Oddly, an old blog of mine was sent out a couple days ago, making me think I should attempt to keep a little better in touch. I have been in Turkey for a short R&R, arriving in Istanbul just in time for the Easter break crowds. Istanbul has a great deal to off; however, after standing in long lines for the better part of three days and pushing my way through crushing crowds to get back to my less-than-desirable hostel room, I hopped the overnight bus to Cappadocia, finding a lovely hostel in a tiny town called Goreme that looks a lot like Bisbee would look if it were carved out of rock. Words and photos (video below) do not do this place justice. I only have 3 days here, and it is not enough. One needs at least a week or so to hike around and visit the little towns that pepper the area, marveling at all the cave homes, some of which are still inhabited. I would love to stay a month in a little cave home here. I took a hike through Ihlara Canyon, also dotted with cave dwellings and churches, that was very reminiscent of Pays Dogon in the Bandiagaras Cliffs in Mali, as well as the Anasazi cliff dwellings in the southwestern US. I hope the video link works. I will post another of Istanbul before I leave to return to Afghanistan.

Afghanistan has some of the poorest indices of public health in the world. Because I am not there yet, I am posting articles from other sources, such as the one from BBC News below, that highlight some of the reasons I think it is important to be there in a public health capacity. The maternal death rate in Afghanistan is the second highest in the world. In this particular province, it is the highest. People often dismiss childbirth as effortless. How often do you hear comments that women used to go out in the fields, lift their skirts, and just drop their babies? Yes, true, but how many died doing that?

In the absence of antenatal care, roughly one women dies for every 55 infants born in Afghanistan. One in 6 children die at childbirth and one in 4 of those children who live will die before the age of 5 (index mundi). One in 11 Afghan women will die in childbirth (lifetime risk). In some places in Afghanistan, according to UNICEF, maternal mortality is as high as 6000 in 100000, meaning that one woman dies for each 17 births.

It is not my job to save the world, nor is it my intention, but shedding light on those things we can and should make better seem more important to me than anything else I might do at the moment. The hummingbirds will be here when I return.

The link to the video, which is moving, can be found here if the link below does not work: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/newsnight/8326102.stm

Page last updated at 13:58 GMT, Monday, 26 October 2009 E-mail this to a friendPrintable version Maternal mortality across the world

US UK Malawi Afghanistan Ethiopia Your stories Watch Lyse Doucet's film in full By Lyse Doucet

BBC News, Badakshan, northern Afghanistan Muslima shyly tells me she is 25. It is hard to believe.Her brown eyes stare from a freckled face partly hidden by a patterned red head scarf. She looks about 15-years-old.Whatever age Muslima is, she has triumphed over the odds. She survived one of Afghanistan's greatest dangers - childbirth. For many women a visit to the clinic means days of walking Badakshan province, in north-east Afghanistan, has the worst-ever recorded rate of maternal mortality.A smiling Muslima cradles her newborn baby girl in the folds of her long scarf as she sits up in bed in a maternal ward in the capital Faizabad.It is the best Badakshan has to offer. When the first obstetric gynaecologist, Dr Hajira, arrived here 17 years ago, there was only one room and four beds for the entire province."Fifty percent of the women who come here are in a bad state," she explains. "If this hospital wasn't here, they would all die."Thanks to international aid since the fall of the Taliban in 2001, there is a two-storey concrete block of a maternal ward.Carried on planksA visit to even one room on Dr Hajira's morning round tells the story of women's lives here.Muslima, and Qamanesa in the bed next to her, look far too young to be bearing children. Lack of paved roads makes travelling in Badakshan difficult In the other corner, Monisa is fighting for her life. In her early 40s, she is in her 14th pregnancy. Five of her children have already died.Later that day, her five-month old foetus is delivered, dead. But Monisa pulls through despite a weak heart.Changing the fate of women in childbirth means changing so much of life here. There is no electricity, no running water, no paved roads.Outside the capital, a trip to the clinic - if it exists - can mean walking for days, travelling by donkey, or if the family can scrape together enough money, by car.Many women are carried on wooden planks or ladders supported by four men, including an anxious husband.Lack of infrastructureIn the remote district of Shahr-e Bozorg, survival can come down to luck. Sadiya had been in labour for 12 hours and was bleeding heavily when one of the few trained midwives, with the only ambulance in the region, happened to stop by her house in her village of Chowgany.She was rushed to the only maternal clinic in the area providing emergency care."Will she make it?" I ask Simin Walid of the British charity Merlin which runs the clinic. "We hope," she replies, striding into the simple delivery room in the concrete bungalow.Even gleaming ambulances find it hard to make haste. The gruelling, bone-jarring journey unfolds along narrow bumpy paths clinging to the mountainside or across rocky river beds.The vistas are spectacular to behold, but forbidding. Even the Taliban did not conquer this area when they ruled Afghanistan.Traditional midwivesWhen winter sets in, villages scattered across the undulating mountains are cut off. Community midwifery training will help save women's lives In Sadiya's village, most women deliver at home or turn to a traditional midwife like Gulnar."I've delivered hundreds of babies," boasts the beaming Gulnar as we sit in a shaded courtyard in a mud-walled compound.But she regrets her illiteracy and lack of any formal training: "My hand is under a rock," she says.And when I ask her how many mothers die in childbirth her animated smile disappears: "Many, many" is her calculation.But these are lives ruled by God, not gynaecology."Some lives are short, some are long," Gulnar reflects with a stoicism shared by every Afghan we met on our journey.It is just the way life is. But some are trying to change it.Education and trainingDr Hajira uses a similar turn of phrase with a more resolute twist: "I prefer to live a short life that's full, than a long one," she says.Born in Faizabad, her father, the province's first doctor, insisted she go to school even though she was the only girl in a class full of boys. She has dedicated her life to helping save women's lives.And a new army of midwives is slowly being trained to start bringing modern practises to this battle.In a programme run by the Aga Khan Foundation, young women are chosen by their villages, given approval by their husbands or fathers, and come to Faizabad for an 18-month course.Eighteen-year-old Masuma , already a mother with two children, will return to her village in Shahr-e Bozorg."It was a community decision and I want to be a midwife to serve my people," she says.She and a dozen other young women in white medical coats and pale blue caps watch intently as their teacher Farzana Darakhuna demonstrates with a rubber infant how to deliver a baby safely.Farzana sees progress: "In the past, men wouldn't think of taking their wife to a clinic. They used to think if they took her there, there might be many men, and her dignity wouldn't be protected."In this conservative society, changing women's lives means changing men's too. . .

yes, i am. going.

Afghanistan13 million Afghans at risk of contracting Leishmaniasis, says WHOReport—Government of Afghanistan, World Health Organization14 October 2010 | Kabul, Afghanistan - The World Health Organization (WHO) today launched its first global report on neglected tropical diseases. In light of an ongoing Leishmaniasis outbreak in Herat, Afghanistan, WHO along with the Ministry of Public Health and the Afghan Red Crescent Society used this opportunity to raise awareness about and advocate for neglected diseases in Afghanistan, with special emphasis on Leishmaniasis, a disease that threatens the health of 13 million vulnerable Afghans, especially women and girls.

