"Oh What A Beautiful Morning, Oh What a Beautiful Mzee..."

One morning about 3 months ago, I was standing in the lobby of Nation Centre waiting for an elevator, completely focused on all the reasons why the day was already shot straight to HELL and nothing would EVER get accomplished, when I noticed a man staring at me. His hair was pure white, and he had the rounded belly and stocky frame often associated with a Kenyan “Mzee," the Swahili word meaning “wise old man.” (It's pronounced "Ma-zay.")

I probably don’t even have to tell you what I was thinking, but I’ll do it anyway---“Oh, great! On top of all the traffic jams and computer problems and sporadic riots that might occur during the next 8 hours, I can add the inestimable pleasure of getting macked by a dirty old Mzee." I hoped a look of thinly-veiled disgust would cool the old coot’s jets.

And then he spoke. But he didn't ask if I was married, or offer a compliment on one of my body parts. He just said, “Relax. Don’t worry, everything will be all right.”

I had a choice at that moment. I could have kept riding the wave of frustration that had swept me into the lobby by suggesting that he mind his own damn business. But something made me pause and take a deep breath. And then I flashed that gent a big smile and thanked him for helping me slow my roll and keep things in perspective

That 20 second experience was powerful. Once I got to my desk, I even mentioned it in a Facebook update (after spending a couple hours trying to get the doggoned computer to work). It seemed to affirm one of my all-time favorite sayings: “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.” In that brief interaction, that stranger was my teacher, because I acknowledged the value of his message instead of dismissing it outright. If you’re in a pissy mood before your day even gets started good, you can best believe that bile will scald the rest of your day.

Sadly, that Zen-like state of calm only lasted an hour or so, and then I slipped right back into Prunella mode, a mental state I’m finding remarkably easy to adopt these days. I think one reason is there are just too many things on my plate, and I could really use an assistant to offload some of them. But until that happens, I just gotta keep plugging through that list, one step at a time.

Take this morning, fr’instance. I’d arranged a meeting with Professor Raphael Munavu, who chairs the Kenya National Academy of Sciences and has an office at the University of Nairobi. I saw him speak a few weeks ago at a debate about the status of Science and Technology in Kenya. I’m actually a board member for the group that organized the debate, so I was really pleased by the quality of the speakers and the dialogue between experts and the audience. Specifically, Professor Munavu made a spirited case about the need to provide the public with accurate, thorough information about science as it relates to Kenya’s development.

I had to leave immediately after the debate, so I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself to Professor Munavu that day. But I decided he might be the perfect person to help get one of my other projects going, that of a regular, large-scale briefing and training format for Kenyan reporters. Since the Academy of Sciences is funded by the government, they could definitely afford to help me pull it off. It would just be a matter of selling myself and my idea to him.

Trust and believe that I was NOT feelin’ that goal this morning when I reached Professor Munavu’s office, which is only about a mile and a half from my apartment. Bottleneck traffic turned a 5-minute trip into a 45 minute ordeal. When the taxi finally reached the University's main gate, I was ready to turn right back around and climb back into bed. That mood was aggravated by the fact that just beyond the main gate lies the city’s mortuary. Since I didn’t know how to get to Professor Munavu’s building, I ducked into an open doorway to ask for directions and was greeted by the cheery image of a coffin-lined wall.

I had a choice to make at that moment. I could just decide that the day was already completely fucked, and I could have stomped my way to Professor Munavu’s building with my face twisted into a mask of piss-edness that would have poisoned the whole interaction.

But after backing out of the coffin chamber in mock horror, something made me look up and look around me. Today was an absolutely glorious day in Nairobi. The sun was shining, it was in the mid seventies, and the air on campus was fresh and floral. And I had to admit, I feel pretty good these days. My ankle healed remarkably quickly, and I had a spa pedicure the other day to die for, and I’m extremely lucky to be exactly where I am at this exact moment, as opposed to, say, the Mid-Atlantic Region of the United States.

So I made my choice and banished the rotten attitude. I walked with my head held high, and I felt the sun shining down on me, and I was grateful for everything. Especially for the fact that this big-deal guy in Kenyan academic and scientific circles had agreed to meet with me. Whether anything came of it or not, well, at least I would have given it my best shot.

