detours

A three-quarter moon glowed orange and hovered low over the horizon as the plane touched down in Casablanca. Hours earlier I had at last ended an unexpected five-day stay in Paris, another of the world’s beautiful, intriguing cities. But circumstances as they were, I far from relished my time in either.

I left the States last Wednesday, headed to Bamako, Mali, for an international meeting of advocates, even departing early to help get ready for the big event which my project was sponsoring. The plane landed as scheduled Thursday morning and I meandered around the Paris airport for several hours, waiting for my connection flight on to Mali, in West Africa.

Only when it was at last time to board did the most dreaded word in air travel begin flashing on the screen above my gate = CANCELLED. I couldn’t believe it, nor could the thousands of other people who soon found themselves in the same situation. The flight crews of the airline, Air France, had just gone on strike, leaving passengers from around the world caught in the middle of their discontent ….

And so began my five day saga of coping with (or attempting to) my worst travel debacle to date. Thank God for debit cards and Blackberrys is all I can say. Without those modern conveniences and kind people at my office back home, I would be among the thousands of stranded travelers still lining the terminals, with luggage carts piled high beside them and no flights home anytime soon.

Sparing you the details, and to stifle any online ranting on my part, I’ll boil my dreadfully detailed experience down to the following oversimplified list, minus figures of money and angst (which were both freely spent).

Number of days spent in Paris = 5.5

Number of different re-booked itineraries in three days = 4

Number of hours spent waiting in line for Air France = 12

Number of hours spent waiting in line elsewhere = at least 10

Number of hours spent in transit dealing with the above = 5

Number of hours spent on Blackberry also dealing with above = 7+

Number of different hotels in four nights = 3

Number of hours spent enjoying Paris, excluding eating = about 7

Number of it would have taken hours to fly directly from Paris to Mali = about 7

***************

And now, here I am in Mali. After starting this entry days ago, we’ve since wrapped up our conference and I’m spending the weekend catching up on piled-up work, planning site visits for the next few days, and having a bit of fun, of course. But to add insult to injury, after surviving the Air France travel nightmare, I was here less than a day before finding out that local officials decided this week was the perfect time to close the airport to repave the runways. So again, I found myself surrounded by stranded travelers, but at least this time they were my colleagues, and I got my wish to spend a little extra time here.

Mali is the real home of Blues, a shocking statement coming from a Mississippi Delta girl, I know, but the last few nights I’ve heard the musical research validated for myself. What these bands may have lacked in wailing harmonicas, they made up for in added percussion – from drums of every shape and size to xylophone-type instruments made of wood and string. The lyrics in French and Bambara (the language of Mali) may have been incomprehensible, but the fusion of strings and beats was as familiar as Muddy Waters, B.B. King or any of the soulful sounds drifting from juke joints along Highway 61. I think I’ve found an African home…

In the coming days, I’ll be spending time exploring outside of the capital city, Bamako, so will surely share some sights and sounds from those days as well. But in the meantime, here’s a few glimpses from my few fun hours in Paris....

hmm... guess where this was?

the Louvre

looking down the Seine River

the throngs at Notre Dame

looking down a lovely, typical Parisian street

the fall colors were amazing...

... as were the parks

in pere lachaise cemetary, i finally got to pay my respects to an incredible poet and musician

And when i at last left the "City of Love," i realized that (even after my horrendous experience with the airline) perhaps we sometimes give French people too hard of time... because if i lived somewhere as incredibly beautiful, artistic, historic, and enjoyable as Paris, i'd probably be pretty indifferent toward everywhere else, too. (Just kidding, I know many wonderful French people, but you get the point...)

Without a doubt, though, I couldn't have picked a better place to get stranded.

uganda

The flight was almost two hours late and no one seemed to notice. I stood in the hot, baking sun of a northern Ugandan afternoon, behind my sunglasses my eyes rested closed while my arms and face soaked up the surprisingly comforting rays. The fatigue of almost three weeks of travel was catching up with me and I honestly couldn’t get out of there soon enough. But at the local airstrip (not an airport), I had no more control over my life and destiny than the people I had just spent the past few days visiting with in the refugee camps. My only choice was to stand beside that dirt runway and wait for whenever the tiny plane decided to show up… to wait for my own sort of deliverance.

Uganda was (and is) a complex place. Not that I’m an authority on any kind of history, but I am an observer of people, and cultures, and whatever evirons Life seems to find me in, and since I’m always more of a “documentarian” than an “intervener,” I try to at least learn from what I see (the sights, sounds, smells, conversations) and share it and grow from it.

So, this is what I saw = Kampala, the capital, was immensely accessible (aside from the hellacious traffic that haunts any capital city) and is renowned as one of Africa’s safest major cities. It was big, but not too big like Dar es Salaam or Nairobi, and people were quite friendly. English is the country’s official language so it was spoken everywhere, which makes everything just a heck of a lot easier. I stayed at a normal hotel, had lots of meetings with people in their normal offices, talked about normal work issues and what not. I might as well have been in Milwaukee.

Throughout those conversations, though, I learned that most organizations were doing work “in the north” which didn’t mean very much to me until later, when I was actually there, and experienced the radically different environment for myself. I didn’t know much about Ugandan history (and am far from a scholar now), but I did know a little about Idi Amin’s reign of terror in the 1970’s (as depicted in the movie The Last King of Scotland). What I wasn’t aware of was that other terrifying leaders followed, along with fierce clashes among people groups that continued into the late 1990’s, primarily “in the north.”

Even though the “peace process” has brought calmer times here in the 21^st century, an estimated one million Ugandans are still living as refugees from decades of civil conflict. They’re known to relief agencies as IDP's, or internally displaced persons, and are clustered together in “camps” by the thousands, many within only a few miles of their original homes. But even now, because of continuing “security restrictions,” they are stuck – forbidden to venture outside the camp perimeters to farm or have their own livelihoods. They depend largely on UN rations for food, international organizations for medicine and supplies, and their own government for not much at all. After living like this more well over a decade, many people I talked to have accepted these camps as their fate, saying these cramped communities are now their homes, and especially their children’s homes, since it’s all that the younger generations have ever known.

The living conditions in these camps were truly some of the worst I’ve ever seen. Nothing certainly compares to the aftermath of the tsunami, or even Hurricane Katrina, but as you take in your surroundings in this kind of situation, Something Inside you knows that man’s neglect is an equal or perhaps even greater tragedy than nature’s wrath. As always, though, I moved around an incomprehensible environment as unflinchingly as possible, taking a few photos here and there and asking easy questions about mosquitoes, when I really just wanted to scream “OH MY GOD WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP YOU GET OUT OF HERE?”

The mud-brick huts were built so closely together that the edges of their straw-thatched rooftops often touched, creating shady places for relief from the heat and, in the rainy season, perpetual puddles that were breeding havens for mosquitoes and disease. The people I interviewed were ultra-polite, often shy, but others stared stone-faced, especially the women (the hardest working yet most depreciated group in rural African society), and no English was spoken. There was little grass inside the camps, only dust and dirt or mud, making for dark-skinned children whose hours of outdoor play made them appear gray, even ghostly, the shade of ground. Some giggled when I passed, others shrieked in horror, but everyone, of all ages, turned and watched me closely.

Back in the main town, where the airstrip was, I had seen sign after sign pointing the way to aid agency offices, most of them familiar names of organizations I knew from Indonesia or before. Yet, when I was actually in the refugee camps, I saw little evidence of their presence – children looked extremely unhealthy, their clothes were ragged (if not nonexistent); families had few possessions, except an occasional mosquito net, a cooking pot and a sleeping mat. I just didn’t understand where any real help for these people was…

And then the tiny plane landed on the dirt runway and carried me away from that place that I still can’t believe exists on the same planet that America does, or even the capital city in its own country for that matter. It wasn’t until I was safely home, relishing in the comfort of eating popcorn on my overstuffed red chaise lounge watching The Office season premier, that I physically shuttered at the contrasting worlds I had just experienced. Less than 48 hours before I had been standing amid a manmade catastrophe of poverty and civil war and neglect...

