One year more... or less

One year on from the revolution of January 25th here in Egypt.

We asked
the delivery guy
if he was going
to Tahrir square.
He said
"No, this is not
the time to go to the square.
This is the time to work.
Halas."

* * * 

Sum of a summer

They've been calling it The Arab Spring.
It is turning onto summer.
Sunshine. Stagnation. Stifling heat.

* * *

Egypt is hard to characterize. Even those speaking loudest ask themselves questions: "Are we socialist?" or "Are we liberal?" or "Are we secular?" or "What do those terms even mean?" or "What do we believe in?" Exciting to define political parties and hope for elections, but difficult to imagine what is coming together from a million directions.

Sporadic art exhibit in the metro station near Tahrir.

Protests persist, sporadic and punctual - though last Friday was particularly large and specific. The peoples pressure continues from that iconic focal point of Tahrir square. Tents are up and staying, flags, talk of hunger strikes.

Without taking sides, I say this is a good thing. Change won't happen by the revolution itself. Or another way to look at it is that maybe the revolution, as an event, was A change; but defining THE change is gonna take a while and a lot of work.

* * *

Most people haven't seen their lives change yet. There are not more jobs or higher pay. This shouldn't surprise anyone.

Inequality can be subtle or blatant, but it's always there.

There is a man who by day sits in front of the metro station under a bit of shade from a tree. He sells lettuce. His spot is washed and cared for. He has 4 healthy basil plants that he sets out to outline his spot. He sleeps there.

There is a man and his son who have a cart and donkey. They sell tomatoes, potatoes, peppers and onions. Their cart is clean, they have a scale, the donkey is skinny. They move about calling constantly a repetitive song announcing their arrival.

There is an old man, fat and content, who has a small shop that he locks at night. He sells 3 kinds of lettuce, 2 kinds of eggplant, 3 kinds of onions, 2 kinds of garlic, fennel, celery, spinach, potatoes, sweet potatoes, zucchini, squash, rocket, herbs, about a dozen kinds of seasonal fruit, eggs, and often he has frozen shrimp or whitefish fillets. He has some refridgeration. His son does most of the work, with their 3 other employees. The older man sits in his chair, says hello to everyone and smokes.

There is a shiny mall with 6 floors and a 3-D cinema. In the mall is a huge supermarket. The vegetables are frozen and wrapped in plastic. They are all imported.

* * *

My last 2 lessons in Arabic class were the most useful so far (this will tell you something about what I do with my time these days). We learned the numbers and about the vegetable seller. How to say "Where is my change?" and all the fruits and vegetables. I still suck at speaking Arabic, but with this lesson under my belt I am really going to impress the fat man and his son.

I've been out of the academic environment for almost 10 years now, but when I was there I was a nerd: I always had good marks, maybe not #1 every time, but top 3, top percentiles on standard tests. I was never outrightly arrogant about it, but B's upset me and I just always expected myself to be at the top.

But alas, we grow up and have to learn things that are more useful than calculus or physics. Like new languages.

Learning French in the Peace Corps, I was the worst, or at least bottom 3 (at least I stuck to my pattern there). Today I am learning Arabic at the American University and I suck. Suck. SUCK.

Humility is good for the soul and has a practical purpose as well. Re-evaluating priorities. Physics happens weather or not I understand it, but can I purchase a head of lettuce?

* * *

Blinded by the night

there is no sand storm
despite yellow stained rays
creeping up the side of shaky skyscrapers
leaning on poorly built lintels
cracked re-bar exposed
under thick un-mortered walls

* * *

So, in the last post I didn't say it explicitly. But here we are, I must... Heisenberg and Bias. Check out the old post, if you haven't yet or if you are new.

* * *

Last night was really incredible. Of course I mention how peaceful it has been, and then it explodes. Do I keep my mouth shut now?

I will not speculate on Why or How or Motivations or Timings of the clashes. I admit that my view of Tahrir square is from 10 km away.

The pro-government protesters approached the square where the anti-government protesters have been for the past week. They charged on foot, on horseback, on camels. A lot of things were thrown by both sides, rocks, sticks, "gas bombs" or molitov cocktails. The front between the two groups shifted back and forth, back and forth as they pushed each other. It was impossible to tell who was who. People got onto roofs. Throwing off chairs and other things.

There was a line of 3 trucks that had no drivers. They were used as a front line, a shield for both sides. They were pushed and moved as the tide of the line moved back and forth.