In Kabul, commonly considered as the world capital of [Cutaneous] Leishmaniasis, the number of new reported cases dramatically rose from the estimated yearly figure of 17,000 to 65,000 in 2009, mainly among women and girls."This number is likely to be the tip of the iceberg as cases are grossly underreported owing to poor diagnostic tools and the stigma that is attached to this disease," claimed Peter Graaff, WHO Representative to Afghanistan.[Cutaneous] Leishmanisis is a parasitic disease transmitted through the bite of certain species of sandfly. The major symptom is skin sores which erupt weeks to months after the person has been bitten.Leishmaniasis is both preventable and curable. Preventable through bed nets, and curable through medical treatment."The high cost of treatment makes it difficult to integrate anti-Leishmaniasis drugs into the Basic Package of Health Services," said Her Excellency Dr Suraya Dalil, Acting Minister of Public Health. "I urge donors to take this cause seriously, as it causes unnecessary suffering amongst a large number of Afghans.""Addressing stigma, early diagnosis and early treatment is the way to go about tackling this disease," said Fatima Gilani, Director of the Afghan Red Crescent Society. "Protecting people from Leishmaniasis is affording them the Right to Life with dignity."LeishmaniasisThe vector

Leishmaniasis is caused by protozoan parasites belonging to the genus Leishmania. The parasites are transmitted by the bite of a tiny – only 2–3 mm long – insect vector, thephlebotomine sandfly.

There are some 500 known phlebotomine species, but only about 30 have been found to transmit leishmaniasis. Only the female sandfly transmits the parasites. Female sandflies need blood for their eggs to develop, and become infected with the Leishmaniaparasites when they suck blood from an infected person or animal. Over a period of between 4 and 25 days, the parasites develop in the sandfly. When the infectious female sandfly then feeds on a fresh source of blood, it inoculates the person or animal with the parasite, and the transmission cycle is completed.The disease can have a wide range of clinical symptoms, which may be cutaneous, mucocutaneous or visceral. Cutaneous leishmaniasis is the most common form. Visceral leishmaniasis is the most severe form, in which vital organs of the body are affected.. .

I am not unaware of the many difficult events and challenges going on in the world right now. But neither can I, nor should I, ignore the beauty and magic that reveals itself right before my eyes. . .

As winter gives way to spring, so too the changes in our lives. Things we set in motion when the first frost settled on the ground those many months ago have taken root and begun to sprout. Life does not always render itself to if-then statements as tidily as do computer programs. For computers, the if-then algorithm plays out in milliseconds. In our lives we experience, as the Buddhists would say, an interdependent arising in which everything arises from multiple causes and conditions, many of which we initiate and some seemingly at cross-purposes when they become manifest. And it is only in retrospect that we see that everything was so perfectly predictable, we could have written the script ourselves. Change is in the season.

I lost a dear friend a couple weeks ago. Actually, "dear friend" trivializes the depth and significance of the relationship (as it does all of the most significant relationships in my life). They are always more than dear, often more than friends. I will write a tribute to him when the time is right. He deserves no less. .

For those too young to remember the song, you are even younger still to know its source:

Ecclesiastes 3

1To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:2A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

3A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

4A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

5A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

6A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

7A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

8A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace .

A young man who is making better use of my idle chainsaw these days hiked up Mt. Burnell from Bisbee. From the top he looked down on my place and took these photos. This is pretty much what I'm all about....

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Last night, for the first time in over 600 years, a full lunar eclipse fell on the winter solstice. There's gotta be a little magic in that. I slept on my roof, as I did for the Geminids meteor shower, because my roof is the best show in town. If I had neighbors, they would refer to me as the strange lady who sleeps on her roof. Tucked in my sleeping bag with my rat-gnawed knit cap on my head, I fell asleep early and woke as the moon entered the umbra. I remained awake until the eclipse achieved totality and, as the moon drifted back into the light of the sun, I drifted off again as well. But there was a moment, when the light was hidden from the moon, there was an otherworldly second or two when I thought the mystery was within my reach.

This morning I encountered the boarder who is living in my gen-shed. I am not alone. For those who have not seen one, this is a charming little ring-tailed cat. He is not afraid of me. We are in the process, I believe, of taming each other.

Finally, may we all find the grace and wisdom to realize what abundance we have in our lives this holiday season. As I ran this morning, I reflected on all those whom I have lost over the years, many well before their time. I took in the beautiful blue Bisbee sky, the red of the surrounding hills, I took it all in and held it that much more precious because they no longer can.

. .

My sister expressed some concerns, after learning that I compost my own manure, that I had fallen into some Ted Kaczynski-esque state of being, ready to mount my own initiative against the machine. And when I mentioned it in my Microbiology class, one of my students asked if that was something I opened with on a first date. Cute. So, let me explain- I live in the desert. I live off-grid. I have a septic tank about 300 feet down from the house at a 100 foot drop (roughly). My only water is that which I collect off my roof (~9000 gallon capacity). You do the math. Do you really think I am going to use gallons of water to flush all that distance, when I could grow something instead?? A supportive ex-Peace Corps colleague of mine, when he read my blog, wrote and told me he has a friend that digs a hole, craps in it for 6 months, plants a tree, and moves on. Sheer genius.

Solar Water Collectors

So, anyway, you can see above that my hair is not matted beyond what would be within normal range, my fingernails are stubby short, and I am relatively clean. When I go off the deep end, my descent will be more spectacular. More importantly, however, is that next to me, you can see my solar water collectors. The water is sent to my small "mechanical room" below. Terry has this set up such that I have a 10 gallon electric hot water tank attached to my 80 gallon water tank that receives the water from the rooftop collectors using a heat-exchange mechanism. If I want hot water, I heat up the small tank for a few minutes so I am not running 10 gallons of water just to get some hot stuff. No waste. Then the hot/warm water from the large tank enters the small tank as I use the preheated water. The water is pumped to the roof collector from the big tank when the temperature differential is about 10 degrees F. The hot water also circulates under my concrete slab in the lower floor to give me warmth in the winter. Even when the solar collector has read 24F on a very cold night, my water temperature in the 80 gallon tank does not dip below 70.

Sanyo HIT 210W Panels On the small, south facing balcony roof, we have placed 4 Sanyo 210W HIT panels. They just fit. This provides all my electricity and, at this point, provides ample. The cables run down to the small shed on the back of the house that stores the batteries, controller, etc. I have enough power storage potential that, to add on, I would simply need to add 4 batteries. I still hesitate to use electricity, rarely keeping more than one light on at a time, even though Terry tells me it's free and comes from the sun. I get that, but it's like using your turn signals, if it doesn't become habit, someone will rear end you some day. So I'm the one on the empty road, late at night, with no other cars around, using her turn signal to go right..

.

It’s just a few days away, this day that seems to mark the end of one year and the beginning of the next for me. This is the day on which I take stock, on which I measure what I have taken and what I have given, what I have dreamed and what I have realized, what I have run from and what I have faced, hoping for a balance.

The randomness and suddenness of Joel’s death allowed me to understand, intimately, that this is the day we get. Just this day. And we may not even get all of it. So, if I spend this day perseverating about what will happen tomorrow, next week, or next month; if I obsess about whether I’m thin enough, attractive enough, smart enough, hip enough, healthy enough, wealthy enough; if I dwell on all those things I can’t control that may or may not happen, then I have missed the point. It’s not that I don’t go there, I just don’t stay there.

And it’s not that I don’t have bad moments. Seven years have gone by. Early on, while it was still fresh, Joel’s death was an easy yardstick by which to measure all the trivial and unimportant events that seemed to flow by me. Even Africa in the time of HIV/AIDS, as painful as it was, was no match. Now, seven years later, I sometimes get caught up in myself. Some days I am just raw ego and heart, with scant protection from the forces around me. So, my ego gets a little bruised from time to time and my heart, well… So, every year, between October 31, when I saw him last, and November 18, when he drew his last breath, I reflect on the 365 “this days” I have just had and what I have done with them. My life was made much more extraordinary by his death. He gave me that. In return, I do not take this day for granted. I want my life to somehow reflect the magnitude of the loss of him. I fall short, but I have definitely approached some degree of scale. These 365 “this days” that are just ending have been marked by the evolution of this little house that is somehow more than that. Until I had Joel, I was out there, spinning- unbound but uncertain. Having a child tethered me to the planet. A child grounds you, independent of place and time. Joel’s death broke the bond and I spun out again. Six years later, I landed in this desert, in this canyon, in this place of aid, refuge, and safe harbor. It captured me and will hold a part of me here until this day ends. I may spin off again, but the tether is strong and will continue to bring me home. Odd, I never wanted children. I lack the emotional maturity to sustain even a relationship. How much more so the stability to raise a child? Yet, from the moment he was delivered to me and placed on my exhausted belly after a challenging labor, to the day I spread some of his ashes in the Sahara Desert, he was the most magnificent thing I ever did. Likewise, I have never had the desire to own a home, to be owned by a home. I believe I am, at my very core, feral, untamed, and undomesticable, albeit a little less skittish as I get older. And yet this may be the penultimate extraordinary experience, second only to my life with Joel. I am not quite sure how I was so blessed to have both an incredible child and an astonishing space of my own, and it is possible that this one will come at some cost as well. But on this, the only day I get for sure, I am humbled and grateful.

godspeed joel. you are ever missed.