So what was it about me that I was the one that deserved to get on a plane and leave it all behind and return to a life of ease and comfort, of excess and options?

In the quiet hours since then, I have realized that the Ugandan refugees did get on the plane with me, and followed me home, hidden away in my subconscious like stow-aways in the cargo hold. They are here with now as I type, along with my cup of freshly-brewed coffee and air conditioner and closet full of clothes. For years, I think my eyes have taken in more than my heart has ever begun to process. But that’s ok… in a few days, I’ll be back at work, back in the routine, back caring about all the little things that really don’t matter. Breathing deeply again. But for now, while jetlag awakens me into night’s dark hours, I will remember… the people, the sounds, the smells, the conversations in the radically different world that exists just a flight away.


walking into one of the camps - kids everywhere, laundry drying on rooftops, mom's working, a local food like low-quality potatoes lying out on mats waiting to be pounded in mush for porridge

a family portrait - eight of the nine children belonging to this unusually happy mother appeared for a photo

local kids clamored around me at this camp - both boys and girls were usually bald, most likely because of malnutrition

i was amazed with this little boy's toy car because i've so rarely seen children playing with anything like this

To learn more about what's going on in northern Uganda, here is a link to a recent speech on the situation. Or visit the UNHCR or Doctors Without Borders websites to understand the plight of the 33 million refugees in the world. I will eventually write about the good things about Uganda, because there were indeed many unforgettable moments, but these were the impressions I needed to share first, hoping we can all grow and learn a little bit from getting a glimpse of what goes on in parts of our world that really aren't that far away...

tanzania

Ok, so I have about a two hour flight ahead of me from the capital of Tanzania (Dar es Salaam) to the international airport in Uganda (Entebbe, though Kampala is the capital), and surely in that time I can spill something onto paper about the last nine days before I embark onto another phase of this journey, promptly forgetting all I’ve seen and done here.

Tanzania’s in eastern, southern Africa (am sharing this because I didn’t know either) and is home to Lake Victoria and the Serengeti plains in the north (think Lion King) and a gorgeous oceanic coastline in the east. The exotic island of Zanzibar is also just across the water from the lackluster metropolis of Dar.

All that said, it’s also one of the world’s poorest countries (annual household income of less than $300) and they’ve got a pretty terrible malaria problem, thus the reason for my visit. A U.S. government program that’s funded by your tax dollars has put millions into the fight against malaria here, beginning with successful efforts in Zanzibar two years ago. Mainland Tanzania is immensely more complex in size and scope, but they have still made strides against the country’s number one killer, and I’m here to document how.

After working in the malaria field for a few months now and traveling lots already, I have seen NOTHING like I saw in northern Tanzania, one of its most severely-affected areas. Sick people of all ages, packed hospital wards, empty shelves where medicines should be but supplies were completely depleted. It was all a truly shocking situation, because it wasn’t even rainy season yet when infection rates are always highest, so it’s only going to get worse. For perhaps the first time, I personally felt the sheer gravity of the disease and the urgency to do even more to help fight it.

And that message has already spread to others as well. In the relatively small town I worked out of the first four or five days of my time here, I connected (through a series of random, completely unplanned events) with another group of Americans, two of whom you’d likely recognize for winning an Oscar together years back – they went on to star in lots of movies and grace tabloid covers everywhere. Anyway, no names necessary, but suffice it to say, one was very nice and impressive, and the other, not so much. But I’m very thankful they both came to see firsthand what the realities are outside of the Western world, and I was able to end up spending a day with them as their “malaria expert” (ha!). Hopefully, they’ll use their spotlight to raise awareness for the ongoing plight of the suffering and struggling in Africa and beyond.

Almost as interesting to me, was that one of people traveling with them was the inventor of the ONE campaign, which I have loved and supported for years. My life is just so random …

I learned quickly on my travels around the countryside, that Tanzania’s topography is immensely varied. Within an hours drive, I went from the fertile shoreline of Lake Victoria (the world’s second largest inland lake) to one of the most bizarre landscapes I’ve ever seen as I traveled east toward the Serengeti -- rolling hillsides spotted with gigantic, haphazardly-placed rock formations. Many resembled larger versions of Stonehenge, but not quite so systematic, and they perhaps even looked like moon rocks, too (if that even makes sense) but set against the back drop of open fields and traditional huts. It was very, very strange and made me think that people who don’t believe in the Flood should really go to northern Tanzania and see these crazy rocks. I just can’t imagine how else they got there….

Aside from the landscape, I must confess that I wasn’t nearly as enamored with Tanzania as I was with Ethiopia. Some African countries that I’ve visited seem to have a stronger sense (or display) of their own cultural traditions and history than others. For example, there was no clear Tanzanian food that I could find, except for fish from Lake Victoria. They boasted chapattis as their own, but we all know that’s an Indian thing, though there are indeed lots of Indians in Tanzania. The only traditional dress that I could discern was that of the Masaii people, who you may recognize as those whose men wear long red plaid cloaks and are often pictured standing stoically with spears and shields. But the ones I saw were more likely to be holding cell phones. Apparently, lack of rainfall and other environmental factors of recent years have forced the Masaii from their nomadic lifestyle of the past millenniums, and thousands have now flocked to the cities looking for work. But not leaving the red traditional robes at home…

Yesterday was last day in Tanzania and I had returned from the moon rock-laden countryside to the capital to visit (among other things) an urban larvaciding project. Sounds fascinating, I know, but this is indeed my life now. So what they do in this one-of-a-kind-in-the-world project is kill the mosquito larvae before they hatch. No mosquitoes = no malaria. But since Dar is a city of about three million people they have to do this on massive scale, thus making it so unique.

Anyway, I went with the mosquito experts all around town, visiting mostly small swampy areas in densely-populated residential areas. But then we stopped at an area that was reportedly one of their biggest challenges to treat – massive sewage lagoons that are no longer in use, but can still collect rain water where mosquitoes breed. So, we get out of the car and are walking across a muddy, open area toward the large, mostly-empty man-made ponds, when one of the guys turns and says something to me. Since accents can often hinder ones understanding, I thought he said something about a field, and innocently called back to him, “What about the field?” He and his colleague chuckled aloud, and the other guy, who spoke perfect English, stopped and said back, “He was telling you to be careful because you are walking on feces.”

Now, what does one say to that, or even do in such a situation? I knew they were partly teasing me and the sewage had been treated and buried, just like any old landfill anywhere. But still! I paused only for a moment, looking down at the over-sized white boots they’ve loaned me (God only knows why they have white boots for such a nasty job), and thinking of the semi-heavy camera bag on one shoulder. I knew the odds were in my favor for a fall any second – either from stumbling in the big rubber boots or the shock of now knowing what I was *really* standing on.

And it was at that moment that I tapped into that part of myself that so often kicks in and overrides my natural inclinations, making me be able to do what I do and go where I’ve gone. And in the best Swahili I could muster, I looked back at them, shrugged my shoulders and said, “Hakuna matata.” No worries. And I kept right on walking…


But here are just a few glimpses into Tanzania before I go...

a child hospitalized with malaria

the Stonehenge/moon rocks jutting from behind a traditional hut

cute smiling faces everywhere, as always

sunset over Lake Victoria

ethiopia

I just spent 12 days in 1999. No, I’m not time traveling now, or having delusional episodes – but it’s still 1999 in Ethiopia, according to their national calendar, the result of a centuries old squabble with the Catholic church. So, I just arrived home to Baltimore from almost two weeks spent amid the throes of preparation for another new millennium, which dawns on September 12th. Aside from some minor chronological confusion, it was my favorite kind of work trip (unlike the last one, which was all meetings) – this was solely documentation, with me, a film crew, and colleagues who quickly became new friends – traipsing around the countryside recording the successful story of malaria prevention efforts there.