But that was last night... today is today... now is now... and when you are reading this it will be later.

* * *

Reputable news agencies in this end of the world keep asking leading questions. Interviewing one side only. Using inflammatory language.

There are 80 million people in this country and probably 80 million sides. I guess they can't get to everybody, but maybe more than one would be nice.

* * *

Ego update: Lots of hits on this here humble blog in the past few days. Leave me some comments here! I would love to hear what you like and don't like.

Pissed off

This may be my most explicit post. I do hold back and usually keep it pretty clean. But not this time. It's not that I am having a bad day, it is just that today I will share my judgment and rancor.

* * *

Looking up, the remnants of tropical storm Gaston makes the clouds churn, black and full of rain over the mountains, while towards the bay is white and puffy. Not unique, simply a beautiful, complex sky.

Looking down, the steep street is dirty and the smell of urine flows uphill. Urine in the street is ubiquitous, not unique to Port au Prince (see posts about Kabul and Kenya), and today is no different than any other, except that I have to blame someone.

I blame the men around the world who whip it out and piss along the concrete walk.

I drove about an hour to a meeting and (just like any other day) along the way I saw at least seven men pissing in the open. Not behind a tree, not tucked away somewhere, not in the woods. Along the street. I could see the streams of their piss sparkle in the sun.

They disgust me.

* * *

The bitch with black spots,

her white coat brown, rough and crusted,

mangy red teets swing, panting

while she squats

over discarded plastic,

rotting fruits and a flat styrofoam box.

The man with oil stained jeans,

has no coat, steps over that same debris,

and shields just his cock, pausing

while he pees

upright, upon a busy street

exposing his sequined stream.

* * *

One could attack me as a hypocrite. And that is fine, perhaps I am. But an honest one.

I grew up peeing in the woods, I pee in the bush on a long car ride, I am an expert and rarely wet my feet. I also have no aversion to excreta (that's my job) or even to the smell of urine (which is in fact sterile). But there is something disturbing about city-scape, concrete laden, public man-pissing. Some of what bothers me deeply, perhaps, is seeing the pee raining down without regard to the throngs of strangers who are forced to watch this display. Forgive my sexist tendency, but no woman anywhere in the world would take a piss on a busy street. (Yes okay, indeed if she is ill or completely wasted.) There is something to be said for respect and dignity.

Double rubble trouble

Writing contest update:  nothing to report. still 0/5, awaiting 1.
The adventure is neither gone, nor forgotten. 

* * *

Ego update: How do you like my new domain name? Pretty cool, eh? Pretty egotistical, if you ask me, but still pretty cool. I will be fixing some of the formatting and making it better, slowly by slowly. Feedback is welcome.  In other ego-news, I was featured in a "local do-gooder" story from the newspaper where I went to high school.

 * * * 

Today's front page.

Not all the graffiti is artistic, though it all seems to be idealistic.

On the walls that stand or slump, amongst the graffiti, there are stenciled and spray painted signs in green, yellow or red. They read "MTPTC" and then a number. MTPTC means "Ministère des Travaux Publics, Transport et Communications." The number, I assume, relates to an inspector or zone. The color indicates if the building is safe, needs repairs or is unable to be repaired. I can't wait to see the final maps. An utterly fascinating and impressive endeavor.

Today driving to meetings, we passed teams of people in yellow t-shirts with Haitian flags upon them. The people each had a bucket. Some were lined up passing one bucket to the next up a narrow hill. In the bucket was rubble.You can't get machines in to many places, but you can get buckets.

Up to 20 million cubic yards of rubble is a lot. If each bucket contains half a cubic foot (only filled a little so they can be lifted), that makes over a billion buckets (hope my math is right, it is a little late). Of course some of that will be moved with machines, but still, that's a hell of a lot of rubble.

Men climb the skeletons and crimped bodies of buildings with pick axes. They slam and crack, little by little, separating the concrete from the re-bar. The concrete adds to the rubble. The re-bar is sold and recycled. They are strategizing on how to use the rubble. Inventors bring in hand powered machines to break it up, sort it by size, make ballast, aggregate for new concrete mixes and new houses. The rubble fascinates me almost as much as the fissures.

As usual, to save the world you have to focus.

* * * 

People sometimes ask if I live in a tent. For the past two weeks, yes. Military style tents within tents. Hot water with pressure that will take your skin off. This place is Camp Charlie and, like fissures and spray paint, is fascinating.