And to the boys from Baker Street, who made the transition from adolescence to adulthood in our rented little cottage in Petaluma, whose sleeping bodies I stepped over on my way to work in the morning (Xbox controllers still lying by your sides), who became men when I needed you most, I never, not for one moment, forget what you did for me. You made me better and braver than I would ever have been alone. On this and every day I get, I am grateful to you. .

My space.

Some day I will have a real bed, a magical bed. Light will dance around it.

My space.

At first it seems quiet. Now I know when I hear the call of an unfamiliar bird who has moved into the neighborhood.

My space

Abrigo Canyon

a·bri·go

m.

(protección) shelter, protection, cover figurative (ayuda) aid, protection maritime, nautical harbor, haven

. .

We stained the outside stucco on Saturday, September 18, with a mixture of ferrous sulfate (common fertilizer) and coffee- a recipe I had been experimenting with for months. The logistical challenges of spraying what is essentially a watery substance on the house were not trivial. And who could have predicted that the rains would start on Monday morning and not end until late Thursday? Because the reaction is a chemical one and not really a stain, the result took a couple weeks to become manifest and we were unhappy with the toll taken by the rains and our inability to fully control the process. Nonetheless, parts of the house were exactly as I had envisioned and I believed the rest to be redeemable. I asked Terry to give me a month and, if he still wasn’t happy with the result (afterall, he has built this little gem), we would paint. For me, the concept of the color emerging from the house over time, the idea that the house decides what it will be, is very appealing. So, I have been working on the areas I can access, hand-sponging the stain, much like washing the face of a child you love, with a sense of wonder and awe. An intimacy exists between me and this house, me and this land. The first photo is the house the day of the stain. Note that the mixture goes on green and takes about a week to develop. This is the house a week after a “retouch”.Some doubted the wisdom of a fertilizer and coffee stain for the house. How much more so, then, a metal ceiling for the downstairs? While I agree that a rusty ceiling is not to everyone’s taste, this has turned out to be perfectly aligned with my vision. We purchased 4’X8’ sheets of flat corten (A606) metal from Corten Roofing out of Phoenix. This metal is made using a special formula that includes copper and nickel which allows rusting to take place quickly, forming a dense layer of beautiful burgundy rust that prevents further rusting underneath. Luke Olfield, from Mile High Enterprises in Bisbee, who did my beautiful corten balcony roof, took this on. Luke had the metal panels laminated to plywood so the ceiling wouldn’t warp, and trimmed the whole thing with C channel. I accelerated the rusting process using a simple formula of vinegar, hydrogen peroxide, and salt. I experienced a few glitches along the way (do not spray a rusting ceiling with water!). The C channel did not rust as nicely as the corten, so I painted with with a rust neutralizer that turns the rust black. This too has turned out well.

More about the solar soon................ .

I have been remiss in posting and keeping people up-to-date on my little "green" house. We have turned the corner and are ready to start wrapping up the essentials, e.g. installation of PV panels, solar hot water, the rainwater catchment system, etc. I have decided to go with an iron sulfate stain to the outside stucco which should give me a reddish brown color that will go beautifully with the corten roof. For those who don't know what corten is, corten is a formula of metal that, based on its composition, which includes nickel and copper, rusts very quickly to create a top layer of beautiful burgundy rust. At that point, the rusting stops and the roof is protected. The balcony roof has been up a couple weeks and the rust is already started to progress.

After equivocating for a bit about the outside paint, I decided to go with a simple ferrous sulfate coat (commonly used as fertilizer and relatively cheap). The iron sulfate will react with the lime in the stucco to give the color. I like the idea of a house whose color is created by a chemical reaction. The house has a life of its own. And well it should.

Frank will be making my metal balcony and fixing up my staircase to the roof. The staircase to heaven, well, that will be under someone else's purview. But this will be pretty close. Frank made the beautiful metal posts that hold up the balcony and balcony roof- a simple, minimalist, and elegant look that compliments the angularity of this unusual little house. Frank doesn't like to refer to himself as an artist, but I have seen the work he does and I might beg to differ. I have given him free rein, within the overriding rubric of "simple but beautiful", so it will be fun to see what he comes up with. Frank and Peyton run the High Desert Market in Bisbee and serve up some of the best quiche in southern Arizona (among other delicacies).As soon as the essentials are done, I will move in. I can do the floors and the insides as time and money permit.

The monsoons are starting and the air is electric.

. .

Every morning I drive 40 miles to work. With views like these, is it any wonder I don't mind? When I came here as a teenager, I thought I had come to the ends of the earth. I thought I had arrived in hell. But something in the desert, or something about the desert took root in me. Much like the desert trees have to dig deep to find the water table, the desert found a place at my very center and has since called me back, time and time again. So here I am. So many years later. Every day I become more drawn to the mystical and magical that characterizes this place, ignoring my scientific training in favor of believing that the mountain just down the road really does have a soul. And if it were not so strikingly beautiful just to drive down my rocky road to meet the highway and head to work, I might never come down at all..

December 29, 2009.

It began with a stack of rastra block on a poured concrete floor...

January 7, 2010

January 29, 2010

And so, my dear young son, with these ashes, all that remains of you, I bind you here. I bind you beneath this tiny house in this magical canyon, and in its very foundation. I have enough ashes remaining to fix you within these walls, as your friends did at Baker Street when they brought you home that night in a little brass box, and I will lock you into my floor and you will be a part of this forever with me. It seems heretical to tether you thus, you who epitomized freedom and adventure. However, it is just a small part of you I have saved to share this spot with me. The bulk of you was divided among your friends, who have taken you all over the world, and a small portion traveled with me on my journeys into the depths of Africa, through the souks of Morocco, to the residence of the Dalai Lama in northern India, and to the warm beaches of Kerala. And you will continue to travel with me when I take up the road again. So your ashes also shift with the sands of the mighty Sahara Desert, blowing across the dunes for all eternity, you are mixed in the oceans of South America, to pound the rocks and ride the gentle waves, and you travel in the very blood of your peers who, in their youthful exuberance, tattooed you into their tender skin to keep you close. Perhaps your spirit was just too expansive to be contained in a normal human body and you found a way to break free before your time, certainly before mine. I miss you, my dear young son. Six years and 2 days after you left us, my heart still clenches at the loss of you and the air is forced from my lungs. But my days are also full of the laughter you left me and the thrill of each new adventure. When my days are done I want nothing more than to be scattered in the air to join you, and we will laugh our ashes off as we drift across the planet...

On this, Joel's day, JT said it best in his blog post:

I first met Joel at the Phoenix Theater when he was probably just 13 or 14. The first conversation I remember having with Joel was about quantum physics. I’m not sure if he had finished his Calculus courses by then but he was one of the few people I’ve know that was smart enough at such a young age to understand high level math, science, history, and philosophy. My friend Tom (30 years older than Joel – and pretty smart himself) had to study before their weekly breakfasts in order to keep up with him. Joel was a master conversationalist and a master debater.

