  Only an hour to get to yoga. I contemplate whether I can put off my cold bucket shower for another day.  I pass my sniff test, but a memory of Madeline politely telling me that I could use some deodorant during yoga class the day prior convinces me to betray my nose.  I rise, slowly, to a slumped sitting position on the edge of my bed, and wait for some incentive to leave the warmth and face the chilly water. After a few minutes of indecision I grow impatient and gather the motivation myself. 

The morning nips at my skin, and my muscles tighten in response as I hop out of my room onto the concrete outdoor roof and over to the bathroom. In the soft dawn light, I can see a gentle fog (or is it the remainder of yesterday's smog?) settled into Kathmandu valley overnight. The fog spreads to the cradle of the valley’s walls.  Just visible beyond the tips of rolling purple hills rise the jagged ring of the white Himalayas.  I slip into the bathroom and bolt the door, disrobe and turn the tap. Once the floor of the ancient Tethys Ocean, the Himalayas now serve as gate-keepers - tectonic masterpieces as impressive as the diverse ecosystems, ethnicities, and cultures that they separate and foster. The water for my cold bucket shower originates from the Himalayas and its foothills.  This arcane runoff then percolates through rural Nepal and into Kathmandu valley. During this diffusion process, the water picks up such pathogens as giardia intestinalis and cryptosporidium, disagreeable to my western GI tract. Self-conscious of my nakedness, I wait for the bucket to fill, the tap fed by a tank on the roof that provides necessary insurance against Kathmandu’s chronic water shortage.  Satisfied at last, I turn off the spigot. Gah! The first splash strands me in a fog, but this fades surprisingly quickly and the shock of the second speeds my pulse and sharpens my mind - my body swiftly adapts to the environment change. Now as wet as I am willing to get, I lather up. How incredible is it that I can bathe in what once probably kissed the top of Mt. Everest? I wish to taste the mysticism, but I am not yet ready to accustom my intestines to the regional biodiversity and thus bear the digestive disgruntlement guaranteed to follow. My mouth stays sealed for the duration of my bath, cautiously aware of the chaotic heterogeneity but enjoying the trace of Himalayan beauty that makes it all possible.

I pour out the remainder of my cold bucket shower.  As I towel off, my eyes trace the paths of a thousand rivulets melting into a single stream. My attention, however, rests on a collision of geologic proportions. I get dressed, step out of the bathroom and note that the sun rose while I washed. Outside, in the Nepali melting pot of Kathmandu, races a maelstrom fed by the cultural and ethnic runoff of a political and ideological revolution taking place within an ancient tectonic battle. The sunlight pierces the morning’s smoggy fog and the Himalayas still slice the air, their defiance reminding me of their birth. Ironically, the plate tectonic deadlock that formed the Himalayas is strikingly similar to the political situation of today.  The Maoists form the Indo-Australian(Indian) plate, and the political parties of old form the Eurasian(Tibetan) plate.  The Indian plateau is too set on its ideological path and won’t take no for an answer.  The Tibetan plateau, hard set in the old, traditional ways, remains too stubborn to give an inch of ground to the advancement of the Indian plateau – but the Tibetan plateau’s crust consists of a weaker rock quality and slowly crumbles under the strength of the Indian plate.  Sunlight brushes the tips of the highest peaks in sight, illuminating their alternating bands of light and dark sedimentary rock. Staring at the stacked, broken folds makes me self-conscious, similar to the uncomfortable feeling I get when I am talking with someone unaware that I know an overly revealing, embarrassing secret about them. The morning still harbors a chill, but is that what sends a shiver up my spine? The resulting impasse forms the Himalayas, a jagged curved scar through which nothing can pass – not Genghis Khan, not ancient trade routes, and certainly not any form of compromise. One plate has to buckle for the tension to ease and the deadlock to end. I stand at the edge of my roof and can’t help but wonder – how many innocent Ammonites lost their lives in this upheaval?

However, one thing is for certain.  This scar has brought an incredible amount of change and diversity – much more than what would have arisen if the Indian plate hadn’t jammed into the Tibetan plateau in the first place.  The Himalayan Range, one of the youngest mountain ranges in the world and home to the world’s youngest republic, harbors a symbiotic cultural dance with the old and the new. For that, I call the scar beautiful.  Hidden in the maelstrom of both modern and ancient plate tectonics, the mysticism of Nepal’s rich cultural heritage evolves. Too cold to stand on the roof any longer, I turn to head downstairs, where I will greet my Nepali family and relish a cup of tea.  