* * * 

For a more informative view of this situation, check out Jesse's blog that I linked to in the last post. He has an interesting perspective and is much more factual than I.

What was once

What was once upright
rigid brightly painted or gray
is resting
tired
from a violence
absent of aggression

* * *

I can not claim to know what was once. Here.

From one perspective, I gape at walls and floors and ceilings draped over one another. I stand upon, step over fissures in the road. I listen to stories and gasp, knowing that I am only an observer, but not the only observer.  My own perspective quite the same as many, except that I am probably more intent than most on getting a good picture of the fissures in the road to impress my geologist friends.

From another perspective, this event has been measured by standard metrics: Richter, deaths, displacement of people or earth, monetary value of infrastructure destroyed.
 
Heisenberg was right. Absorbing light off the white rubble changes its direction, phase, superposition, tint, interpretation. Putting a number on this scene affects it.

* * *

I have seen the palace and the jail, the cathedral and the bridge. Each of them have split in half and what was once proud is crass.
I did not enter convinced by ghosts and twisted iron bar that locks inside some stories that only come from far.

2 to 2

Contest #2) So, not really any news cause I didn't win the contest, but they finally put up the poems for the public to see, so I thought I would provide a link here so you can check it out. None of the judges put any comments, which I was bummed about, but that is okay. This poem I had shared with a friend and my mom, neither loved it.


To A Poet Laureate

Dear Sam,
I once wrote eight page
letters to your son, quickly
placed inside the cedar shake box
punctuating
your driveway lined with alder saplings.
I pumped my bike up one, two, three
straight hills to Sawmill Corner
hoping you and Sally
never knew that it was me.

A round faced nine, ten, eleven
year old, I once bound blank
diaries during art, which you
the printer, must have taught.
Boring holes through stacked sheets with
needles, the blunt end cut my finger
making it hard to tie thin thread.
Somehow three small bundles became a single
tome, glue beaten with a wide stubby brush
into paper we must have made
from fresh pulp.

Inside, I once wrote eight line
poems, invented words in colored
pen, punctuation
revised with wild insects flying round
kerosene lamps, flashlights and blue
computer screens.
I completed only one, quickly
placed inside the cedar shake box
hoping you and Sally
might think that it was me.

The Second Tanking

- Contest results so far - Self-soothing - Photos and a poem -

* * *

Writing contest summary statistics
Contests entered: 4/10
Contests complete: 2/4
Contests won: 0/2

Contest #1) Didn't win.
Contest #2) Awaiting results.
Contest #3) Awaiting results.
Contest #4) Not purchased. Didn't win.

My Super-ego is a little upset.
My Ego has authored the next section.
My Id still having fun, still learning and still has lighthearted expectations.

Any wagers on the 2 contests in progress?
I will give you odds of 1/300 for #2 and 1/10,000 for #3.

* * *

Sometimes victories are not found where you are looking. Sometimes they come and tap you on the shoulder; you turn your head and are pleasantly surprised by what happened to your right. Sometimes they fly in from the far left and knock you over.

The first minor victory that makes me happy is explained in my last post. (You should be aware of my bias: I value the opinion of Google as the most-awesome search engine out there.)

The second victory is on Helium. Despite the 2 failed contests, there has been some progression since my last analysis of the Helium sphere. First, I achieved 2 writing stars with only 9 eligible articles (I have 11 now). The calculation of this I can not explain, but it is a measure of the quantity and quality of your Helium articles. Most users seem to get 2 stars after 30 articles and since I did it with only 9, I think that is good. Second, I mentioned back in April that my essay percentage was only 48%. Today, after reading and revisions, it is a big fat 92%. I guess I can say I have learned a bit how to write to this audience. Small, but it soothes.

* * *

I just returned from 1 week in Garbatulla. My last week in Garbatulla. My contract is complete on 30 June 2010. I have a long history with the Kenya Mission of ACF. I started here in 2006, came back in early 2008, and then came back again in July 2008 to be the WASH Coordinator, which I have done for the past 2 years. I am happy. I am nostalgic. I am ready to go.

I see many countries out the windows of Land Cruisers. Going a little too fast:
Mis-spelled signs.
Half built cement buildings. Half falling apart mud buildings.
Goats. Camels. Cows. Sheep. Skinny, fat, pregnant, as the seasons change.