We were all surprised when Joel informed us that he was joining the military. Why would such a smart, loving, and rebellious guy want to join the army? Because what Joel was about, more than anything, was adventure.

I never got to go on any of the infamous walks with Joel but I have heard story after story of his random wanderings throughout Petaluma (and even sometimes to other towns) where magical adventure would seem to spring up out of nowhere wherever he went. If you wanted excitement and a good time Joel was someone you wanted to be around.

Joel’s house – the infamous Baker St. house – was grand central station for the brightest and most creative of his generation in Petaluma. Though I never visited the Baker St. house in its heyday I still hear it lovingly referred to with the greatest of reverence. It was the necessary incubator for so many of those young people who I now respect so greatly as adults.

Every year, on the eve of this day, there is a candle light vigil held outside of that house.

It wasn’t that long after Joel’s basic training that we got word that he had died suddenly on his bunk – his heart had failed in the same way that his fathers heart had, suddenly and without warning.

I got the word after a weekend we had spent in Tahoe celebrating my birthday. We had had the greatest of times (I won over $300 at blackjack) and Tom decided to spare us the news until we had left Tahoe.

—

Death rips through communities like a tornado. I’ve seen it many times. Joel’s death was no different. His memorial at the Phoenix was packed full of people (the Phoenix holds about 900) and the love and the grief in the air was palpable. It still is. 6 years later Joel is remembered no less for the impact that he had on so many people – especially those that were closest to him.

But with death also comes rebirth and out of Joel’s death came our relationship to his mother Alyson. I could spend a whole post on Alyson but it will suffice it to say that she is one of the most incredible people I have ever met. The relationship that Joel’s friends have developed with Alyson after his death have helped to sooth the wounds of loss on both sides.

—

In my worldview when people close to me die they become the gods of my pantheon. Each representing a different principle of life that is important to me. Each representing a spirit that I can call on and commune with whenever I need to. Joel is my wandering Taoist. He is who I look to for heart and for the capacity to be curious. He is who I look to, at times, for direction in my own aimless wanderings.

I will never forget how often I would have to run and hide from Joel’s monstrous hugs – when he would see me and yell ‘Jaayyyy Teeeeee, come give me a hug!’ and if he caught me, would smother me in his arms and say something ridiculous.

I would have loved to hear the stories about his military adventures in whatever part of the world that would have been graced by his presence.

Big love on you Joel and all that are grieving for you.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 18th, 2009 at 10:23 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site. . And here is the rest of it.

Terry is back from California (with a friend, Phil). Grady is back from Oregon. And so it's time.. We all met Saturday in the canyon and started to stake out how the little house will be set. Seeing the outline laid out in string made me realize how small it is, my tiny abode. But it will be big enough for me, big enough for all the space I need. The site is not level and Terry will have to work some wizardry to make it all happen, but this is where I want it and so this is where he wants to build it. I will be getting the rest of Joel's ashes from my sister's garage in Missouri to mix in with the foundation, that grave anniversary imminent, and so maybe we will both finally find a place to rest. I have been utterly overwhelmed with work and my online courses and I see no respite in the near future. But Terry is going to put a skylight over my head in the small motor home where I am sleeping, and seeing the stars at night will balance the urgency that dominates my day. .

A friend asked me yesterday if I didn't feel afraid up here in the canyon all by myself. I never felt safer. And, with the exception of my years with Joel, I never felt more blessed. There isn't a sunset that doesn't deserve its own symphony, a sunrise that doesn't warrant its own poem. My new job, working with troubled and delinquent adolescents, has taken up much of my life lately, and I am rarely home in time to see the sun make its final pass over the Huachuca mountains. But my life, even before Joel, has been characterized by the presence of young people looking for something, looking for a place to belong. I don't pretend to have any answers for them, and the gifts they have left me as they enter adulthood have far surpassed any service I could provide. But I have had the privilege of standing on the side of the road that they travel and am grateful to be able to point the way. We are misfits, they and I, not quite fitting into a world that seems foreign. And what I have learned along the way, and what I have shared with them, is not the necessity of fitting in- why would I want them to? What I can share is a way to navigate in a world in which they might never fit and, not only be ok with it but, rather, to know that they are special and that their path is different. We all need to find a way to be in the world that doesn't conflict with the mainstream but that allows us to hold on to those things that make us unique. In adolescence that's a tall order. And so I spend my days with them and come home to this magical place where I finally fit so absolutely. .

I have been up on my property for about a week now and hate to leave it. Much of my time has been spent running around taking care of logistical issues, e.g. applying for building permits, registering vehicles, getting a physical for my job, etc. The high points have been identifying and buying those things that will make it possible to live up here. I bought an old (83) Toyota 21’ motorhome to live in while the house is being built. There was an old trailer already on the property; however, it was uninhabitable (except by mice- a half inch layer of mice feces all over everything sorta brought home the understanding that I would never live there). I initially offered the trailer to Concrete Dick (yes, really, he works in concrete and will be doing some work on my house, I suspect), but subsequently decided to keep it, gut it, and use it for storage of tools, supplies, etc., while we build.Although the motor home was a step up, it was a short step. The roof leaks through cracked old skylights and my first week up on the property was one of the rainiest all season. I have since learned about sealing leaks on fiberglass trailers and have singlehandedly replaced one of the skylights. I am waiting to replace the other one until I am sure my first job was successful. The days have been too hot to work inside the tiny motorhome (about 6.5’ wide) but, as soon as I am sure I have sealed the last leak, I will start to pull down the rotting ceiling and put up fresh paneling. I don’t want to spend too much time and money on the motorhome; however, it will be my sole residence for several months, so I want it to be tolerable. Besides, working on the motorhome gives me an opportunity to practice with some of my other new acquisitions:I have, with some help from knowledgeable friends and acquaintances, purchased essential tools- I am now the proud owner of a set of RIGID cordless tools that includes a couple drills (I have 3 now- for what, well, I’m not sure yet), a circular saw, a reciprocating saw (sawzall), and something else. The most serious tool I bought yesterday- my Stihl chain saw, and I gotta tell you, the chain saw makes all the other tools look and feel like girly tools. I pulled the cover off the blade, knelt on the body while it was on the ground, pulled the cord, and felt the power surge up my leg. I put the chainsaw to work immediately, cutting down an invasive, spiny plant that is not indigenous to the area and is smothering the life out of other plants here. I am clearing a site where I can build a composting bin. More on that to follow…The two trailers are about 20’ apart and I will be affixing a tarp between to two with a drain to catch water to fill a 500 gallon tank. I joined a small gym so that I could shower after my morning run (especially once I start work next week), so the rainwater catchment should be sufficient for whatever other needs arise. Until I am confident I am collecting clean water, my drinking water will come from Safeway.To add the finishing touches, I have purchased plants that attract hummingbirds. I am drawing them to the area with feeders because the plants are still small with only a few flowers. But the hummers are catching on and have been feeding at the feeders and at the flowers after just one day. I have lots of the little guys and have decided they are more like insects than birds. In a few months, this will be hummer heaven.Tonight is the first clear night without rain since I have been up here. It’s nice not to hear the dripping from my ceiling onto the floor for a change. It’s maybe a quarter moon, working its way to full, and impossibly peaceful out here. The desert has greened up significantly with the recent rainfall and there is much work ahead of me….

The idea was that I could create my own place and I could create something that wouldn't be too expensive but could still be magical.

I started with Google Sketchup 7. I played around with designs until I came up with something like this:

To be placed somewhere just like this:

Grady and Terry, my extraordinary contractor-friends, who are buildingthis with me, said the pentagonal portion of the roof was going to be complicated, problematic, and expensive.