When I finally made it to Professor Munavu’s office, I flashed him my brightest smile and apologized for being so late. I told him I’d enjoyed his remarks at the recent debate, and was grateful for this opportunity to meet with him. He replied, “I think we have met before.”

I struggled to try and remember where. Maybe at a reception, or some a briefing about some new scientific research?

“No, I met you at Nation Centre.”

I said, “Hmmm, was it at an editor’s meeting, or some PR event?”

“No, I met you in front of the elevators one morning, and I told you everything would be all right. Is everything all right?”

I was in Professor Munavu’s office for about an hour this morning, but we may have only discussed my project for

15 minutes. The rest of the time, when I wasn’t absolutely trembling in shock at the coincidence, Mzee Munavu schooled me on the phenomenon of synchronicity, and why things often seem to come out of the blue, when we may have actually helped set the forces in motion long before.

Afterwards, walking back to the main gate past the coffins and such, I also considered what would have happened if I HAD rebuffed that Mystical Mzee’s comforting words in front of the elevators a few months ago. This morning’s meeting would have been a whole lot shorter, that’s for sure. Oh, by the way Professor Munavu is the guy on the left in the photo above, shaking hands with Kenyan President Kibaki. I think he’ll be able to help me get my project off the ground.

What You Resist, Persists

I was thinking about that blogpost title yesterday, as I read a news item about slums in Kenya. It reminded me of my plaintive rant last week about visiting Kibera, one of the biggest slums anywhere. Re-reading that post, I realized it came from a deep well of frustration, even helplessness about the level of poverty in this, and many other African countries.

Yesterday's stats didn't help. It seems Kenya ranks among countries with the most slums in the world. In fact, 70 percent of urban dwellers in Kenya live in slums like Kibera. Nairobi alone has 160 of these "settlements," where about 55 percent of the city's 4 million residents live...or I guess I should say they exist.

To stay sane, I try to keep reminding myself of the Biblical reminder that the poor will always be amongst us, and maybe it's healthiest to just accept that a percentage of the world's population will always struggle and suffer. Or, maybe I should just do like so many other people have done, roll up my sleeves and help when and wherever I can, like so many folks are doing in Haiti at the moment. One person can't eliminate the problem, but if you're doing things that make you feel like you're easing the horror for just one person, maybe it helps you sleep better at night.

I'm still struggling to find the right formula for myself in that regard. But in the near term, I realize that instead of dreading the Kiberas of the world, I need to stop resisting the reality of urban Third World poverty--at least while I live in such close proximity to it. AND when I keep being drawn back to witness it. I'll be going back to Kibera later this week, and this afternoon I realized I was already clenching my jaws and tensing my muscles and steeling my nerves for the journey. I'll be visiting a radio station there, and eventually conducting a workshop for journalists.

So it's probably time to just release the fear. Not of personal harm, but of psychological devastation. After all, if I fell apart, Kibera would remain, just as big and bad as ever.

Movin' On

Well, this has been a great weekend! I spent half of it on Kenya's Indian Ocean coast, in Kilifi and Mombasa, and the other half on the couch in Nairobi trying to recover from the first half.

NOTE TO SELF: When the sign on your hotel bathroom mirror implores you to PLEASE don't drink the tap water, you probably shouldn't even brush your teeth with it. For the past couple years, after Gulu and Nairobi, I've considered my stomach fairly cauterized, because I haven't really had any major intestinal distress. But I'm pretty sure I just saw one of my kidneys swirling down the toilet bowl. The good news is there are a couple of pair of jeans in my closet that I'll probably be able to wear again this week.

But the short jaunt to the East Coast, for a town hall meeting for teenagers about HIV/AIDS and sex, helped clear my head of recent memory lane drama and got me refocused on the work for a minute. One thing I've learned since living in Kenya is that if you really want to get the most out of these kinds of discussions, you probably need separate groups for girls and boys. Kenya's coast is heavily Muslim, which makes it even more hard-core traditional and conservative than the rest of the country. That meant the boys dominated the discussion. I'd say only 3 girls out of a group of 40 teenagers even dared raise their hand. But it was a good session, and all you can do is hope some vital information got through to at least one young person.