From uber remote villages to the bustling cosmopolitan streets of the capital, Addis Ababa, we maximized our time, at one point covering more than 1500 kilometers in less than six days! The drive could only be compared to mine and Jennifer’s infamous India bus journey with its wicked, slightly-terrifying twists and turns. But the scenery alone was well worth the fanny fatigue of marathon car rides, not to mention how successful the work aspect was. Ethiopia is, bar none, one of the most beautiful countries I’ve ever been to. The northern region (where we spent most of our travel time) is saturated with massive, spectacular mountains, vibrant green fields, and an immense variety of huts and houses scattered across endless vistas.

It was rainy season in most of the country, so it was pretty wet and surprisingly cold – averaging in the upper 60’s, but the altitude of most of the country keeps it temperate year-around. The people were friendly, charming and strikingly attractive. However, their bizarre tendency to *gasp* (seriously) instead of saying “yes” or “umm” or nodding their head was a bit disconcerting until I got used to it. We also ran across fluent English speakers constantly, even in tiny towns. Also, not once did I see a piece of garbage on the ground. To me, though, it was indicative of Ethiopians’ pride and patriotism, feelings that were well understood after just a short time there.

Ethiopia boasts one of the world’s oldest civilizations and is said to be home to the infamous Queen of Sheba, whose son with the biblical King Solomon is believed to have stolen the Ark of the Covenant and brought it back to his home in northern Ethiopia. We visited the dilapidated church in the ancient city of Aksum that supposedly houses this mysterious piece of history, only to find that it was viewable only by chosen priests once a year. Women couldn’t even enter the sanctuary where it resides, encased by heavy curtains in a design much like the Old Testament “Holy of Holies.” The male members of our team scoped it out and left uncertain… Obviously, it’s a job for Indian Jones himself.

With a biblically entwined history like this, modern Ethiopians are mostly Ethiopian Orthodox – a overtly-devoted type of Christianity that compares to ones practiced in parts of northern Africa and the Middle East. Cathedrals with bulb-type domes popped up on even the most remote hillsides, as did barefoot kids wearing more cross necklaces than Madonna in the 80’s. Ancient rock-hewn churches carved into towering mountainsides also remain as revered pilgrimage sites for Ethiopians and evidence of centuries of persevering faith. The iconography of these places of worship is uniquely Ethiopian – generations of artists have etched wide-eyed, almost cartoonish, biblical figures in an endless variety of scenes. I even came home with my own Ethiopian depiction of the Last Supper. Suffice it to say, Jesus is not a white dude. It’s a very favorite souvenir, along with my traditional coffee pot…

Which brings me to (what is to me at least) another impressive Ethiopian historical claim – it is the birthplace of coffee. Whether it’s true or not is still up for debate, but the country fosters its validity by serving up a java masterpiece at even the most inconspicuous stop. You won’t find Nescafe instant stuff here, only clay pots or industrial sized espresso machines, with no in-between. The impeccable taste likely comes from the beans themselves, which are grown widely on small, humble farms, cultivated solely by hand. In one of the extremely remote villages that we visited (a 15 minute hike down a mud path, after a 10 minute walk up a narrow dirt road, following a 45 minute drive along a deserted gravel road), we were invited to a traditional coffee ceremony by the community matriarch, known to everyone (including us) as “Mama.”

Mama wouldn’t take “no” for an answer and ushered our gaggle of ferengi (“foreigners” in Amharic, the language of Ethiopia) into her thatch-roofed hut. While we had been at her neighbor’s house seeing a brand new baby sleeping under bed net, Mama had already prepared a virtual Ethiopian banquet for us – coffee, fresh baked enjira (their staple food, much like an enormous pancake), and popcorn (half-popped, salted kernels actually, so very delicious). We’d eaten so much at lunch just before our trek, though, that I just couldn’t force myself to eat the mound of enjira that Mama had graciously served me, which was equivalent probably to five or six slices of bread. So, I nibbled on it slowly, pondering my dilemma. I didn't want to appear rude or ungrateful, or make another cultural faux pas (I’d made several already at this point in the trip, mainly by asking for coffee “too early” during a meal), so I waited until our group was laughing at someone else’s faux pas going on across the room then I quickly folded up the slab of pancake and stuffed it in my pocket. Thankfully, my Marmott rain jacket has many fantastic features, including very big pockets.

Though I could ramble on for hours with anecdotes of our misadventures, people’s kindness, and adorable children (or “pantless wonders” as we began to call them after seeing so many who’d forgotten their lower apparel), I will sign off for now since I actually have to write the entire experience up for work as well. I will try to have a link up to photos from the trip soon, so the images can speak for themselves… In the meantime, here’s Mama’s lovely coffee ceremony set up, and a few more to give you a glimpse into life in 1999.

geneve

Or at least that’s how they say it there – the French pronunciation of “Geneva,” which is where I was when I began writing yesterday. The new job has already taken me overseas, here on week three of work! I spent five days in Switzerland for meetings and arrived last night in Nairobi, Kenya, for more meetings and project site visits. Next, we’ll head to Lusaka, Zambia, for a conference and some additional field visits. It’ll be about three weeks travel in all and will (and has already) given me a great introduction into the program, the global public health scene, and how our work fits in with it all. It’s exciting, but I think I’d be much less excited if it was solely meetings without the prospect of being on dusty African road with my camera in just a few days…

It was a great few days in Geneva. Well, the meetings, confessionally, were excruciatingly boring at times. Seriously, the during first full-day of meetings, which followed a 13-hour day of pre-meeting meetings, I was literally nodding off so badly that I was almost falling out of my chair. Jet-lag? Not knowing what was going on? Perhaps a blend of both, but by the end things had radically improved. And I think no one saw me dozing off…

See, by week’s end, I had made some friends, and with me and everyone, that always makes things better. One Latina New Yorker who’d lived worldwide and most recently in Africa, pre-Geneva, invited me to a concert with her and some friends. It turned out to be one of the most fantastic music events I’ve been to in probably years and was salve to my live-music starved soul. The band was local Swiss artists, but the sultry lead singer was Argentinian and sang jazz-infused Tango ballads for hours, accompanied by a band that included an awe-inspiring saxophonist who could have easily joined up with Tower of Power or the Dirty Dozen Brass Band and fit right in. I’m digressing into over-description now, but it was fabulous.

Anyway, the next day, an old Red Cross acquaintance who’s now a Geneva local took me and some others onto a spectacular tour of the region – from the local wineries which were celebrating the annual “wine tour day” on the Swiss side of Geneva, to a quaint, picturesque town nearby where the Alps towered alongside the crystal clear lake, to the top of Mount Blanc in France where the smallness of the earth below was placed radically in perspective after a 15 minute cable-car ride thousands of feet upward. It was quite a full day of relishing in the beauty of the region, and I realized as it ended that I rarely thought about work at all… ahhh….

Something the American local resident pointed out in an extended positive response to my question, “Do you like it here better than in the States?” was how much simpler life is there, how less noisy. He motioned out the car window to the countryside along the French/Swiss border and asked what we saw – only lush open space, houses in the distance, and the magnificent snow-capped Alps in the background. “What do you not see?” he asked. And it was almost instantly clear – there were no billboards, no advertisements of any kind. Nothing said “buy me” or “eat this,” only Nature whispered, “appreciate the beauty of the landscape.” I couldn’t help but think of the cluttered mountain vistas along interstate 81 as the Smoky Mountains emerge in Virginia and stretch into Tennessee. Those hillsides with tragically-cluttered views advertising the next McDonald’s, Cracker Barrel or gas station. There was none of that in Switzerland, none in the French Alps we visited, and very little in a city as cosmopolitan as Geneva. The American local described it as a completely different lifestyle, one with exponentially less noise, and where you go into a local shop and are welcomed as if you’re entering someone’s home. Some of this I could grasp from my time in Indonesia, but after being back in America “the land of options” for months, my awareness of this less-chaotic, non-consumer-driven existence had waned. It felt incredible to be abroad again, like my mind and soul could breathe deeply amid all that quiet, open space…

And then there was yesterday. A day which annually accentuates a lingering ache in my heart. It began with a 5:30 a.m. cab ride to the airport with colleagues, then progressed into a pain-staking boarding and security process through the airport. I guess my (literally) six electric chargers for my array of camera equipment and other gadgets set off some sort of alert, and when I finally slunk into the boarding area for my gate, I felt emotionally frisked and deliberately harassed. Through all of this, at every stop, my colleagues had abandoned me – moving on about their business with little notice or concern for my whereabouts or predicaments. Perhaps I’m just very blessed to have traveled so much with friends that love me and look out for me (and vice versa), or perhaps my heart was a bit tender from the subconscious thoughts of Mother’s Day, but their indifference had only added to the airport’s insults and heaped more metaphorical weight into my 40 pound pack and camera bag.