Terry suggested a flat (with some lift for rainwater catchment), walk-on roof with a 3 foot parapet around it. Immediately I flashed to yoga practice, meditation, and just plain sleeping/stargazing on this terrific flat roof, and I acquiesced immediately.

Grady and I got to work drawing up floor plans and designing the house. Grady is functional and cost-conscious, and I am whimsical and quirky, so we had some debates and made mutual compromises:

Some of the best advice I ever got came to me was when I was 22 and early in my recovery from, despite the young age, a pretty serious history of alcoholism and alcohol abuse. I was sitting in a meeting, sick and terrified, and heard the speaker say, “when you keep running into a wall, it’s time to turn left”. Turn left. Sheer genius.

So, after a long spring and summer when, despite what I feel are some rather significant skills and talents and a strong desire to continue to try to ease the suffering of marginalized people in disadvantaged countries, I have been utterly unsuccessful in securing employment in the Global or Public Health arena. Every failed application, every absence of the phone ringing, has fallen on me like a pounding rejection. And, to boot, I have even had to deal with outright rejection on a personal level. So, the other morning I woke up and decided to turn left.

Several weeks ago I purchased what I consider a beautiful piece of property (~19 acres) in the high desert of southeastern Arizona. Now the desert is not to everyone’s taste, but once it gets under your skin, once you sense the mystical and the extraordinary in the mountains and the skies there, it will draw you back time and time again until you surrender to it. I had hoped to get a job and have a small house built while I was overseas; however, fate was uncooperative. Consequently, I have decided to move into the small, temporary trailer up on my property in the beautiful desert canyon under the starriest skies you can imagine in the developed world, and participate in the design and construction of my small (800 sq. ft.), completely off-grid, humble yet oh-so-magical home.

As I have said before, I don’t generally keep up my blog when there is only me to write about. I am not that interesting and the point was to provide a window into other places and events that most people will never have an opportunity to see. However, there seems to be tremendous appeal these days in the prospect of living off-grid. Consequently, I thought I would post about our progress in the hopes that someone “out there” might find the information interesting and even, perhaps, useful.

I should arrive at my home site during the second week in August. Until then, I will continue to draw up the floor plans with the assistance of my good friend, Grady. The trick will be to keep the costs down while still creating some “magic” in the design. Once the floor plans are finished, I will make a little model. I will post all of this for anyone who might be interested. I downloaded Google Sketchup7, which is a 3D user-friendly drafting and architectural design program and started there. This is all new to me so, if I can do this (with a little help from my friends) I suspect any of you can.

Floor plans to come…….

I have developed a taste for mutton and horsemeat.

My contention has long been that my life has been made more interesting by the people in it. I have written of small heroes in the battle against AIDS in Africa, the goliathian NGOs that consumed all the resources, about the magic of the girls in the orphanage where I lived in Swaziland, and the many lives that slipped away, almost unnoticed. I have shared marvelous adventures traveling through Dogon country where the tiny Tellum used to live in cliffs so high they must have flown to get to their dwellings, and about the taxi driver in Morocco who drove me out into the Sahara, me believing my life was in peril. I have described the souks in Marrakesh where the tradesmen poured tea for us in dark alleys, the Erg Chebbi dune in southern Morocco where I left my son's ashes, the temples and pyramids of Egypt, and the cave monsteries in India, a long life puja with the Dalai Lama, and the women in Kerala bathing in the ocean in their colorful saris. Nothing has been more interesting than the people whose paths crossed mine, nothing has been more powerful than those who lingered for a while.

I have written little in the past year. My life has consisted of Word documents and Excel spreadsheets, of meetings and strategic planning. In and of myself, I am not all that interesting. I am starved for meaningful human contact, I am starved for meaning.

Lately, I get the sense that life is about to get more interesting.

Stay tuned.

And so it is upon me again. It doesn’t creep up on me, nor does it crash into me, but I wake up and it is the day that everything changed. I never know what to do to commemorate, so generally I do nothing. Nothing I could do would match its enormity. The loss required something big. And so I changed my life- I went to Africa to face AIDS, I came to Mongolia to confront the bitter cold, it would seem. Every day on this journey now is a testament that one day, one moment, one heartbeat, one life, one death changes everything. I would gladly trade my own life. Perhaps I did. My sacrifices are still too small, my inconveniences minor by comparison. But I am not done. .

“This is why”. A small comment at the end of a long post, my last post. A tiny, inconsequential thing. It started as a whispered shiver just above my toes and traveled like growing icicles up my legs, circling my spine, weighing down my arms, and traveling over my brain like microscopic, cascading, frozen dominoes, neurons shutting down with each miniature collapse. Almost 2 months of not posting, of not finding anything interesting enough to post about, and “this is why” gets me. “This is why”. It resonates, but in a cold, indifferent way. “This is why”. Anyone who knows me will be sure that, now, finally, I have gone off the deep end. What am I talking about? And yet, and yet, there’s something inside of “this is why” that is so expansive and heavy, something just out of my reach... “This is why”. It calls me, it’s right there and not there. Does anybody get this? Obviously, if you do, you don’t have the words either, it’s a knowing, and yet not knowing anything. It slipped in on a knife’s edge and I want it to stay and replicate, a seed so foreign and so familiar, leaving the sliver of a hope that I will know something someday. Metaphysical crap? Maybe. Sure. But it got inside me.

Every once in a while I have a recurring dream about Joel. It’s not really a recurring dream as much as a recurring theme: I can’t find him or I am not able to get in touch with him. It’s not a dream that evokes fear or anxiety. Not like the time, sometime in the 3rd grade or so, that he decided to forego the school bus and walk several miles, all the way across Gainesville, to get home from school. I recall waiting out on the sidewalk as the sun was setting when he finally showed up, his then tiny frame strolling onto the campus family housing property as though nothing was wrong, with all of us outside, frantic. And even then, although I did have to call the police to tell them he had been located, there was an underlying sense that if anyone could survive and prevail, it would be Joel (ah, but you didn’t, did you?). There were more than a few of those times, as there are with people who follow a different path than the rest of us. It just doesn’t occur to them that we would or should worry. They are following whatever destiny is laid out for them and can’t understand why we would expect them to do otherwise. These dreams, though, these dreams are an exercise in frustration. It is as though I have the sense that Joel is “out there” somewhere. In some dreams, I physically try to find him. I look everywhere, feeling that I will stumble on him at some point or will match his own unconventional thinking and deduce his location. And there are dreams like last night in which I try to contact him, by phone, through friends, by any means possible, and I am unable to get a message or line through to him. Waking up is difficult; being pulled from the search when there is at least one option you haven’t yet tried. I want to go back into the dream because the urgency to find him or contact him is unbearably strong. Last night’s dream came after a frustrating evening and was preceded by 2 equally strong dreams- one of Joel’s dad, Jim, my first love and now also gone, and the second was a dream of the man who was probably the “love of my life”, still living but a relationship that ended as soon as it began and never was allowed to play itself out to its inevitable conclusion. And then the dream of Joel… I don’t know if previous “searching for Joel” dreams followed a difficult time, perhaps they did, but this was pretty clear. However, I think the significance of the “Joel dream” goes beyond a troubling evening and my own conflicted issues with relationships. When I left California, after Joel died, to pursue meaning and redemption in the middle of an HIV pandemic in Africa, I said I was going out “in search of Joel.” I obviously wasn’t looking for Joel in a literal sense, but for something deeper. Anyone who knew Joel would have told you there was something quite different, quite unique about him. Alex referred to him as “the most random person [he’d] ever met.” There was something about Joel… and then he was gone. So I needed to understand that- I needed to understand how something so unique (and in my eyes magnificent) could arise suddenly (and from such unremarkable seed), only to be gone again so quickly. I live my life as an agnostic, allowing for the possibility of God or something beyond myself, but requiring some evidence, something clear cut, a burning bush. I recall saying that I was waiting for the Dalai Lama to come to me and say, “and, yeah, by the way, we got Joel” (in the spiritual sense). Then I could believe. So this search of mine isn’t for Joel, necessarily, but for some understanding of the underlying essence of this all. And then real life happens. I find a position, or a “friendship”, or a new place that consumes my imagination for a while and it is not until those things lose their luster, that the newness or sheen starts to wear, that I remember that whatever it is that has momentarily captured my interest is just not the point. I am on a mission that transcends daily drudge or the momentary elation. It seems the further I get from Joel’s death, the more difficult it is to live like that for any extended period. Then things that are not the least bit important take on a great deal of significance and I get sidetracked. So the dreams remind me that death liberated me, that there is so much of this that I just really don’t have to do anymore, that life is unimaginably short for all of us, and that there is something inside me that believes that meaning exists. . And here is the rest of it.