Now I'm trying to regroup and get ready for next week. When not clutching my gut, I've been following some of the news about the epic snowstorm in the Mid-Atlantic (my favorite nickname so far: "snOMG 2010"). What is it: 6 or 7 feet so far in some places???? I'm feeling pretty lucky to have missed it--in a way. On the other hand, if I'd been there, I would have seriously tried to join some of the massive snowball fights that occurred all over DC. They sounded like wicked fun!

And I'm also kind of bracing for a potential nostalgia blizzard of my own, a sort of "Emo-mageddon" that might even rival "Snow-mageddon." You see, I just got another email from Denmark, from one of my online liaisons of a few years back. We never met in person, just phoned and emailed before losing touch. Now he just wants to know what I'm up to, and whether I've "found myself a good man yet."

Who knows--maybe the Universe is launching a "Old Skool Relationship Rewind Tour" for my benefit. Perhaps, if enough viable entries re-appear, I should consider poking over old embers to see if something sparks.....

NAAAAAAH! Onward, upward and forward.

Catalytic Converter

Man, when the Universe starts unloading blog post material, it's like, "WHOA! Let me at least catch my breath from the last one, already!"

If you will recall, last night's email stroll down memory lane left me in a bit of a tizzy. A man from my past, whom we shall simply refer to as "Mr. DeFlowers" and leave it at that, reached through the Internet Cyber Mists to say hello and find out what the heck is going on in my life. It was a completely innocuous exchange, and at least until the toxic blend of red wine and lemongrass and ginger vodka made me pass out, I spent a lot of time reminiscing about "The Way We Were."

At the moment, it didn't matter that I had dated him 23 years ago, before we were both even fully formed psycho-social beings, and that no promises were made, and no child custody battles ensued. It was "just one of those thangs." So why did his contact freak me out so badly?

I'm not entirely sure, other than it seemed to be yet another example of how other folks seem to be a lot more skilled at collecting meaningful life appendages than I am. Sure, I've got most people beat in terms of world travel, amazing experiences, and some impressive professional accomplishments. But for some reason, I seem incapable of bringing anybody along with me for the ride. And so when Mr. DeFlowers mentioned the wife and kid, I completely lost my shit for a minute. It was like, "What are you trying to do, rub it in?? Well, I hope you've aged really badly, and your wife is a dragon, and your spawn is entirely incapable of getting hooked on phonics!!! So THERE!!!!"

But then, after about 4 Advil Liqui-gels and the clear light of dawn, I awoke to discover something amazing had happened. It seems Mr. DeFlowers had also tracked down this blog. And read last night's posting. And it appears he's much more of a grownup than I am. Because instead of dismissing me as a bitter harpy, which would have been an entirely appropriate response, he sent me one of the loveliest emails I've ever received! I won't share the entire contents, but I will say that he started by saying I'm still one of the best writers he's ever read, and mentioning that he STILL keeps a few of the newspaper features columns I wrote in the late 80's. (Okay, that's either slightly stalk-y, or just plain sweet). He said knowing me had made him a better person, and that I had been one of the "great women of his life."

I'm actually kind of stunned. Not so much that he thought I was a great woman, but because he didn't rip me a new one for being such a bitch in last night's post. But I'm also reminded that he's the 5th guy in recent years who's reached out after a break-up to basically say I was one of the best things that had ever happened to them.

Clearly, there is still much work to be done for me to evoke that state of consciousness DURING MY ACTUAL RELATIONSHIPS. But wait.....I take that back. In hindsight, I think that mindset may have been part of the problem. With most of the guys I pursued, I was like a cheerleader O'D'ing on Red Bull, doing furious backflips trying to get them to prove that they cared. Maybe if I'd just relaxed and been myself, things would have been different. (In fact, maybe if I'd treated them like shit, they'd have slobbered at my feet...)

But that's just "Stinkin' Thinkin'," and I refuse to go there! As I told Mr. DeFlowers in my carefully considered email response, I'm ultimately very grateful to him for contacting me. Initially, I'd decided not to respond directly, but then I connected with my Better Angel, who is a hell of a lot more mature than I am. After all, I had at least indirectly put his business out there on the Internet, so why be a chicken about it now? So I sincerely thanked Mr. DeFlowers for what he'd expressed. I wished him well, praised the picture of his adorable little boy, and said he'd been one of my first great teachers.