Dusty men pissing. Dirty men pissing. Men pissing. The most common sight. Disgusts me. I don't want to see the stream of your piss. I don't want to smell your piss on the wind. I want you to have as much dignity as the women.

Dusty, wrinkled, calloused women. Bent forward with straight backs, always lifting up the house. Her faggot; heavy strapped to the head. A pile of grass, only legs are visible. Yellow plastic jerry cans of water. A child.

A Kenya Picture Poem:

Kenya is iconic Africa

Savannah grasses

Flat topped trees

 Elephants lumbering through vines

Silent only becuase we didn't stop to listen.

Communities
make thier houses out of white dust
and iron sheets.

The mother cracks stones

hammer on old truck parts

pliers prized possesion

sorting saphires on a worn mat.

Because
the left hand is stagnant

while the right hand evolves
and the head is on backwards
this country
explodes

in a thousand directions.

My first buck

* * *

Business, first:

Contest #1) Helium… That's where it started, and it will apparently continue into oblivion, but is none-the-less an interesting background to my adventrue in writing. I haven’t submitted anything new here since the last posting, but I am earning good money. To date: $1.05, at this rate I'm going to need a piggy bank! The biggest earner by far is my masterpiece on beauty tips- more than 1/3 of my total earnings are from this article alone. How about that. Deep. Fufilling. $1.05.

Contest #2) Poetry contest for charity… 2nd round of cyberetic-domocratic judging completed. The quality of poems is better in this round, so I guess that should give me confidence in the merit of the contestant-come-judge approach. There is no feedback from the contest organizers if you passed to the second round or not, so I have no idea what people thought of my poem. I will only know if it passes to the final 12 in the next few weeks. If not I will never know how far it went. Oh woe goes the fragile Ego who sits atop her fence.

Contest #3) The more professional poetry contest… No idea. The contest is closed, and if I don't win then I don’t expect any feedback. Wish I had a clue. Wish I had a chance.

Both #2 and #3 should have results in July. I am honestly pretty nervous at the idea of the outcomes. Discouragement? Depression? Elation? Egomaniacal striation?

 * * *

Writing, second:

So, the artist. Is so deep. Is so idealistic. The process is supposed to be moving and personal and involve a muse. The artist is not supposed to create for the audience or for appreciation, but for the pure and simple joy of creation.
Creation of any sort seems to involve some evolution.
And evolution involves some reflection and adaptation and revision to improve upon that creation. And sometimes that involves some sort of opinion that is not your own. Which by definition is involving the audience and by-passing the muse and maybe isn't so deep. But it's still being an artist, I think.

So here is some creationist evolution by an amateur artist who is perhaps not so idealistic.

Here are two versions of something. Which do you think came first? Which one do you like better? Did it evolve at all? Should it have even been created?

*

Shifting nomadic sporadic emphatic
transient walking with steps automatic
a basket a bundle a trundle crate casket
reflective packing with questions to ask it

I tell myself I am not in the race,
not influenced by the incompetence
of the electoral college, not capitalist, not racist, not American.
I tell myself I am not in the bottom,
not affected by the incompetence
of taxes called inflation, not corrupt, not tribalist, not African.

*

I tell myself I am not
in the race, not
influenced by the incompetence
of the electoral college, not
capitalist, not racist, not
American.
I tell myself I am not
in the bottom, not
affected by the incompetence
of taxes called inflation, not
corrupt, not tribalist, not
African.

*

Here is my answers to my own questions: I sort of like the two part one because it is more playful, but it doesn’t seem finished yet, needs more to make it strong. The bottom one seems to take itself too seriously, trying to be deep, trying to speak for everyman - but could be complete as it is.

* * *

Personal, third:

We are moving. My next 3 months are pretty unclear, but (as life seems to keep on going whether or not one has a plan) the next month promises much more excitement in my life than just the outcome of the second two contests. I will definitely leave Kenya by mid-July. I might get a job. I might not. I might go surfing. I probably won't. Either way, there will certainly be some interesting blog posts. Currently I am a little bit reflective, as one tends to be upon the brink of leaving 2 years of inspiration, frustration and fun.

There is no fastlane

where 

potholes appear

with overnight rains, 

where

streetlights are standing

with bulbs dark, 

where

I saw a dead man

hit last new years eve.

