Perspective

We left Kenya after three days in the game park, 300 herds of elephant, 1500 wildebeast, a family of lion, 2 cheatahs and a couple of giraffe's later. Steph and I had ages in the airport, and we both wandered for 6 hours feeling thankful that Nairobi at least has corridors and corridors of duty free shops, unlike Bamako and Conakry which only have seating on the tarmac and a bar that is occasionally open. We spent the time shopping and shopping and shopping.

We arrived in London very early in the morning, neither of us having any sense of where we were supposed to go. We got our bags and stood around kind of staring at the walls as if they would give us some magical idea of how to get from Heathrow to the dorms in central London. We did manage to figure it out, and were thrilled to arrive at the dorm to find showers and laundry machines and some of our friends.

Steph and I developed a remarkable friendship in Kenya, wading through the emotions, the challenges, the life that we were leading in tandem. When we went over together I was not sure what would happen--I knew we would end the summer loving or hating each other, and I was fairly certain I knew which side of the line I would fall on, but you can never be sure. There was a mutual appreciation for the good in people. Those things that you notice about someone that immediately bond you to them. We dealt with the passing scene before us with a mix of sadness, hope, frustration, but always laughter. Laughter was the savior. It might sound odd, being able to laugh, heartily and often, but we did. And we laughed at each other, and supported each other. And that's the only good way to move through this life is with someone there to remind you that it's too much to get bogged down in your own helplessness--sometimes the only thing you can do is your best and never lose sight of that ability to just laugh till it hurts. I pride myself in being able to speak "Stephanie" and decipher her stories as she doubles over in hysterics unable to make any sort of sensical statements--I might add it to the list of languages I speak, in fact as it was one of the more difficult skills to acquire. One thing I will never regret in my life are the people who I have been lucky enough to acquire as friends along the road. Steph is a lifer. It's something I like about her.

London was a hard adjustment. There was no time to process, we started class, had tea, spoke of international law in the abstract after having lived in the result of lawlessness and international abadonment of a people. Everything came back to Somalia. Ah, the cherished UN--what an organization--where there is no enforcement. I frustrated my professor with my emails and emails and emails, I still do, but after seeing something go so completely wrong, how can you not question, not be skeptical? There is never anything that happens without consequence, and sometimes the consequences are easier to overlook, particularly when they are sitting in the desert far from anything else other than the border of the lawless state they ran from. The consequences are far less severe when there is no oil, no resources at stake, as if people are not the most precious resource of all. These organizations are developed to protect individuals, and they have, and they do, but they protect the individuals who are lucky enough to have allies sitting in one of the five permanent places on the Security Council or those who have something other than just their citizens to bring to the table.

We had dinner with a lovely guy who lives in the same flat as Chanda and Steph and he was asking about how we felt about the UNHCR and UN as organizations. Steph deferred to me and I went on the usual diatribe about how disfcunctional they are, how disillusioned everyone is, and bitter, and nothing works. And it hit me--I was telling about this disillusionment as if I was detached from those people. But I'm not. THAT was disillusioning.

Perspective. How easy to lose and difficult to gain. But it's important to have and I am trying my hardest to hold on to it because once you slip down that slope your ability to initiate, develop, imagine and believe in improvement is gone. I talked to my dad on my birthday, the day I interviewed the family trying to protect their sister from being burned to death. I was sad and frustrated and needed the perspective that only my father can give. He is even and balanced, his passion is channeled differently from my fist pumping indignation that can overwhelm and stifle productivity. He listened to the recount and the horror in my voice. And this is what he said (more or less...): Then find something better. Fix it. Find a solution. That is your job. And you know what? You may never be able to fix it, but you should not stop trying.

That, that will remain my charge. That will bring me perspective. That will keep me questioning.