(And NO, not just in THAT way!)

You see, he was the first guy to decisively demonstrate that trying to force someone to behave like they want to be with you is a sucker's game. As I explained, it took me two decades to fully grasp that lesson, but I'm happy to anounce that it's now emblazoned on my brain.

Meanwhile, I take no small amount of comfort in realizing that for quite a few guys, I was the ultimate "catalytic converter," the engine that propelled them to a higher level and perhaps even made them treat the next terrific woman they met with a lot more thoughtfulness and appreciation. For that heroic effort, there's gotta be some kinda Karmic green stamps coming my way real soon.

The Blast to End ALL Blasts

Okay, what would YOU do if the man you lost your virginity to at age 26 on a foldout single cot next to the deep freezer in the back room of his sister's house just sent you an email out of the blue with the subject line, "Blast From The Past" to tell you that you that he still has fond memories of you, and that you look just like the Jehovah's Witness lady he currently works with, and he's been married for ten years now and has a 6 year old son?

You'd do exactly what I'm doing, which is switching from red wine to lemongrass and ginger vodka shots. And you'd be damned glad you're still somewhat svelte and smokin' for a middle-aged perimenopausal spinster, and you'd picture him with a hideous paunch and a half-bald head and a fat-assed, surly wife who hasn't boinked him in 5 years and who makes his life a swirling nightmare of existential misery that will only end with the sweet release of DEATH.

Period, end of sentence.

But that's just me.

Nothing Really Matters, Anyone Can See

I'll admit I use the word "squalor" quite loosely since I began living in East Africa. It just seems to be a handy catch-all descriptor for some of the things you encounter in a developing country.

That probably sounds really elitist and snotty, so let me step back for a minute and try to regroup. You see, I spent part of this morning in Kibera, a place I've successfully found hundreds of reasons to avoid visiting over the past year or so. If I'd been of sounder mind and stronger resolve, I might have spent more time exploring one of the largest, most mind bogglingly poor slums on the African continent, looking for health-related stories or even ways that I could help personally.

But my first trip there, in August of 2008, disturbed me so profoundly, I've only been back one other time since this morning. And I've seen American slums, and Mexican slums, and Caribbean slums, and slums in 5 other African countries besides Kenya. But so far, nothing has gutted me like walking through Kibera. Or should I say tip-toeing through Kibera, praying with all your might that you won't trip over what scant broken pavement exists and fall face down into the mud mixed with sewage that lines every passageway.

A friend on Facebook just asked me to expand on my latest update, which described how sobered this morning's visit left me. I'll just repeat what I wrote to her:

"It's just so overwhelming, and heartbreaking. Imagine a scene from Mad Max's Thunderdome, and then add about a thousand rusted tin roofed shacks. Throw in several tons of garbage, and streams of raw sewage flowing through the unpaved, narrow pathways. Add many precious babies stumbling through those fetid streets, and fill the air with a stench that would bring you too your knees. Then before you go, toss in just a bucket full of abject hopelessness, neglect and despair. THAT'S Kibera, and even that doesn't quite capture it."

I can't recall the exact moment I started losing my nerve about these sorts of things, but I'm thinking it must have happened before that first Kibera visit. Probably in Gulu, which had its share of hard-core poverty and...well, squalor. I'll always remember picking through the piles of steaming garbage to get to the market, where slabs of freshly hacked cow and goat hung from stalls, covered with flies and dripping rank blood. And the filth, and the smell.....

I fought my way through 8 months of life in Gulu, even wound up appreciating the lesson it taught about what real poverty looked like. So I guess that's why I am just so utterly devastated by Kibera. Because a life-long liberal bunny-hugger like me has to believe that within every impossible social injustice, there's a lesson to be learned, a way to move forward, the slimmest chance at a solution, even if it's a long shot.

But Kibera just cuts you off at the knees. You can't explain it. You can't learn anything from it. You just want to get away, and if possible, never, ever return.

The Next Chapter

Damn, my January blog post output was paltry! I mean, I know I can get distracted at times, but that was pitiful even for me!