I boarded the plane silent, heavy-hearted and sleepy and made my way to my seat. As I stopped beside my aisle and heaved my bag toward the overhead, I heard a quiet, calm voice from a nearby seat say, “Do you need help?” I breathed deeply for the first time all day, as I heard the simple phrase I’d needed to hear for last several hours. “No, I think I’ve got it,” I said, without taking my eyes off the bag that was still tilted upward. With a final heave, I stuffed it in and moved to sit down, and only then did I look and see the sweet-faced, middle-aged man that answered my unspoken prayer for help. And he was sitting with a Bible opened in his lap.

My heart and soul were saturated in comfort, as I smiled, knowing that God always knows just what we need.

Here’s a view from the top of Mount Blanc, and if you need it, may it help you, too, find a little perspective today…

surreal

If you had told me just over a month ago that I would be moving to Baltimore and working at Johns Hopkins, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you had told me even a few days ago that I would be having lunch at the White House and going to a Rose Garden ceremony, I definitely wouldn’t have believed you. But, as I’ve learned again recently, when things “fall into place,” they can do so rather quickly, and all of the above actually did come true.

And here I am, at the end of perhaps one of the most surreal days of my life, knowing that though I’m utterly exhausted, I absolutely had to write about it. So, how do I retrace the steps that led me to the White House lawn today? The short version is as follows:

One of my friends that worked with me in Indonesia took a job with Johns Hopkins right after leaving Banda Aceh. In early May, she invited me to her office where I met the communications person working on her program, who in turn told me all about the communications center at Hopkins and all the cool work they do. Since its all health based (as opposed to disaster relief), I really hadn’t heard of it before but was intrigued. They had no open positions to speak of, but we had a nice chat.

Two days later, she called me and said that a colleague had just announced she was leaving. That colleague called me the very next day, and I soon found myself in a fast forward interview process for an amazing, yet highly unexpected, job opportunity.

Long story short, I am now Director of Advocacy for Johns Hopkins global malaria prevention programs. I have moved to Baltimore into a great new apartment, and today, on Day 6 on the job, I found myself at the White House, listening attentively as George and Laura championed the cause for which I’m now advocating – a preventable, treatable disease that kills a child in Africa ever 30 seconds. Yep, that’s about a million people per year.

It was a surreal day, though almost typical of the whirlwind my life has become in the past few weeks – interviewing, weighing options (overseas vs. U.S. work), accepting the job, finding a place to live in a city I knew relatively little about, moving all my stuff from Virginia Beach in a U-haul the size of a school bus… and that’s far from everything. As you can imagine, it’s all been quite hectic and exhausting, yet exhilarating and surreal (there’s that word again).

But just so you know that I’m keeping it real and am far from getting caught up in anything (other than tripping over the boxes that line every inch of my new abode), I’ll share this snippet of my day…

I left late (of course) this morning to meet my new boss and catch the early train to D.C. and found myself sprinting (ah, the familiar dash) to the station in heels and a suit to make it on time. Which I did. But to my horror, as I collapsed into the seat and reached toward my backpack to get out my make-up and powder my spritzing face, I realized that I left my make-up bag IN THE CAR! Click click click goes the train, carrying me further and further away from my mascara and concealer. I’m going to the White House and don’t have on a drop of make-up. Any woman understands how mortified I was at that moment, but from somewhere deep, deep inside, that same Sense of Knowing emerged that led me to this point in the first place… Bonnie, it’s going to be ok.

And with that, I accepted that George, Laura, my new boss and all these new faces that I was destined to meet today would be getting their first glimpse of me a la natural… And I was somehow totally ok with it. So, off I went… to the fancy PR firm, to the White House, to the Congressional testimony, to the reception we hosted afterwards, meeting all these people, new colleagues, congressmen, “important” folks and such.... Nice suit, great top, and no make-up…

And it was a fantastic day.

yesterday

Among other things, I may always remember yesterday as the day I started my new job, which I'll write about some other time. Thousands of others, though, will remember it as the day their lives were changed forever by the terrible, tragic events at Virginia Tech.

A few moments ago as I made a donation to an organization focused solely on stopping gun violence in our country, it occurred to me that others may be wondering, too, what they could do to help make a difference in time of such despair and confusion. I encourage you to visit the Brady Campaign website to learn more, and to give to their good work if your heart so leads.

purpose

“Ask God for wisdom about why He’s placed you where you are right now. Watch for what He reveals to you...”

I just read this in an article online about people who were struggling with the apparent futility of their jobs. As I read, I was hearing the recent refrain in my mind, so how does this apply to me? I’m not working right now... Perhaps, yes, I’ve developed a bit of a complex about my transition time – some days it’s more “woe is me” than “hallelujah I don’t have to get up and go to work.” But whatever is buzzing in my head, it’s very inconsistent, and like this time as a whole, very confusing.

After having worked since, I guess, the summer of 1998 when I went to China in a field or position where I felt like I was “helping people,” to not be “working” for the past few months has made me feel, well, on some level… slightly useless. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very thankful for all the time I got to spend at home (it was wonderful) and to have the freedom now to travel about and see friends, all the while daily distributing my resume around the globe. But even with the sense of (what is it?) relief, maybe gratitude, that my daily responsibilities aren’t predetermined for me – by an awaiting inbox full of messages every morning, colleagues and a boss anticipating my arrival and depending on my productivity, and most of all, people in need that may struggle an ounce less because of something I do – I still can’t seem to get fully settled on the inside without the inspiration (and even a routine) of work in a “helping” profession.

I mean, I still do some good – I wash Jennifer’s dishes and walk the dog. I put Sharmila’s microwave rack together the other day, and yes, did her dishes, too. But in comparison to being part of a multi-million dollar relief operation for the biggest disaster of our lifetime, household chores to seem a bit… insignificant.

So, I ask myself – Am I insignificant? Or am I just struggling with the same question the employed and unemployed alike grapple with from time to time – Why on earth am I here?

But that still small voice inside of me thankfully knows the answer, and even my error. I, under the guise of “doing good” have allowed my “doings” to ever-so-slightly overtake my identity – my identity as a child of God, here to love, here to serve… And though I’ve tried really hard to get the “serving” part right, perhaps I’ve neglected (more than I realized) the loving child part – the growing, the learning, the quiet and “listening” times that are as a much a part of my purpose as the noisy, lively “doing” times.

So here I am again, learning to be honest and enjoy the silence, praying for wisdom, and getting back on the keyboard as part of my quest to embrace a more quiet Purpose.