Last Days of Kenya....Part I

It was a strange goodbye. Things are always a little strange in Dadaab, but this was one that felt not quite complete, or settled. Knowing that there is still so much that needs to be done, knowing that the tip of the iceberg has barely been scratched. We had a party. There is always a party. While it is sometimes unclear whether the people who UNHCR employs know how to do their jobs, it is always clear that they know how to throw down for people who are coming or going. We roasted meat, there was a happy hour sponsored by someone where all the drinks were free. It was interesting looking around at these people one more time and knowing that regardless of who comes or goes, the refugees remain.

We left Wednesday afternoon and boarded the UN plane to Nairobi. This time there was no discussion about how many kilos we all weighed and how much luggage we had. We just got on sitting on the dusty airstrip in the middle of nowhere and prayed that a dust storm would not kick up and prevent us from lift off. The plane is a small one, you feel every bump. It’s disconcerting, particularly when you look at one of the tires and it appears somewhat flat, but there is one way out of Dadaab, and that’s by plane. Hail Mary, here we go.

Flying to Nairobi you can see Mt. Kilimanjaro to the left and Mt. Kenya to the right. The clouds hang low so that it about all you can see, but taking off from Dadaab before hitting the clouds we watched the red earth disappear and the finality of it all struck.

Where have I been the last 5 weeks? I have been recording my thoughts in this blog, sharing them with whoever comes across it or is pointed toward it, but my story of this experience is completely cursory to what actually happens every day. The people who work here, including myself, have become witnesses to the lives of these forgotten people. We have sat and recorded a small history of individuals—some of whom were instrumental in the terror that occurred and have ended up here after the tides turned on them, some of them pure victims targeted just because they were found tending their cattle out in the bush. Many of them children, this being their only history, nothing before the life of a refugee.

Steph calls this the cosmic jackpot. How do we all end up where we are? With one roll of the dice these refugees could be any of us, our sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, our families. But they’re not and you wonder how and why we have all landed in these places. I can’t dwell on it for too long, because it makes me uneasy, seemingly no explanation in a world where everything today can be googled and explained. Ironically enough I write this on my laptop sitting in the Amboseli National Park at the Ol Tukai lodge an hour before my massage and two hours after our second safari ended. Outside the window is a field where the herds of elephant wander 20 feet from our room. Life is tough. But here we are.

Steph and I did not know what to do with these three spare days we had between leaving Dadaab on the last flight of the week and taking off to London on Saturday night. We scrambled, got a hold of a travel agent and planned this safari. It ended up being cheaper than hanging out in Nairobi for 3 nights with our UN discounts and stellar travel agent, and we’re in Kenya, in limbo between the intensity of the internship and the stress of 6 credits started and finished in one month. Thus far, the trip has exceeded all expectations.

We left Nairobi yesterday morning and were picked up by Jamal, a remarkably jovial Kenyan who was going to be our guide for the three days. We were the only two who were heading out so the mini bus was all ours. It takes about 4.5 hours to get to Ambeseli from Nairobi, the first hour spent actually getting out of the city itself. Once you’re out of the city the landscape is much like that of any place I imagine in rural Africa—lots of herders (all Masai in this part of the world), few towns. The towns that do exist spring up and along the road are clusters of little shops constructed from corrugated tin and painted fully advertising Coca-cola and café. Just as suddenly as they begin, they end, and the expanse of bush continues on.

I had consumed too much coffee (our first non-instant coffee in 5 weeks, how should I be expected to control myself??!!) before leaving Nairobi and, of course, had to stop about 1.5 hours into the trip, a solid 90 minutes before our first scheduled stop. Jamal was hesitant. The first time I asked as we approached a town he said “Oh don’t you worry, we have a scheduled stop in Nakuma, it’s coming soon.” As we got into town I saw a sign that said Nakuma, 93k. That, in my bladder’s world, is not soon. About 20k later we got to another small town, this time I insisted we stop. Again, Jamal was quite hesitant, telling me it would be better to stop in the bush since there were no toilets here suitable for whities like us. “No, no” I said, “I can handle it, seriously.” Again, Jamal continued to insist that we wait for the good toilets in Nakuma. Steph could see I was desperate, the town was about to be a distant vision. “Really Jamal, I have used pit latrines before. In fact, for 2 whole years!!!” He continued to say that these would be dirtier than I was used to. I looked at Steph, Steph looked at Jamal. “Jamal, she was a Peace Corps Volunteer, she can handle it, REALLY”. Ah Steph, always the voice of reason. Finally, we pulled over. After paying the ladies who owned this latrine about 4 dollars to use it (and no, it was certainly not clean) we continued.