Granted, there was some significant drama last month, what with the ankle incident and all. But I really don't think that was the problem. No, I've just been intensely preoccupied lately with next chapters. Not in books, but in lives. Well, in a life, anyway. My life.

You see, my Kenya stint ends in June. I've known this for a while now, but all of a sudden, that fact feels like equal parts gift and threat. All things considered, and especially after my recent New York/DC break, I'm extremely ready to return to America permanently. And yet........

I know some of you are shaking your heads right about now. You're also probably thinking, "Rachel, your problem is, you really don't know WHAT you want, and you're afraid of committing to anything." Well anyway, if YOU aren't thinking it, I'm thinking it about myself.

Usually during the wee small hours of the night when Insomnia clasps me in its loveless embrace, I spend a lot of fevered monkey-mind moments wondering just exactly what I have to return home to. (Besides lots of people who love me and would be very happy to see me, which is nothing to sneeze at, of course.) But at this point in my life, what kind of--for want of a better term--"Life Structures" will I be returning to? After all, I don't own a house or apartment. I don't have a job waiting for me. I don't have a husband, boyfriend, potential mate, or even a smoldering crush in the wings. I'd be returning to...

What????

I've started the process of sorting that out, employment-wise, which is good. But a funny thing happened today, and it sparked an evocative end to my recent case of blogger's block. I was talking to an American acquaintance who's married to a Kenyan man about the new constitution that's being drafted here now. Surprisingly, under current law, being married to a Kenyan does not confer automatic citizenship, or even the chance at getting citizenship someday. As it stands now, you simply can't become a Kenyan citizen. Even your kids have to eventually declare one citizenship or another...they can't be both Kenyan and American.

The new constitution may change that. Near the end of that discussion, I startled myself by saying, without the slightest bit of hesitation or irony, "I gotta find myself a Kenyan man to marry." Well, my acquaintance laughed and automatically committed herself to the task at hand. Since I'd started the whole schmear, I played along as she explored my requirements for a potential mate: Age, educational background, professional status, etc.

Oh, we both acknowledged my challenges. At age 48, it'll be hard to find an African man of my era who isn't already married with grown kids and grandkids. Or if he's divorced or widowed, he's probably considering having another set of kids, and is looking for a woman at least 20 years younger than me. Still, I get the feeling this woman might actually line me up a few Kenyan prospects before my stint ends.

Anyway, I've been thinking about my impulsive declaration ever since. What made me affirm I wanted a Kenyan husband? Back in the States, most of the guys I dated were white. Besides, even during the height of my online dating obsession, I rarely vocalized a desire for a husband, per se. Over the past decade or so, prior to living in East Africa, I'd have been quite satisfied with a committed long term relationship, with a man who was as devoted to me as I was to him. While I suppose subconsciously that could have meant I wanted a wedding ceremony, marriage was never really as top of mind as the emotional and intellectual connection I craved.

Now, I've gone on record as saying I simply haven't been overly attracted to Kenyan men. Oh, there've been a few crushes, even an intense one, for that matter which recently died on the vine. But on the whole, there are just too many cultural hurdles to clear, and I'm not as emotionally spry as I used to be. I've lived alone far too long to contemplate making the adjustments, concessions, and alterations to my independent psyche required to tackle African cultural norms about a woman's role in marriage. And yet....

With only about 5 more months to go in Nairobi, what on EARTH made me say I wanted to marry a Kenyan?? Was it just sheer vulnerability, the fear of being greeted in America by.....nothing? And given my slightly dated packaging, am I finally ready to do whatever it takes to snare myself a husband? Furthermore, am I considering the possibility of feeling more protected by being with a man who would expect to rule the roost? After all, I've been making all my own decisions, rightly and wrongly, for the past 3 decades or so. Wouldn't it be just the teensiest relief to defer that process to somebody else, within a cultural framework that demands it?

"In other words, have I lost my damn mind???"

I don't know. On the one hand, I guess it's a good thing that I can still surprise myself in relationship matters. Trust me, it would be very easy to give up on the whole marriage thing at this point, for a lot of reasons. But as I become more consumed by figuring out what the heck my next life chapter will be, I'm kinda happy I'm considering more than just another resume entry. Wonder of wonders, after all these years, I'm finally starting to envision a much more fully rounded plotline.