Thank you for joining me in this part of the journey as well...

milestones

it's been a week of transitions... leaving behind a place that had become a Home. people that have become Family. handing over responsibilities i'd carved within our programs to my Replacement. having another Birthday. reaching two countries i've never been to before on an amazing travel Adventure... as you may can imagine, my head and heart are still spinning from it all, and i imagine it will take me awhile to calm down on the inside from all the commotion, excitement, and sadness of it all...

but here in the quiet of an internet cafe in the lovely central asian city of Bishkek i have found a bit of silence. i've read all the "happy birthday" emails (thank you!!) and enjoyed long chats and lingering lunches already with my dear friend here and her sweet sisters. tomorrow, we embark for st. petersburg and the hermitage and the sites and sounds of such an enchanting historical place. it's thrilling!

i spent my birthday morning in jakarta (again!) but this time with a forever friend enjoying the perfect brunch before my flight. by evening i found myself at lovely riverside Thai restaurant in bangkok with another dear friend from Banda. we talked of our transition out of such an intense, unique place and all the possibilities of what's ahead. i think it will take awhile for me to realize all the ways the past year has changed me, grown me, perhaps redirected me... but i know already that living in a place with such a strong sense of culture and heritage, around people with such tenacious ties to their roots and convictions have made me dig even deeper into my own...

i axiously await the embrace of southern hospitality, the taste of sweet tea, and the smell of pecan pie. of seeing my nephews new pigs, and sitting in our backyard swing with my daddy and my sister drinking coffee. of strolling around the Lee homestead and listening to the rushing mountain stream. of sitting in a restaurant in old town alexandria having dinner and laughing with my friends until late in the evening. of spending long hours in barnes and noble reading books on random subjects, and driving my little car for mile after mile with the sunroof open and music loud...

i can't wait to be in my country again where the women are free to dress how the want, go where they want, have access to education and job opportunity. where the press is free (most of the time) but everyone is still free to think for themselves, believe as they choose and speak their mind without fear. my hope is that when i return, even though i may have experienced other parts or the world and other cultures much moreso than i ever have in my life, that i truly appreciate immensely more the Little Things that make home Home... family, friends... all of you. it's not such much about defining your ethnic or cultural identity, it's about having relationships that give you a sense of Community and Belonging... and thankfully, we can find that to some degree anywhere in the world (as i did in Banda), but no place, nowhere in the world can ever compare to Home.

i miss you all, and can't wait to see you!

love,
bonnie jean

cows

We had a staff meeting a few days ago where we spent about fifteen minutes discussing how to buy a cow in Aceh. “Exactly how much does a cow cost? Where exactly does one go shopping for a cow? Will one fit in the back of a truck to transport it?”

It’s Ramadan, and these are the Topics of the Times. It may have been a very Seinfeld-esque conversation for us, but the outcome will be quite meaningful. We have a special fund to buy Ramadan gifts for our communities to use in their celebrations, and cows are one of the most requested items. So, in addition to buying rebuilding supplies and the such, we’re now on the market for some livestock as well. Not your typical vision of a day’s work, but it’s important, since these are the most sacred of times for our Muslim friends and neighbors.

They awake early, well before sunrise for prayer and a morning meal, then fast the remainder of the day (food, water and everything else). After evening prayers and the sunset, they break their fast with a big meal shared with family and friends (enter the cows, prepped and barbecued). All office hours are reduced, and we don’t eat or drink in front of our Indonesian colleagues. Almost all the shops and restaurants are closed, largely because every other little venue is a food joint or local-style coffee-shop. It’s taking me back in time to my arrival during Ramadan last year – I spent the first month wondering why nothing was open!

Now, I guess I’m a bit wiser about my environs, and hopefully, about a lot of other things, too. One more week left, and I’m starting feel the strange twinges of a yet another looming major life transition creep upon me. We had our first two (yes, two – it’s a very drawn-out departure process) farewell parties this weekend. “We” meaning me and seven of my colleagues (one other with American RC, the rest with other RC societies) who all arrived about the same time I did and are now very good friends.

The first was for us and all our Indonesian staff and was supposed to be big fun with a local band we’d hired playing at one of the big traditional open-air coffeehouses. The day of the party, though, the community members, who’d already given their permission weeks before, decided it would now be offensive to them to have a potentially-loud band playing when pre-Ramadan praying started that night. We can all understand that, of course, and want to be sensitive and respectful of their wishes. But the last-minute timing (and not having a Plan B) was a bit disappointing. However, my boss and a big-personality Indonesian friend serenaded the crowd acapella. Granted, neither of them needed microphones and belted out an improvised “My Girl” singing revised lyrics with mine and Sharmila’s names inserted, along with “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and “You’ve Got a Friend.” It was fantastic, and band or no band, turned out to be a lot of fun.

Saturday night we gathered with the same group of Eight Departees (sorry, that looks too much like “detainees” which, ironically, I do feel like sometimes) for an “expat party” with all of our international friends working for other organizations. It was quite a big soiree and everyone stayed up way too late dancing and reveling (quietly and indoors, of course). A friend/co-guest-of-honor and I deejayed, playing our favorite salsa, Hindi, Arabic, 80’s (for the Aussies), and hip hop jams. (My musical horizons have indeed broadened this year!).

All was great fun, and though our pre-planning aimed at avoiding “reveling” too close to Ramadan didn’t quite work, we still enjoyed ourselves immensely. Later farewell celebrations closer to our actual departures will likely be “breaking fast” dinners with our national staff, which is all that will be appropriate until Ramadan ends in late October.

My official departure date is still uncertain. I thought I had things all sketched out last week, and our D.C. office informed me that my replacement will be arriving on the day I planned to leave, so I should stick around to help him get oriented. Poor guy, I think he has no idea what he’s getting into – the only thing I’ve heard from him was an email asking if he could wear his running shorts and sleeveless shirts to jog around town... Obviously, he's about as clueless as I was coming here and hasn't read up on the escalating enforcement of Islamic law - even men can't wear shorts and sleeveless shirts. Also, the biggest and most violent protests happened outside the government reconstruction offices last week, as tensions here continue to rise for a multitude of reasons... It's a good time to be leaving.

But all that to say, I’m still not sure when I’m flying out! I’m trying to change all my tickets to Kyrgyzstan, St. Petersburg, Bangkok, etc. but it’s quite a complicated process. Plus, if I delay my departure only a few more days I’ll be in-transit on my birthday, and I refuse to spend another birthday without loved ones. So, if I can arrange it, I’ll leave on the 10th of October and be home the first few days in November. I will keep you posted, because though I won’t be in Banda anymore, I’m likely to have a few adventures in my trek around central and southeast Asia.

Please keep me in your prayers in the next two weeks as I search for the ambiguous balance between being excited to travel and come home with the sadness and the uncertainty of leaving friends that have become family and my life here that’s become wonderfully (yet strangely) familiar...

writings

Just because I haven’t been blogging doesn’t mean my keyboard has been idle. It’s been a whirlwind of activity the past few weeks (as usual), and travels took me back on a familiar trail… the measles vaccination “campaign trail.” You may remember my trips to Africa a few years ago with one of our most effective and truly life-saving programs. The Measles Initiative, as it is called, has now come to Indonesia, and I traveled with our health delegate to south Sumatra island (same island as Aceh) to Bengkulu province for about nine days. It was an incredible trip to a quaint and quiet part of Indonesia, which showed me again that each little corner of this enormous, sprawling country truly retains its own individuality. It was a nice change of scenery.

The story I wrote about the campaign was just posted, and you can read it here: http://www.redcross.org/article/0,1072,0_312_5659,00.html

Also, I put together a “virtual journey” that is more of a first-hand account of the day-to-day activities, along with a photo gallery. You can find it on this page: http://www.measlesinitiative.org/vft.asp and then click “Journey to Indonesia” in the top right-hand column.

If you want a more in-depth photo tour, Gene was kind enough (as always) to put lots of my pictures on his website. Check them out at http://www.genedailey.com/2006indomeasles/.

Finally, for a glimpse into some of our latest happenings in Aceh, see what our teams our doing to help communities prepare in case another disaster happens here: http://www.redcross.org/article/0,1072,0_312_5632,00.html.

It’s T-minus 18 days for me, including weekends (one of which will be on an island, the other will be back to back farewell parties) so I’m in total countdown mode… that is, of course, between small freak-outs wondering if I can finish everything and tiny glimpses of realizing how incredibly much I’m going to miss my friends and teammates here. I even had a few delusional days of considering coming back in late October/early November as a consultant to help with a VIP trip. Though I have now regained my senses and am moving forward with my eastern hemisphere travel plans, that consideration alone showed me how very attached I am to our team, our work and how very much I want to see them succeed. Needless to say, it will be hard to leave but plan on having me back in the good old U.S. of A. by late October.

Can’t wait to see you all!