Adventrue Numba 3

I broke the promise consciously,
left it without regard.
I promised pictures and rancorously
left my honor marred.
Can I make up for my mistake
with this stupid rhyme?
My life is dull, I could not take
an adventrue in this time.

* * *

Well the Helium experiment (from Contest #1) continues. I have learned that the first essay I wrote will never be removed from that site, and I will never be able to improve it! Damn, says my ego. Good for ya, says myself.

Still, the experiment continues. I have submitted a few more essays, just for practice. I have earned the first form of Helium-based validation - a "writing star" which means that I have reached some quantity goal while maintaining some quality of standard based on how the masses view my articles (poems don't count).

I have learned that when I write about stuff I do not really care about or about subjects in which I am not an expert, the ranking of my articles is much better. I am trained as a hydrogeologist and I am a weird and not-too-girly woman, but my articles about aquifers and water are apparently shit and my best ranked articles are about how to cook and put on makeup.

I suppose I must admit, in public, that I do love to cook (my stress relief) and I find getting all kinda nice-looking fun. I guess I am a little girly.

I also must somehow question, not the quality of the Helium site or the writing there, but it's purpose. I guess it is not meant for public enlightenment on scientific issues and that this is not the venue to achieve the goal of trying to convince stupid people that climate change exists. Which, you may observe, is leaving me somehow frustrated because there are so many crappy articles there arguing that climate change and global warming are myths. There are articles that are supposed to talk about aquifers, but go on and on about the "groundwaters" with heaps of wrong information. Arf.

I seem to have started that paragraph sensibly enough, but it degenerated into a rant. Drama can be good. But really it just proves what I said before, is that I guess popular writing is figuring out what your audience wants.

I feel some subversive energy coming on here.
I want to use bad english to explain the glory of science and all its uncertainties!
I want to use incomplete sentences to subtly insult creationists!
I embrace bad spelling because sometimes it makes life an adventrue!
Is that so wrong?

(Source: Adventrue is a brilliant slip that I have stolen from my mother.)

* * *

So Contest #2 is closed and I am now participating in the cyber democratic voting process. So far I have had to read 12 poems, in which I ranked my top 4. There were some good ones - as well as some true crap, which one will undoubtedly find where ever one endeavors to read anything remotely poetic. I think the winners are announced sometime in July. I will keep you posted on how the competition stacks up in the continued rounds of judging... I might not be so quick to use the word "crap" next time.

* * *

Contest #3) So, in all transparency I must disclose that between now and 20 May 2010 I will enter another contest. This one is also for poetry. It is different than the last in that it is judged by professional poets at a literary magazine. While a supporter of the cyber-democracy voting process of which I have been a part in the first two contests, it is my duty to choose contests with varied challenges.

As this is a pretty high level contest, I doubt I will have any chance and feel a bit foolish and freaked out. That said, my ego thinks it would be damn cool to get a nod from a professional, even if I don't win. I mean, I got to go all out and day dream.

So, on this one I enlisted a friend and a mom (my own mom) to rank some of my poems to help me choose which ones to enter. They also gave me some useful feedback on how to make them better. I was surprised to find they both had the same favorite, and it was not my favorite. I liked the one that was more personal to me I guess. I trust them on their judgment of the best.

After the contest, I will tell you which contest it was (with a link to the winners etc.) and I will also post the poems that I entered. I am not sure on rules, but it may be better to leave them off the blog until it is over. Same with the last contest. Frankly, I am not at all clear on what means the word "published," as to me a blog ain't exactly respectable literature. But who knows, the words are out there.

* * *

Fine. I give in. Here is a photo or two. My consciousness is not, in fact, rancorous.
But be aware, I am forced to recycle a bit for lack of adventrue.

This is me between 2 big ass tanks on some rocks in Garbatulla. Just doing my job. I was just looking, we didn't build these, the ministry did.

This is just a strange image that I like.

These are my new glasses. That may be as close to my recent medical adventrues as you will get without me totally grossing you out. But that would've been more fun wouldnt it?

Wanna be

Editorial Note: Africa heat poem has been removed temporarily.
Here is a replacement that is posted elsewhere.

I enjoy the warmth beneath
your purple cotton shirt
your double chin beneath
straight spiky hairs
your arm between
rough polyester
airplane seats.
I enjoy the stinging fear
of this surprising
intimacy.

* * *

I wanna be Bob Dylan. Not even original, but it's true. I enjoy most things in life, but sometimes I fall in love.  Once because of him. Last thoughts on Woody Guthrie is a masterpiece. Like "Tonight" below, it is better read aloud. Maybe that is true of all poems that move.