We got to Nakuma, which is the boarder of Tanzania, also the turn off for the road that takes all eager tourists to Ambeseli. We had to stop for gas. I think it was a ploy by Jamal to see how well Steph and I could handle ourselves inundated by the Masai women selling things at engorged prices. We did well for about the first 7 minutes, until I dared Steph to open the window and buy something. I didn’t think she would take the bait. I clearly don’t know her well enough. She spotted some green bracelets she liked, and decided to take a stab at it. Wrong answer. Opening the window just a crack she started talking to the lady selling them and bargaining with her. Apparently the Masai women have a 6th sense, because when you think there are only about 5 vendors in your vicinity, the moment you start to bargain for a good, 35 more suddenly appear. And they are all selling the same thing. And they all look exactly the same because they are wearing so much jewelry. It was a nightmare. Women reaching in, throwing things at us. Steph trying to keep control of the situation (she had lost it about 5 minutes before) and me, sitting there, watching this unfold, and deciding that I too liked one of the bracelets and that it would be a good time to go in for the kill. We’re morons. Jamal saw the entire thing and I am sure wondered if we had made up the fact that we had both lived in West Africa for extended periods of time. Without offering any help, just laughing, we drove off.

After you turn onto the road to the park it is all dirt—no pavement. It takes about 53k to actually get to the park gates, and about 20k from the gates we started seeing the animals. Giraffe grazing in the trees were the first animals we spotted and we were too shy to point them out to Jamal, thus missing any opportunity for photos and awe. When we got to the park gates Steph and I both wondered if these UNHCR Id’s we were given would truly be the magic ticket into the park at the resident rate of 1000 Kenyan shillings per day (about 13 dollars) rather than the 40 USD entrance fee for nonresidents (we are, in fact, nonresidents—the UN is the only organization that the park accepts as staff being residents of Kenya—even the international staff). Seeing that we had only been in the country for 5 weeks the chances were slim. But Jamal just grabbed our Ids and told us to wait in the car. Low and behold—it worked. It was an auspicious beginning—being able to save 60 dollars that neither Steph or I had.

Driving into the park was out first dose of reality that on these safaris, it is true, you have to work to not see an animals. First it was Wildebeasts and antelope, then the zebras started appearing. I love the zebras—their markings are amazing—so perfect and symmetrical—it’s like you’re looking at a creature that is not completely real, until you see a herd of 50 of them grazing placidly and realize that these are as common as deer in the US.

We were about 100 meters to the entrance to the compound where all of the lodges sit and to our right was a family of elephants—3 grown females and a baby. They were ambling along, not concerned with our vehicle directly in their path. They had to cross the road to get to the water, and we sat and waited. Elephants do not move quickly, but waiting to see 4 elephants cross 2 feet (maybe!) in front of the car you’re sitting in, close enough that you could touch them, was well worth it. Every wrinkle, their enormous feet—it was, at the risk of sounding trite, really cool.

If only we had known before we arrived how common elephants were. Steph and I decided to pay 60 dollars more than the quoted price to upgrade to a nicer lodge with a swimming pool for Steph. When we arrived we were not disappointed, and I was surprised at how nice it was. They have two sets of cabins—the elephant view cabins and the Kilimanjaro view cabins (not too shabby…). We were placed in the elephant view cabins, both of us thinking it was a fancy name that would make everything seem even more authentic. As we walked to the room, down a series of paths, past the monkeys that were chilling on the doorsteps, we realized that these were, in fact, elephant view rooms. The field that the room overlooks is a gathering place for HERDS and herds of elephants. There were a few hanging out when we arrived, and later in the day we arrived back home to find literally about 100 elephants grazing and standing, all right by the fence, not minding the rows of cabins just across the fence from them.