Love,
Bon

adaptation

It’s been awhile since I’ve written, and though it’s always a cathartic process that makes me feel like I’m instantaneously catching up with everyone whose emails I haven’t answered yet, sometimes I think I avoid it. Yes, I’m “very busy” with other things pulling me this way and that (namely, work), but I guess I know that though my environment may be somewhat exotic, my days are often incredibly lackluster… I go to the office. I have a stressful, long day. I go home. I crash.

And then the cycle repeats itself, deviating at times for trips to the field and other more inspirational activities, evenings out at one of our three dine-able restaurants, and lately, sadly, farewell parties. Yes, the exodus of the original team we had when I arrived has begun, and we recently said “see you later” (not “good-bye”) to two of our colleagues within just 10 days. The first was Elzat, who was both a beloved housemate and an office buddy who sat beside me almost my entire time here. She’s home in Kyrgyzstan now, spending a few months with her younger sisters and coaching them through the process of applying to study in the U.S. like she did. I’m thinking I may just have to go see her when I leave Banda. After all, I’ve never been to Central Asia before…

Transitions are happening all around me. Just as projects are really starting to move full steam ahead, national headquarters is searching for my replacement, and I hear myself in planning and strategy meetings saying things like “Well, actually, I’m leaving in October…” It’s strange, exciting, terrifying and endless other emotions all at the same time. And amid it all is the perpetual question – “So, what are you doing after this?”

My most often used answer = “Sleeping.”
My humanitarian answer = “I hope to work in Sudan or in the Middle East.”
My intellectual answer = “I’m going to write a novel.”
My homesick answer = “Buying a house in the South and settling down.”
My over-worked and frustrated answer = “Starting my own business and working for myself.”
My honest answer = “I have no idea.”

Or better yet, I have too many ideas. Perhaps if I come home and sleep for a long, long time clarity will come to me in a dream… I’m kidding. Sort of. I know my next path with be just as clearly marked as the one that led me to Banda. But as I start to see glimpses of this journey’s end, I do wonder what is next…

Part of discovering what’s next, I think, is the continuous process of finding what inspires you most in your current environment. And one of our programs that I’ve loved and grasped the most since being here is our Psychosocial Support Program. You won’t hear the term “psychosocial” in the U.S., but perhaps it’s best explained as community counseling for the whole community. After major disasters, psychosocial specialists help communities re-establish their cultural traditions, community structures, and daily routines through relevant, unique activities. In an emergency, they do things like psychological first aid (yes, there is such a thing) and help set up informal schools for kids when schools are damaged or destroyed. It’s a lot to explain (an entire emerging field of psychology actually), but basically, it’s an incredible program. So, just in case I wanted to leave communications and tackle a new area of disaster response in the future, I have currently immersed myself in a 15-day training to become a certified psychosocial “Crisis Intervention Specialist.”

It’s a mouthful, I know, but it’s exciting. And perhaps I’m insane for still trying to work while doing this intensive course, but I really have too many things I can’t lose momentum on at this point and have no idea what other opportunity I may have to get this training. It’s currently Day 6 of the 15, and I’ve been to most every session, understood it all extremely well, but have met one reoccurring challenge – group work.

Though the course was technically supposed to be in English and all of the trainers are my English-speaking colleagues, each session uses an instructor and a translator, and two projectors simultaneously showing powerpoints in English and Bahasa Indonesian. This is not a problem. However, me being the only non-Indonesian participant, and only three or so others being fluent or brave enough to really interact with me, it leaves me in “group work” sitting and staring off into space while the rest of the group jabbers rapidly about a question or topic I am longing to discuss. So, as you can imagine, it’s a wee bit frustrating. I wrestle with my own linguistical inadequacies for not learning to speak more Bahasa after ten months, and then simultaneously I feel oddly excluded, which is never a good feeling, especially in a training that teaches people how to re-establish community bonds and relationships.

After the second or third day, I was feeling particularly the Oddball and was honestly relieved when the final group activity ended and my colleagues (who are leading the training) and I hopped in the car and headed home. Before I could even utter a word in English to start a bit of conversation that I could actually understand, my dear friends with me, who are all from India, started speaking in Hindi! As I slumped back in my seat, they proceeded to chatter the entire way home… and something in me (selfishly?) just wanted to scream – SOMEONE SPEAK IN MY LANGUAGE!!

But, as we all know, it’s not “all about us” and selfish people are indeed among the most miserable people on the planet. Yet, I suppose we all have moments of wanting to be heard, and included accordingly… Random thought, I know, but I felt the need to share that small little reality of my daily life, as I have spent so much time here listening to people talk and having no clue what they’re saying. Hopefully, though, I’ll come back much more skilled in understanding non-verbal communication, if not Bahasa Indonesian.

selamat malam (good night),
bonnie jean

inhumanity

As world stands idly by, this voice from another writer at a “sister society” has lingered with me all week. Amid the horror unfolding daily, may we not forget the hundreds of thousands in need, and the untold courage of those trying to help them…

Red Cross volunteers in Lebanon: from dusk to dawn - a journey of misery by Ayad el-Mounzer, Lebanese Red Cross

Since hostilities began in Lebanon, some two weeks ago, more than 5,000 Lebanese Red Cross (LRC), volunteers and staff, working under increasingly dangerous and life-threatening situations, continue to evacuate the wounded, the sick and distribute essential relief and medicines to displaced families, sometimes at the peril of their life, especially in the south of the country.

Lebanese Red Cross paramedics are providing the only ambulance service in the country to transport patients from the hardest-hit areas near the Israeli border to Tyre, and from there, to safer cities such as Beirut. It is one of the few organizations able to evacuate war wounded and civilians under fire.

The director of the Emergency Medical Service Teams, Georges Kettaneh, explains that the Lebanese Red Cross is on 24-hour alert. It is coordinating its action with the Ministry of Health and the High Relief commission. With bridges and roads heavily damaged, it is particularly difficult for the Red Cross teams to try and reach villages in the south, isolated by the fighting, where thousands of people are trapped, with little or no food or water. This is also delaying the evacuation of people, transportation of the wounded and the delivery of medicines.

In the nearly 3,000 first aid and rescue missions they have carried out to date, some 2,400 volunteers have transported more than 2,200 people, nearly 500 wounded to hospital as well as nearly 100 bodies. In addition, about 2,000 volunteers are assisting more than 43,000 sick and displaced people. Georges Kettaneh underlines the extreme difficulties they face in accessing isolated people or those living in areas under fire.

Even in regions where the situation is most dangerous, Red Cross volunteers are present in the First Aid Stations to respond to the emergency calls. Between dusk and dawn, their life becomes a journey full of misery as they sit waiting to hear the echo of bombs, ready to receive the emergency calls, and to pull people from under the rubble and the clouds of smoke.

When Walid volunteered in the Red Cross three years ago, he never thought that his mission would go beyond delivering first aid to elderly people, victims of heart attacks. He believed, until very recently, that the hardest and most painful situation that he might encounter might be to rescue someone from an accident or to extract a body trapped under a car.

He never imagined that his life would be in danger to rescue others. And he never imagined that he would, one day, see so many injured and dead people, buried under the rubble of destroyed buildings in streets which seem to be in a different world, that look like "hell on earth.

Walid is not the only volunteer who never expected that volunteering in the Red Cross would put his life in danger. He is one of hundreds of volunteers, working together like bees in a hive, non-stop for more than 15 days. Some of them volunteered recently, after the beginning of the hostilities, in spite of the fact they knew that the situation was very difficult and dangerous.

Other volunteers have been with the Red Cross for much longer. Abdallah, a first aid worker since 1992, says that he became stronger after seeing so many people die. He explains that, although the scenes are painful, the hard days he is going through will not stop him from helping the victims. As he remembers a dangerous situation he and his colleagues faced recently, he says: "I wonder now what could have happened to me when I rescued a wounded person near the oil tanks in the airport after they were bombed." He adds: "I don't know why I was not wounded and was able to rescue the other person."