I went out with some friends on Saturday to see the horse racing events for Naadam festival, the most celebrated festival in the country. Naadam takes place every year in July and people flock in by the thousands to view the horse races, wrestling events, and archery events. You can read more about Naadam at Wikipedia. UB litterally empties for a couple days as people from all over migrate out of the city to camp and picnic. As I walked around the streets of UB on Friday, I felt a slight lifting of the weight that has plagued me these past couple months. With the streets empty, I wondered if it hasn't been the explosive increase of population in the city that is bearing down on me,, as tourists deluge the country and residents come out of hibernation.

Although I initially enjoyed city life and a toilet that flushes regularly, especially after 3 years in rural and semi-rural Africa, I am unaccustomed to the constant barrage of people, noise and traffic. Perhaps it weighs on me at a level out of my awareness. More likely, however, I am simply suffering from a need to be useful. I left the States 4 years ago, after Joel died, because I needed to connect with something meaningful. 3 years in Africa combating HIV gave me a sense of purpose. Granted, we saw too many people die, but there were mothers who did not have to bury their children because we were there.

At the end of my time in Africa, I struggled with what to do next. When I got the invitation to come to Mongolia to help set up an HIV and STI prevention program for sex workers, it seemed like the perfect solution. HIV prevention is important, and we might actually be able to do it here. That said, there are plenty of highly skilled and well educated Mongolians who could easily do this job, and spending the money to bring and keep me and the other international volunteers here is probably not the best use of anyone's resources. Certainly I am finding ways to make a contribution, but the need here is not as significant as the need elsewhere and while, yes, I can make a contribution here, it is quite different from being in a place where your contribution is palpable. There are places all over the world where pain and suffering are commonplace and where they don't have the human resources to set up public health and assistance programs. I want to go there.

Mongolia is green and beautiful after all the recent rain.

Many of you have heard about the riots Tuesday night following Mongolia’s democratic elections on Sunday. The Communist Party has won a majority of seats in consecutive elections, this time 46 seats to the 26 won by the Democratic Party, giving the Communist Party more than half of the seats in Parliament. What appears to be at stake here are the rights to substantial mining resources, the most significant of which will be the mine at Oyu Tolgoi, developed by Ivanhoe and Rio Tinto, that is likely to be perhaps the largest gold and copper mine in the world. The mining law is currently under revision and will very probably be changed to give Mongolia a controlling interest, up to 51%, of mineral deposits that were discovered using State funds. While my understanding of the mining situation is admittedly limited, it appears that the contentious issue between the two parties revolves around whether the government will own 51% stake in the mine, preferred by the Communist Party, or whether that stake will be allocated to private companies, preferred by the Democratic Party. The more pressing underlying issue is the widening gap between the newly wealthy here and those who continue to eke out a meager existence, some on less than the equivalent of $2 per day. Although it would take an infinite leap of imagination to believe that things will change substantially depending on whom, in Mongolia, owns that 51% stake, the rioting and looting are essentially a symptom of the growing chasm between those Mongolians who have and those who have not. No question the mining industry will bring unimagined riches to this sparsely populated country. How those riches are allocated is a different question. So, the rioting, burning, and looting are essentially symptomatic of the growing displeasure and disenfranchisement of a large proportion of the people. The election itself was overseen by a number of international observers and was probably fair enough. Politics are politics and I suspect that behind-the-scenes attempts to sway an election were no less common here than they are elsewhere. Tuesday’s rioting took place several blocks from my apartment and I could see the smoke from the fires and hear the sirens. The next day was business as usual with everyone out on the streets doing their shopping, going to work, eating in restaurants. The only telltale signs of conflict were a sparse scattering of tanks and armored cars, as well as small clusters of police in riot gear. It could be my overactive imagination, but I did sense an undercurrent of tension and unrest. Last night, after the imposed 10 p.m. curfew, the streets were eerily quiet. I feel utterly safe. I am no judge of governments, least of all my own, but the ruling party here is not awful. Mongolia is having a difficult time making the transition from soviet occupation and domination to a free, democratic society. There are bound to be problems and people are finding the change difficult, much like what happened throughout Eastern Europe. It would be nice to see this done well somewhere, but I don’t get a sense of tyranny or oppression here. I have met many Mongolians who say they preferred their lives under Soviet rule and I find it a little distressing that we in the “free world” don’t do more to facilitate these transitions. It seems we are more focused on imposing democracy on others than on ensuring that people are actually moving on to something better.My friend and colleague, Joscha, took these photos the day after the riot just a few blocks from where I live.. And here is the rest of it.

Much of my work these days has been administrative in nature and, although important, is less interesting to write and read about. I am involved in a multisectoral initiative to help clarify Mongolia’s response to the HIV crisis and to devise a strategy that will hopefully implement a strong prevention effort against the virus for the next several years. Although I miss the interpersonal interactions that working with HIV on the front lines provides, the work we are doing, although less immediately tangible, has the potential to affect the quality of lives for all Mongolians. If we do it well. So although the work may be of interest to a handful, I will write a little about the parts of Mongolia I have had the opportunity to see during my leisure time. Last weekend I traveled out of the city with a friend who works with the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. It is always good to travel with people who know something useful and informative about the country or area you’re in. So it is with my FAO friend who, unfortunately, will be leaving soon, but from whom I seem to have learned a little more about this very interesting land. We rode out to Khustai National Park, one of the three national parks in which the wild Takhi horses freely roam the hills. The Takhi (translation “spirit”) are considered the only wild horses left in the world. Although feral horses exist elsewhere, such as the “wild” mustang in the American West, those horses are descendants of horses that were once domesticated. The Takhi have always been wild and were saved from total extinction, in the early and again in the mid 1900s, by their capture and placement in zoos. Takhi are allegedly as spirited and undomesticable as zebra. The takhi were reintroduced into Mongolia in the early 1990s though a joint program between Mongolia and the Netherlands. Interestingly, the takhi have 66 chromosomes whereas domestic horses have 64. Takhi are capable of cross-breeding with domestic horses, and you can see their characteristics in some of the domestic herds; however the offspring have 65 chromosomes which are further reduced to 64 upon subsequent breedings. I thought this was especially interesting because everyone I asked said they couldn’t interbreed, despite the striking takhi characteristics that were evident in some of the domestic herds, and I felt somewhat vindicated to learn that they can and do. The park is beautiful, especially now, in the Spring, when large expanses of green grassland replace the dusty barren patches of winter. We saw the takhi as well as a fair number of domestic horses, and group of grazing elk.