* * *

I am writing on the Mac today. My own computer, which ironically I am not used to. The keys are quiet and the screen doesn't flip quite to the right angle when I put it on my belly. But it's lighter. And looks cool with its little glowing Apple derrier.

I am using here to spit out words until they become a better poem. Sometimes feeling like someone else has read it, even if untrue, makes me want to revise something and make it better. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. If you look at the poems on my Helium page (explained below) you will find that most of it is revised from here.

What's with the lack of photos? Eh? Promises, promises, my dear. Okay. Fine. Next time.

Two things I like

On a certain 9 hour journey, I fell in love twice. I thought I'd share.
 
POEM : Tonight

by Agha Shahid Ali

I suggest listening to it, rather than reading. Or both at the same time.

MUSIC: Zoe Keiting
Very cool. The first time I heard it, I thought it was interesting and creative, but wasn't excited. Then I listened to it at 7 am, coming up from the arid Garbatulla to the misty mountains, lush and green. Then it became very cool and was a nice background to my journey. I love Legions (War). I guess it's mood music.

El Nino

And what of this... absence? I take no responsibilty, whatsoever. Though I have no excuses.
Past months in suspended animation, I should have made that time somehow.

Remember a comment on kidnapping? (On kidnapping) eh well. Phrophetic of course... An entry I started back in July: "I love my job. But there are days it makes me speachless and this weekend has been one. 3 collegues were kidnapped, to join others somewhere in Somalia. You get in the habit of sarcastic emails, farts and animal noises. You get used to disagreements with warmth."

I never finished the entry. A little scared of being sentimental, which is fine over a beer when the guys got out in October, but not so entertaining here. Frustrating this time has been. Stiffled, yet somehow free eventually.

***

Passing time is inevitably seen
blowing past a window screen
ostrich plumes and elephant tracks
crocodile teeth and camel backs
flat red roads run to rocky hills
drying rivers tests a mother's will
Got out to walk on black craggy stone
sometimes salt white, dust alone
water from rock where donkeys drink
blinding desert, pupils shrink
skinny man, his wives wash grime
parched and poor, not pressed for time

***

Drying Ewaso Nyrio River in January.
Today it flooded it's banks.
Precocious little bastard.

Spring in the middle of nowhere.
This photo does not justice.

Thirsty cows.
'Nough said.

Typical scene at a drying earth pan.
Little bit of everything.

animals

****

take a deep breath and clear your mind
but i'm in a smokey room here
i'm afraid of respiration
i can't make it to the door

not long to see the moon
through dust storms without lightning
i have lived through one or two
and i think ill see another

at the river bend
the water keeps its way down
keeps the wind clear from the smoke
keeps the mind from knots

***
Camels share a single cup.
***
Giraffes glide through trees with grace.

***
I walk the line.

Kenya Kataclysm

Back in November, I took a little trip to Takaba. That is up in Northeastern Kenya where we have some cool programs running. It was in the rainy season and it was lovely... except the flat tires (that's the hook there, can't beat a little suspense).

***

On the road between Malkamari and Takaba:

There wasn’t much to see the second time round

Lightning still broke the wide skies, silent as the sun sank
We past this turn before, she thought
As roads became rivers, melting sand to glass pathways
without wind before but waves behind shifting beneath tires
Red to green muddled eyes climbed muddy trees
A wild grey cat in the shadows motionless watching waves
Rain and thunder joined the lighting and still no wind
Perhaps there is indeed some magic here to see
she thought the second time around


***

On Takaba by night:

Seems these days I don’t hear anything
Only silence and bullfrogs singing off the hills
Filled their ponds, their houseboats
Where are they in drought?

***

Takaba was cool (work wise) - except then it got hot (security wise) and we had to bolt out the back door to get back to Nairobi: via Moyale. Driving from Takaba to Moyale is only 5 hours usually, but it took us about 10. We braved the mud pits! Then we smartened up and just drove through the brush to avoid the mud pits, the drivers keeping top speed as not to sink... Then the epic of the flats began.

Two at a time - with only one spare (which is half flat, so really only a quarter of what we need)!

What to do? What to do?
(.... interlude under the only shade tree for several hours, talking human resources....)