On several occasions, Lebanese Red Cross ambulances have been hit or suffered near misses from artillery fire. The LRC reported five security incidents in recent days. The latest one occurred in the evening of July 23, in Cana, a village in southern Lebanon. As first aid workers were transferring patients from one ambulance to another, the two vehicles were hit, although both were clearly marked with the Red Cross emblem and distinctive flashing lights. Nine people, including six Red Cross workers, were wounded.

A first aid station in Tebnine also suffered an indirect hit, on July 25. First aid workers were injured and ambulances damaged. The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) has raised this issue with the Israeli authorities and urged them to take measures to avoid such incidents. The LRC has 42 ambulance stations all over Lebanon and an aging fleet of 200 ambulances. It also has a country-wide network of 24 primary health care clinics, 24 dispensaries, eight mobile clinics and nine blood banks, which are currently open 24 hours a day due to the emergency situation.

awake

Perhaps it’s the barrage of recent earthquakes one island away and the distant reality of another tsunami that are keeping me awake. Perhaps its prayers unsaid, phone calls unmade, emails unanswered, work unfinished, suitcases un-unpacked, or the supposedly decaffeinated cups of chai tea that I gulped down during a late dinner that have me wide-eyed at 1:30 in the morning on a school night. But really, I should have known better... nothing in Indonesia is decaffeinated.

Whatever the reason, I find myself here in the glow of the laptop, the only one still awake in this big, quiet house. I was lying in bed just now thinking of so many things. One, of how my days here are all now running together in a mass of check marks on the calendar, waiting for The Day To Depart (how humanitarian of me, eh?).

It’s uncertain times in this disaster-plagued country. Though I was far from the recent tragedies, it’s nevertheless heart-wrenching to think of those affected... those who have already been through so much. I think the word is “unsettling” to describe it, as I’ve felt more uneasy here the past few days than I think I have the entire time I’ve been here. All the while, the Middle East is imploding, and government leaders are doing nothing to address the basic human needs and endangerment of at least a half a million innocent people displaced by and fleeing from the ruthless, senseless fighting. It’s so incredibly troubling.

Last week we were on “lockdown” one day in the office and not allowed to leave because of demonstrations going on the city. “Peaceful” demonstrations, but it’s almost like the word “lockdown” made it somewhat disturbing. In addition to disasters, Indonesia has its own political issues as well, the latest of which impacts Aceh directly. A precedent-setting bill was passed giving the province greater autonomy, resulting from negotiations which ended the decades of conflict prior to the tsunami. Some were pleased, but others still discontented. Regardless, to me, one of the most significant impacts is that it allows for the establishment of local courts that abide by their own religion-based rules that can, for example, strengthen penalties for women caught not wearing their veils, and so forth. Again, more unsettling news….

Anyway, to escape the fray (or unknowingly get closer to it), I left Banda for Jakarta last week for some meetings, then on to Yogyakarta for the weekend for even a greater change of scenery. No, not earthquake response this time, but seeing a sight – namely, one of the sometimes-unlisted wonders of the world, the Borobudur Temple. Built by Buddhists in the 8th century, the temple was mysteriously abandoned not long after its completion and rediscovered almost 1,000 years later by Dutch explorers. The architecture and artistry of the colossal structure are unmatched by almost any similar structure in the world. More than nine stories of carefully selected stones ascend upward in staircase-levels, culminating at a cylindrical tower representing nirvana, the highest state of existence in the Buddhist faith. Each sprawling level, though, is built of massive stones inlayed with carved relieves depicting the life of Buddha and his journey through the lower states of being. It was truly impressive and fascinating.

The following day we also had enough time to visit the Prambanan, a complex of Hindu temples almost as well known and as old as the Borobudur. Situated closer to Yogyakarta city, though, the ancient structures suffered quite a deal of damage during the May earthquake. Nonetheless, they were still open to the public, with dangerous areas fenced off for only distant viewing.

Though both structures were incredible and built with incomprehensible skill and labor so many centuries ago, I wandered around them with a glazed enchantment, remembering words etched in my memory years ago… The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands…

… but in the hearts of all people. Even at 2:00 in the morning...

batty

A few months ago I discovered Alanis Morisette’s remake of Seal’s early nineties hit “Crazy,” and it's become my anthem. While dancing around my room, between breaks from the new Dixie Chicks cd, or through headphones amid our noisy, chaotic office, the ingenious chorus line “We’re never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy” always strikes a chord of comfort during times of fatigue and overload, displacement and delirious glee.

Returning from the strenous time at the Yogyakarta quake, I found myself a bit burned out, fielding demands from national headquarters and sick with some lack-of-sleep-induced flu-like terribleness. If juggling the aforementioned wasn’t enough, we were approaching the 18-month anniversary of the tsunami and probably the busiest time I’ve had here since December 2005. Tack on some internal team drama and having to fire my once-beloved assistant for various reasons I won’t enumerate, and well, it’s been a heck of a few weeks.

Editing and finalizing our 130+ page assessment of all of Indonesia kept me burning the midnight oil like a college student, and that preceding a full week of strategic planning for the next 3+ years of programming, and you have one Bonnie Jean in need of a break. Yeah, I know, “whoa is me,” when really, everyone works hard and constantly. But I guess it's the combination of all the recent weeks have entailed, immediately following the experience in the earthquake zone… ugh. Suffice it to say that I’ve begun my internal countdown calendar until I’m finished here. But even that is a double-edged sword, piercing with the reality that there’s much, much left to do before departing Banda.

Work and life both, though, are far from listless here, and the events of one particular night implore recounting…

It’s supposedly “dry season” in Aceh now, but from the time I arrived, no one has ever been able to quite provide an adequate definition or timeline depicting the true difference between “rainy” and “dry” seasons in this sauna of a land. Even though it’s been “dry” season for at least a month or two, the past few weeks it's rained incessantly (leading me to inquiries about “monsoon” season rather than rebuffing the arid heat). And here, when the rains come, the electricity goes, and at one point early last week, my housemates and I found ourselves without power for two days. Flashlights we had, and candles, too, but the problem of problems was that our water pump is electric… so showers, we also did not have.

After about 48-hours of funky-ness, Sujata and I were riding home one evening with Deva, one of our amazing drivers. He endured a few minutes of our be-moaning before reminding us ever-so-kindly, that in our emergency supplies stockpile (for earthquakes and what not) sitting right in our garage was… a generator. What?! A generator that we haven’t been using during this and endless other dark, hot nights of power failure?!?! Our lameness for never investigating what supplies had been delivered to our house a few months earlier was instantly dismissed by the joyful notion of running water and air conditioning. So as soon as the car came to a halt, we all scampered inside to investigate.

Sure enough, a bright and shiny never-before-cranked generator was sitting right there, along with some extra emergency lights that Su and I ripped into while Deva tinkered with the generator. Within minutes, the generator roared to life, but alas, our delight was short-lived… we had the power source, but not the cables to connect it properly to the house. Thoroughly disenchanted with our “emergency supplies” stockpile, we slunk back into the living room and were immediately greeted by the most unexpected of visitors… BATS.

In our haste to check on the generator, we had accidentally left our front door open, and along with our loudly-meowing, very-pregnant kitty cat, at least a dozen black flapping rabies-carrying Baby Dracula’s had come frolicking in the front door! They were swooping around our heads like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, and we all screamed like a bunch of schoolgirls. Su and I hit the deck, while Deva started trying to shew them away. But there were too many and the ceilings were too high, and on top of it, the power was off and the emergency lights were dead, so the house was nearly pitch black dark. All we could hear was the ominous flip-flap flip-flap of their sinister little wings and feel them brush by as they dive-bombed us in torment.

Deva grabbed the tennis-racquet-like mosquito zapper and jumped and swatted, Su curled up on the couch with her head covered, and I ducked-down and darted to make sure all the doors were open. Seeing that Deva was gravely outnumbered, I did what any semi-fearless Southern girl would do – I doned the straw cowboy hat hanging on the back of a chair (for moxy, of course), grabbed the nearest thing I could find to swat with, and joined the battle. However, my weapon of choice was a bit lacking in the intimidation factor... a giant, bright-orange plastic flower left-over from a gag-gift at our Christmas party. Despite drawing chortles of laughter from my comrades, my fast-flying foliage clearly instilled fear in my flock of nemeses, and the vicious blood-suckers started flapping toward the door. Between softball-player swings, I lit candles around the house, and it was likely this move, not my careening giant orange flower, which finally drove the black-winged invaders from our abode…

And that was just one night.