On April 26 the Financial Times reported that the World Bank was supporting a $1.8 million dollar experimental approach to reduce the new cases of HIV in Africa, in this case, specifically Tanzania. The program, jointly funded by the World Bank, the William and Flora Hewlett Foundation, the Population Reference Bureau and the Spanish Impact Evaluation Fund, essentially seeks to decrease new cases of HIV acquisition by paying people not to contract the virus. Briefly, the study enlists 3000 men and women in the southern rural regions of Tanzania who will each receive $45 if they continue to test negative for HIV in periodic testing over the course of 3 years. I could not determine if the participants received $45 each time they tested over the course of the 3 year trial or if this was a one-time payment to be received at the end of 3 years. One of the things that surprises me the most about this announcement is the lack of discourse about this issue, both in op/ed pieces in national newspapers and in the blog community. In fact, I am stunned at the seeming complete absence of notice this news item has received. Paying people NOT to engage in a given activity, particularly on this scale, has to be one of the most unusual and controversial approaches in modern behavior change theories and models. So, let’s look solely at the economics of this approach. Currently there are about 800 million people living on the African continent. I will use Africa here only because the high incidence of HIV in Africa underscores the economics of such an approach but still leaves the numbers sufficiently manageable to establish estimates. Roughly 23 million people on the African continent are currently infected with the HIV virus. If we estimate that approximately half of the 800 million people in Africa are at an age in which they are likely to engage in sexual activity, and this is probably a low estimate, we are considering 400 million people who are at risk for contracting HIV. If you subtract the 23 million people in Africa who are currently living with HIV, that leaves 377 million people that are at some risk for developing HIV. At $45/person, if we were paying them not to contract HIV, that totals approximately 16,965,000,000.00, or roughly 17 billion dollars. Ok, so the Iraq War is estimated to have cost the American tax payers about 500 billion dollars in 5 years, averaging to 100 billion a year. Hmmm, 17 billion, especially over 3 years, seems like a bargain. An article in the Journal of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndromes estimates that the economic cost of HIV/AIDS in Africa is about 36.4 billion dollars a year. If you divide that figure by the 23 million people in Africa currently infected by the HIV virus, you come out with a figure of just under $1600.00 per person per year. God, is that right? The total figure includes loss of productivity, economic impact, etc. I think it’s about 10 – 20 billion dollars per year that actually comes in as direct funds, from governments and private organizations. Certainly that money doesn’t all go toward individuals with HIV. Some of that money goes toward programs for prevention, programs for orphans, organizations established to mitigate the ravages of the HIV pandemic, etc. Actually, most of that money goes down the drain. But, nonetheless, we have a figure of about $1600/HIV infected individual/year in Africa. Well, quite frankly, $45 per person, whether it is over one year or 3 years, if the program actually worked, would be a screaming deal. I have to admit, although I initially found this program conceptually repugnant, fiscally it would make sense. If it works. Even if it works somewhat.So, what’s wrong with the idea? Paying people to make decisions that are for their own good as well as the good of society seems inherently wrong. Do we start paying people to stop smoking or to eat less? I suspect if we look at the cost to society, both in medical costs and with respect to lost productivity, if such programs were successful we would pay much less in the long run. And, if behavior change can be bought, do we then start paying people not to sell drugs or not to commit crimes? I think it’s a bad idea born of absolute desperation as the World Bank continues to pour billions of dollars into the HIV pandemic only to see the problem worsen as each year goes by. And I don’t think it will work over the long haul. The approach may enjoy marginal success in Tanzania, across 3000 people, but behavior change doesn’t come easy and sustaining it is challenging. As a former smoker I can attest to that.

The bottom line is that this approach sets a bad precedent. I have seen people in Africa refusing to come to an HIV workshop or seminar unless they receive a hefty stipend/allowance, a buffet lunch, and a t-shirt. I have been told that NGOs in Lilongwe, Malawi, won’t come to a meeting in Lilongwe itself because the daily allowance they receive is too low unless the meeting is held out of town. We have made HIV a lucrative business, perhaps the fastest growing industry in Africa, with Eastern Europe and Asia following suit. Whatever the outcome, I had hoped to see more debate about this approach in the popular media. So start talking about it and please feel free to leave a comment (below) and engage in a dialogue.

There have been some challenges with respect to my work here which have delayed the start of our project. Consequently, much of my time has been spent on administrative and program issues that don’t involve actual “hands on” HIV/AIDS outreach at the moment. So, why engage in HIV outreach in Mongolia at all when there are more immediate HIV/AIDS concerns elsewhere? While it is true that Mongolia has few reported HIV cases, between 25-35, UNAIDS estimates that approximately 500 people are currently living with the virus in the country. 500 cases is still an infinitesimally small number relative to the estimated 33 million cases of HIV worldwide, however that number is estimated to exist almost exclusively among particularly vulnerable populations in which the spread of HIV can occur explosively and exponentially, particularly with commercial sex workers. Between 1990 and 1994, when Mongolia was making the transition to democratic governance and a market economy, unemployment and homelessness escalated as social programs collapsed. People migrated into the capital city, Ulaanbaatar, without jobs or prospect of employment. This period saw the advent of what is now a serious problem of street children, which I will address in a later post, and a significant increase in women who were turning to commercial sex work (CSW) to support themselves and their families. Currently, the estimated number of sex workers in Ulaanbaatar exceeds 4000. Many of them engage in their profession in massage parlors or “saunas”, of which often 1 or 2 can be found in every street block. Sex work is also commonly carried out in many of the city’s hotels and, additionally, sex workers ply their trade on the city streets at night. Studies carried out by researchers from Vanderbilt University in the US have shown that, while the incidence of HIV in sex workers in Mongolia is low, the incidence of sexually transmitted infections (STIs) is exceptionally high. Specifically, 67% of the sex workers were positive for at least one STI and 17% were multiply infected. This tells us a couple things: First, at least as recently as the 2006 study, “100% condom use” programs targeting CSWs were not working effectively. Second, because we know that having an STI makes one significantly more vulnerable to HIV infection, we subsequently know that the CSWs in Mongolia are an extremely vulnerable population. If the story ended there, we might be looking at a long period in which HIV rose almost imperceptibly in the general population; however, we can add a couple additional variables that lead to an inevitable and devastating future if we don’t act aggressively and immediately. Mongolia lies snugly between 2 locations that are experiencing some of the highest HIV growth rates in the world. Since 2001, so we are talking about just 7 years, incidence of HIV cases in Eastern Europe and Central Asia has increased 150%, from 630,000 to 1.6 million. Russia, which comprises our extensive northern border, is estimated to have over 400,000 cases of HIV with an expansion rate that reached as high as 3000 new cases in one month (December 2007, PEPFAR data). China, to the direct south of Mongolia, experienced an estimated 45% increase in HIV cases in 2006 and, although obtaining accurate figures from the Chinese government is difficult, officials admit to an approximate 700,000 people living with HIV. The China Daily news service reported 3000 new cases/month over the course of one year. Traffic across Mongolia from China to the South and Russia to the north is common. Trading occurs across both borders and Mongolians are reliant on imported goods. Men from both countries come to Mongolia and solicit Mongolian prostitutes and Mongolian prostitutes actively “work” the trade routes across the two borders. Given all of the above data, it is only a matter of time before we see what will seem like an almost overnight increase in HIV rates in Mongolia. This may be one of the few places in the world where we may have the opportunity to actually engage in “HIV prevention” activities. If we do not act now, and if we do not enlist the support of the CSW population, this group of people who can act as our frontline defense against the disease, in less than 10 years time we will be spending billions of dollars doing crisis intervention and damage control. Make no mistake, this is important work. In the meantime, I have had the wonderful opportunity to go hiking in two of Mongolia’s national parks near Ulaanbaatar. Terelj National Park lies about 80 km northeast of UB and is comprised of over 1 million acres of seemingly inhospitable land and high dirt mountains. If I am not mistaken, we hiked to one of the highest peaks in the park, a grueling hike led by a man much more experienced at hiking and far more physically fit than myself. We blazed our own trails, going essentially straight up in parts and traversing dangerous rockslide areas on the way down. It is only through sheer grit and determination that I am not still up there, curled up in a ball and unable to go on. My second hike took me to Bogd Khan, the first green area I have seen since my arrival in Mongolia- complete with white pines, moss, and grass underfoot. My hiking companion, a UN Environmental specialist for many years now, informed me that Bogd Khan is the oldest National Park in the world, protected since the 1770s. You can drive to just below the monastery, Manzshir Khiid which, after 200 years of serving Buddhist monks, was destroyed by the Soviets in the 1930s and is recently being rebuilt. The mountain, Bodg Khan, was officially declared sacred by Chingis Khan, known to westerners as Genghis Khan, and is considered the most sacred mountain in the country. Because it is likely I will make this trek again (I understand it is only a 12 hour hike from Ulaanbaatar), I will simply post some pictures now and describe in more detail at a later date. .