This was our first taste of why these safaris are so impressive and popular. More to come in the next and last post—now that I am in London with high speed internet I am also going to try and post some pics. Stay tuned…

Endings

It's hard to pinpoint the feelings that I have about this experience now that is quickly coming to an end.

I have appreciated being a student of what humanitarian aid really is troughout the past 6 weeks. I came thinking that I knew, basing my experience on the 2 years I spent in Mali. Working here has opened my eyes and forced me to recognize why there are organizations such as UNHCR and CARE and why the work they do is so important.

Being a part of resettlement has been remarkably evocative emotionally. There is an immediacy to the work that is being done with resettlement and there is a return that is far faster than in most departments or organizations dealing with aid work. That said, I still don't know how I feel about resettlement in the larger scheme of these people's lives. There are times I think that removing people from all that they know, people who lack any education and cannot fathom what an airplane let alone a sky scraper or indoor plumbing looks like is not the most beneficial to either the population being resettled or the population absorbing the refugees.

But then I see many of the heartbreaking cases that I have been witness to the past 6 weeks and wonder how we can leave people in a place like this until there is peace in Somalia (this is where everyone who knows anything about the current state of Somalia laughs really hard for a really long time....). There is no perfect solution. There are durable solutions, and there are interim solutions, but none are perfect, and none replace what these people have lost or never been party to in their lives.

I interviewed a man this morning who has been a refugee since 1974. 32 years of fleeing one war zone only to land in the next. He left Ethiopia for Somalia, Somalia to Kenya. Now, he has been waiting here since 1991 for the next place to flee. He had no real problems in the camp, but I recommended promotion of his case anyway simply because there comes a point where, from a human rights perspective, his life is no longer humane.

This afternoon I interviewed a family--a truly lovely family--who had come here with their children, again in 1991. Their son is deaf. Not fully deaf, but partially. I asked how we became deaf and almost lost any semblance of professional poise I had when they declared "Oh, when he was 6, he stuck date pits in his ears to see what would happen". The father, who spoke perfect English and had worked for the Somali government from 1969-1990 declared it very matter of factly and it took all the self restrain I had to not lean in and say "well, I bet you don't let him eat too many dates anymore, do you?". At the end of the interview the father presented me with all of his documents showing his high level of acheivement in typing--both short and long hand. My translator looked at him and said "Why do you not look for a job here, you are over qualified" to which he responded "I am an old man, and my head is no longer clear--I cannot type that fast anymore. I just want something better for my family".

And that's the essence of it, isn't it? All of these people just looking for something better, searching for a way out. At the end of the interview with this family, the last interview of my stint here, the mother and wife who spoke NO English said to me "Thank you for being such a good mother to us--a mother of resettlement, trying to help all of us, working for us." That statement broke my heart knowing how little I can do, how little, in the scheme of this problem, I have done.

But that is why I will keep coming back to this as the place where my heart lies. There is such honesty and truth in suffering, and the only way to respond is likewise. I cannot imagine a life that is void of this feeling--trying to find a way to better the lives of people who cannot do it on their own. In the end, there is no us and them. There is just us.

Kevin told me when I returned from the field and turned in all my cases that Stephanie and I had screened, to date, about 600 people each. For a remarkably short term internship that came together on a string and was a complete fluke, I don't think I could ask for much more than that. Kevin asked if I had maxed out my credit card paying for the plane ticket over here--frankly, it was the best spent money I can imagine and would do it again in an instant. It's worth any amount of money to feel alive, sometimes raw, often angry, but always passionate.