If I were to go into my “tossed at sea” adventure from last weekend that almost left Sharmila and I as the next Gilligan and Skipper, or ramble on about the plethora of critters creeping around Aceh, the frequent tremors, or digress about the World Cup fever that has consumed this country and the entire planet (sans America), I would be typing all night.

Just know that though I’ve been busy, I’m never caught in the doldrums amid this ever-lively environment. I even bought a bike recently and have been riding to work and around town (ignoring the catcalls and dodging traffic like a human Frogger), and this week was blessed to participate in a key “handing-over” ceremony for a group of houses we funded. The joy and smiles on people’s faces as they received the keys to their new homes was truly the delight of my week and among the greatest highlights of my time here so far.

I’m in Medan this weekend just for a break, getting some retail therapy at the mall and some Starbucks to boot. July has arrived, August is coming, and September will be the grand finale… But even as early as tomorrow, there will be fireworks over Banda Aceh... from our party! We're celebrating America right here in the eastern hemisphere! Happy Fourth!!

a bit crazy but surviving,
bonnie jean

earthquake

i just sat down to try to do work stuff, and this is what came out instead...

The landscape was brick red. House after house, building after building – leveled. I picked up a fragment of broken brick in my hand and it crumbled like sand. Dust. Just like the houses did when the earth shook violently. The walls of feeble brick and shoddy mortar caved almost instantly; the rooftops, also red in the traditional color, came crashing in on whatever was inside. Furnishings, momentos, people, families… children, elderly. Fleeing the chaos, fighting for a way out as their homes collapsed on top of them. Calling for each other… wiping away the blood of head wounds, staggering on broken bones, clinging to one another … and then the earth was still. And the landscape was red.

One village I went in that had been completely demolished, a local man insisted on re-enacting for me amid the rubble of his home, how he postured with his hands over his head, in the exact spot where he was crouching when his roof gave way. Then he excitedly took me to the spot near his home where the water pipes under the ground first broke, eventually giving way throughout the whole village, and began to inundate the community within the first five minutes following the quake… so after the first disaster, there was another – a deluge of what he guessed was about three meters of water. And that night, as his neighbors camped in their makeshift shelter in the front yard of their destroyed home, the fire they were using for cooking set ablaze the tarp and wood scraps they had used to build the shelter. The only thing that saved the other shelters nearby from erupting was the lingering wetness from the flood, and the drenching rain that fell on and off throughout the night…

And he was just one… a survivor who had been through the unthinkable, but eagerly and openly shared his story with a stranger, whom he welcomed. As he talked his wife approached with their small child (the ones I’m photographed with below, their house is in the background). She, too, was strangely… happy. Chatting away to me in Bahasa Indonesia, even though I only understood a few words, and the translator couldn’t quite keep up, she kept sharing. To me, it didn’t quite compute… their warmth, their hospitality… amid devastation.

Community after community, the scene was similar. Those areas that were hit hard, relatively nothing was left standing. Though many in the region live with the imposing danger of Mt. Merapi erupting, they had never experienced an earthquake, much less one like this…. Perhaps they were in shock, and hadn’t processed what they’d experienced. But I don’t know…. The common thread I have seen throughout the people of Indonesia – from Aceh to Yogya – is resilience… perseverance…strength of family and community bonds. It’s an intangible foundation that no earthquake can shake, or tsunami could wipe away. They have faced an unprecedented three major disasters in just a year and a half – and have survived, will survive… and continue to move forward

Yes, there were many relief trucks on the road, canvassing the affected areas, trying despite logistical impossibilities to reach those in need. But in addition to that there were local people, with cars and trucks piled high with rice, water and clean-up crews, driving into communities and helping their neighbors – unselfishly – a small but viable source of respite for those struggling to cope. I continue to be awed and inspired by the compassion and generosity of people here…

There was the volunteer from our sister society here who saw the “American” on my vest and almost dive- tackled me, all amid the heat of the day and unloading a truck stocked high with supplies. “America, you are here!” he shouted. “Thank you, thank you, America for coming. Indonesia needs you!” I was so startled that I almost didn’t know what to say at first… “Of course we are, we are here to support you. We’re here to do whatever we can to help…” But from the beaming smile on his face, I knew he already knew that…

And the village chief, who insisted on driving me on the back of his moped through his totally destroyed village because the roads were too laden with debris for our car to get through… all the while the smoke of his clove cigarette blowing in my face. I sat silently, trying to take in the scene from his perspective, imagining a place you’ve lived your whole life where everything is familiar… to suddenly, in less than a minute, have that irreparably changed… He didn’t speak either, until we finally stopped on the opposite edge of the village, and he proudly insisted on showing the massive barn-like shelter his community had built from huge bamboo sticks and palm-like branches. Twenty-five families stayed there at night… and they had built it in just a few days after the quake. It was the only structure standing for miles around…

The field hospital was almost entirely full of elderly people. In the women’s tent, tiny older women lay in bed after bed after bed. Some had taken their clothes off because it was so hot. Others complained loudly, maybe because of pain, maybe the heat… Many had relatives sitting with them, fanning them slowly, sweetly… ignoring the sweat running down their own faces. Medical staff milled about, giving care and gently touches. Everyone was drenched in sweat… it was a typically hot day, and no breeze filtered through the heavily canvassed tent to other respite. It was touch and gentleness that brought relief…

But not all the injured were in the hospitals (which had reached the “manageable” level of running at four times their capacity, from six times their capacity right after the quake). Many with fractures and lacerations had returned to their community, or received help from the many mobile clinics roaming the affected areas. One day when I was with our psychosocial team, walking through a village asking children to come to an “informal school” site they had set up, we met one little boy on crutches whose bandaged leg was most likely broken. He was so sad, and would hardly raise his head to look at us. Other children around him were eager to “go to school” (as they squealed) but he sat, almost motionless, as we finally walked away to get the activities started. My colleague and I both looked back at him… wishing he would join us. Once we returned to the site, it was only a few minutes later, that I saw his mother emerge through the debris-covered street, her own arms bandaged from wounds, but carrying him proudly on her back. She sat him down with his crutches in his hand near the other children, and immediately a group of boys about his size saw him and shouted in excitement. You got the feeling they hadn’t seen each other since the disaster. They paused only for a moment, noticing his heavily-bandaged leg, and then went on chattering and playing. He remained a bit withdrawn at first, sitting at first outside the circle of other children… but he gradually became engaged, moving from the perimeter of activity, to the edge, and by the end of the activity, he sitting in the middle of all the other children, laughing, playing, talking… and smiling with one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen…

And so if he was smiling, why am I sitting here so tear-eyed writing about it? Perhaps it’s too much sadness and inspiration all at one time… perhaps I’m tired (ok, I’m definitely tired, I don’t know if I’ve ever worked so hard on so many different things at the same time in my life as I have the past ten days) … perhaps now, though, since I’m physically on my way back to “normal” life in Banda Aceh, that I’m realizing part of my heart is still there, wanting to be there, to be standing on the back of relief truck helping give out tents (instead of having a camera or notebook in my hand)….

“Relief” is a long time away for the people of Yogya – the debris-removal itself will be a monumental task. But I go with the confidence of knowing that neither this disaster, nor those in the past, will destroy the Foundations upon which their lives are truly built…

deployment

Just a quick post to let everyone know we are all safe here in Banda after the terrible earthquake Saturday morning. The quake occurred on the island of Java, and I'm on Sumatra island, so we didn't even feel a thing. The latest update is that I will be traveling tonight and likely on site tomorrow. Please keep me, all of our team, and especially the people of the region in your prayers.

More info click here .

Also, thanks to those that have called and emailed with concern! It means so much...

Love always,
bonnie jean