Ah - Ha! What is coming over the horizon? That's a Matatu (local public transport, see photo below)! And oh what luck, the driver of this truck is a friend of our driver and he lends us his spare tire. And we are off again, with the matatu spare that is too big for our car and rubs at every turn. And our original spare is low on air, but it'll have to do... Ah - Ha! What is that bumping down the road? It is a BIG truck, and a nice one! They have an air compressor and are very nice and fill up our half flat spare... And we are off again...

As we roll into Moyale (a boarder town with Ethiopia that hasn't much to offer) the spare from the matatu gets a leak! But we tax the tires and keep driving, leaking and all, to the hotel and park the car at the police station just as the tire becomes too flat to move.
We have dinner at the Prison Canteen "under da shades" and da stars.

(Just a note, the next day I fly back to Nairobi and having been in the bush eating goat meat for a week, Mario takes me out for Sushi. On the way to the restaurant ... you guessed it! We got a flat tire! 4 and a half flats in 36 hours. That's a pretty good record.)

Back to Moyale, the boarder town with not much to offer, as I mentioned. Moyale by night is not an exciting thing. But we let sleeping goats lie...

This is our hotel in the day time. The hills in the background might be Ethiopia. They might not be. Who knows.

Moyale Intenational Airport, Gate 3, Boarding for Nairobi
The pilot inspects the plane before takeoff and seems to spy a problem.
"Is it gonna fly?"

Not until we get the cows out of the landing gear!

Just kidding! That's not really our plane (and that's not the pilot, it's our watsan engineer). That's a dead plane on the airstrip (no African air strip, dare I say airport, is complete without a dead plane or two, see blog of "Welcome back Congo").
We made it back to Nairobi safe and sound.

***

On Kidnapping:

Each time it seems to get closer; hoping it's an illusion
like when the moon is on the horizon and it seems bigger.

*** *** ***

A few months ago I had a blog about “Kenyan Quickie” where I described my rapid adventure in toilet building in the camps that developed when people were displaced due to fighting and violence after the 2007 Kenyan elections.

So… 1 year later. Those political folks in the elections found a “power sharing deal.” There is a report into the violence on the table, with ultimatums of a Kenyan tribunal or the Hague. Personally, I can’t help but be skeptical. Is there real accountability, real responsibility, real closure? I can’t help but feel sad; those who were harmed, stay harmed and they are the ones who want this peace, who want reconciliation, who just want to live the life they have or had, who want their sons and cows and sheep and houses back. There’s a lot of fear and a lot of hope and my biased, skewed and skeptical view won’t really help fix the hurt either way. And neither will all the 378 latrines we built.

And yes, so 1 year later and we are closing our programs in that area (Nakuru) because it is time - the emergency is over, things are getting back to "normal" and the situation is outside our meager mandate. You can only save the world if you're focused, you know. But we built a lot of latrines and showers and water supply systems, some trash bins and distributed a lot of tools, jerry cans, soap, water filters, and other hygiene products and to top it off a lot of hygiene promotion (awareness raising). So what was the impact? Why do we do what we do? Well, we just did a survey to find out – and here is what we found. In areas where we worked people are twice as healthy (or half as many general illnesses); there is 3 times less diarrhea for children! People are 4 times more likely to drink potable water. So that’s nice.

Like I said, you can only save the world if you're focused.

Good bye Afghanistan

Last thoughts on Afghanistan:

Watched the snow road block and fall
smelled the river from far too far
while others rushed and resigned to crawl
and irrigate almond lands
burqua eyes blind to mine
i lived outside them all.

...........................

So I am a bit late (as always) but then that's fine. So I was so sad to leave Afghanistan,
but I think my dad was pretty happy that I am gone...

Mario too was happy to go, but I know it was bittersweet for him and parts of it he loved... like Ghor where we spent a romanic week. (As romantic as Taiwara can get).

Back in December - We flew out praying it wouldn't snow. And it did - but not enough to keep us down. Too many memories to tell you here....

But we had time for one good party.... actually i am cheating this picture is Ophelie, from quite a while ago...

A Kabul Picture Poem

This is Kabul.

And her childrenengulfing them slow

crawling up from below

this motherful city

hiding what's smotherful colorful

within silent grey mystery.

The unemployed beside the destroyed

not sure who is who
between buildings or boys
looking upwards to something

that destroyed joy down the road.

* * *

It aint easy being green

playing the scene

making up dreams

sometimes wishing we were back

in Mombassa...