HOUR ONE: This is incredible. I've nestled my bug hut under this beautiful tree and I can see the red cliffs in the distance. I've got my book here and a sleeping mat and a journal and three times as much food as I could actually eat during this period.  No problem!

HOUR TWO: Okay, so I've finished my book, adjusted and readjusted my mat in every conceivable position, and devoured most of my food out of sheer boredom. I just can't resist the yeasty greatness of village bread.  I do still have a pen, though... Maybe I'll just draw on myself a little bit.

HOUR FOUR: So I just ran out of space on my skin. Is that possible?

HOUR SIX: I'm standing on ancient volcanic rock, waist-deep in grass and staring into the sunset. I have a mango in one hand and a village machete in the other. I am about to eat this mango. It will be delicious. Also, I am naked.

HOUR SEVEN: Darkness is instantaneous in the bush. These crickets are definitely having some kind of screaming contest around my head. After taking a mental census of all the unidentifiable and mildly threatening sounds of the bush night, I have made the executive decision that my bladder and dirty face can wait until morning. I'm just going to stay here in my bug hut and cuddle my machete for a while, since there's no way I'll ever be able to

HOUR SIXTEEN: What? Where am I? When did I fall asleep? Hey, I still have a bunch of village bread left over! Sweet! I wonder how many Missy Elliot songs I know?

HOUR EIGHTEEN: I hate village bread. I can't believe how much I'm sweating already. Let me get my journal out and see if I can have an epiphany or something.

HOUR TWENTY-ONE: Epiphany completed. Commence silent bush dance party.

HOUR TWENTY-FOUR: How long did Benoît say he did this for - three months? Psh, easy!

Hm...Where do I even begin?

I could probably write a book about the past week of my life, but this internet place would probably close for a siesta before I could finish. It was definitely a rapid transition into the jungle and once we got there, the time warp began. From Guanay, we had the luxury of a two day boat ride down the Rio Caca and eventually to the Rio Beni with two guides, a cook, and the boat crew. We took time walking through Madidi National Park as well as Pilon Lajas, two of the most impressive and beautiful conservation sites I´ve ever seen. We also got to go swimming in a huge waterhole under a roaring waterfall. It was amazing to fall asleep under the stars every night with the sound of bugs to put you to sleep. These two days felt like a dream to some of us.....but a nightmare to others. Once we had reached the point on the river where the boat couldn´t continue, we parted ways with the boat crew, the cook, and one of our guides, and headed into the jungle. Packs, machettes and all, Ruben (our guide) lead us through the depths of what would we would soon come to know so well as the jungle. Through the plantain, papaya, and yuca fields, we entered a new realm both of Bolivia and within our minds.

Once we reached our desitination of Asuncion, we got a taste of how the rest of our time there would look: tranquilo, despacio, y caliente. As we situated our tents under a massive open roof, we were all anxious to get in Quiqi Bay and finally bath our dirt/sweat/insect covered bodies. Once we finally got down there, it was apparent that the river served as the community bath and we were so grateful to have a water source to run to every day! As our days proceeded, we spent much time in that river and eventually we were swimming amongst all the children that we´d seen on our first swim, no longer separated.

After spending some time with the locals and realizing how toned every single person was, I think we all had aspirations to get on our muscle game. All the evening vollyball and rugged service that we took part in definitely made us feel a bit more bronzed and buff day by day. The selflessness, simplicitiy, and overall sense of community that the people of Asuncion shared with us are things that will be forever engrained in our memories.

I think I can make a group assumption when I say that the jungle was the most challenging part of the course so far for everyone. Although we all dealt with our issues differently, we have all come out with huge life lessons and a whole new perspective on life, as cliché as that can sound. This part of the course has forced us to become stronger individuals both physically and emotionally. As we find ourselves leaving the bugs, humidity, mashed plantains, wild bore, paranas, and caimins behind, we will be bringing so much more away with us, into each new realm of the unknown.