I have agonized for a week on whether and what to write, feeling that to say nothing would be a disservice to you. In most young lives, rarely will you experience the death of a close friend. Rarer yet would be the death of two. Four and a half years ago, Joel died and many of your lives, as well as my own, were transformed forever. Four and a half years ago you rose magnificently and in unison to meet one of lives most difficult challenges, the loss of a beloved friend. And yet life has made this request of you all once again. “Bear this”, it demands. Bear the dimming of another light that will never be allowed to reach its full glow, never be allowed to dim naturally over the course of many years after it has shined most brightly. Life has called on you once again to bear the light for them, has asked you yet again to shine just a little brighter in your own lives so that the absences of theirs are less unbearable. And you can do this, you can bear this unbearable burden once again, with as much grace and unconventional beauty as you did before. Typically, after the sudden, unexpected loss of someone close, or even someone we have interacted with or known for some time, we ask ourselves if we were kind enough, if we were loving enough, if we were generous enough with our comments and/or our time. Unfortunately, we are all too utterly human and, in retrospect, we all fall well short of what or who we think we should have been. We never are quite that good. Simply in asking ourselves those questions, however, in examining our own lives and actions, we honor one of the gifts the dying leave us- the opportunity to live, if not better lives, at least more authentic lives. They would want that much from us. Neither Joel nor Phoebe would ask us to be saintly, to be saccharine sweet and disingenuous. So we have to take a minute and reflect on what they would ask, on what they leave us. We all know what Joel would have said, or have our own ideas about what he would say that have steered our subsequent actions to some degree. Unfortunately, I didn’t know Phoebe. But I looked at her art on her website, and I know her friends; I know the insides of some of their hearts almost as well as I knew my own son’s, and I suspect that she would tell you what you already know- she might tell you to sing and dance and float as high as you can until you touch the sun. She might tell you to love and laugh and paint with your fingers if you like, or walk barefoot in mud. You carry her message on your heart and in living that authentic life; you give fuel to her light and allow it to keep burning. Together you are magic, all of you. You changed my life. You took the most awful thing and gave it meaning. Through your continued realization of your own lives, through your love for Joel and for me and your insistence on keeping his light alive, you have caused me to believe I can make a difference. Through your belief in me, you have saved the lives of a fair number of people in Africa and kept children from being orphaned. You can do it again. My thoughts are with you. I love you all.

UB looks pretty bleak in the dark of night- an oppressive hulk of concrete, bitter cold and barely lit. My initial impression in the morning light was not much better. My hotel and the UN offices are in a drab area of town, rescued in bleakness only by a large square, Sükhbaatar Square, bordered by the impressive Parliament building, a museum, and the Opera House/Ballet theater. Interestingly, the square marks the place where Sükhbaatar, in 1921, claimed Mongolian independence from China as well as the place where the first protests were held in 1990 to escape the hold of Russian dominion over Mongolia.

After further exploration of UB, it is clear that much is going on here. There are many new buildings under construction, including several notable skyscrapers. And, in some areas, amidst a backdrop of rundown, deteriorating buildings, an attempt has been made at renovation. Foreign investors are buying up real estate at a rapid pace and, where once I might have actually been able to rent an apartment for 300-400/month, the rents have skyrocketed in the past few months.

Most of the places I looked at were in the 500=600/month range, all in tall (10 to 15 story), rotting, hideous buildings in less than desirable areas. I finally found a local realtor who “knew someone who knew someone” and I wound up in a fabulous apartment (by local standards), for 400/month, in a relatively trendy area on the main boulevard frequented by wealthy Mongolian shoppers, tourists, and expats.

I haven’t kept pace with the temperatures, but the nights and mornings are easily sub-zero. When the sun is in full glare it gives the illusion of warmth; however, even a small cloud passing overhead quickly plummets you into cold reality. We have had some lovely afternoons, perhaps in the 40s at times. Oddly, I don’t mind the cold so much as long as I can keep moving. Although March gives way to somewhat warmer weather (between 0 and 45F), the spring months are very windy here, kicking up both dust and cold. I am told by some residents that spring is really the least pleasant time here. I have yet to experience the brutal winters to be able to make that comparison. This is very tolerable so far but I don’t regret a cent I paid for overpriced Icebreaker and Northface gear.

My personal living space exceeds anything I have had in recent memory. With a bedroom, small living room, bathroom and modest kitchen, it feels palatial and I continue to wander through it marveling that it is exclusively for my use alone. The apartment buildings here are all heated by hot water traveling from some mysterious source over which the government has full control. The heat and hot water are cut off some time in May and it is likely I will be colder in the summer than I am now. I can sit comfortably in my apartment in a tank top, something impossible to do in my room in Petaluma even. I am not sure how the system works, but it seems I can access ample hot water in the morning, but not in the evening. I guess it just runs out. The apartment décor leaves much to be desired- garish combinations of colors and patterns, but there is a sense of luxury and I am pleased with my new home.

My time has been spent with apartment searches, UN paperwork, establishing bank accounts, etc., and I have not yet started my work (nor am I clear exactly what it is). I will be placed with the National Aids Foundation, oddly a non-governmental organization (NGO), housed in a dingy office in the main part of what you could call the business district. I have met the people there, all delightful and nice, but none of whom speak English. Clearly that will be a hindrance. I would estimate that less than 2% of the people here speak English and my first order of business, once I have settled in another few days, will be to locate a language school and begin classes immediately.

UB is surprisingly modern in some respects. Fashion is paramount and one gets a sense of Russian and Eastern European influence by high heeled black leather boots and leather jackets or long black coats that have set the uberfashion standard for the S & M industry. Cashmere is a Mongolian trademark and cashmere shops abound, but although less pricey here than abroad, it is still a high ticket item. American items, where available, are exceedingly expensive. I was able to find a store that carried my $18 bottle of Clinique clarifying lotion at an astonishing $48 and generally everything American and European is purchased at 3 times the cost of home. Tech toys, my weakness, are in somewhat short supply and unaffordable. Some of this can be accounted for by the high cost of importing these items but, additionally, the absence of Chinese goods, since there is no love lost between the two countries, keeps the competition at bay.

I am here, I am safe, and I am settling in. I bought a plant.

There is nothing to say. I have been back in the states now for a couple months and I have found very little compelling enough to write about. Life is easy in northern California; smooth and bland like the plain, unseasoned tofu that passes for food here. I am weary of the coffee shop dialogues, mine and everyone else’s. The incessant need to take our internal emotional temperatures exhausts me. I want to be out there, living and breathing. I don’t want to sit over chai tea and analyze my or anyone else’s relationships. I don’t want to categorize god, extol the merits of tantric sex, or try to figure out what chakra is blocked. I want to fold into you like a tectonic plate diving into the molten place of another, seeking heat. Jesus, don’t talk to me. Just stop talking. Slam into me if you like, let’s see what falls out in the rubble. But stop talking because nothing we’re saying really matters. Let’s get raw, let’s get crazy, let’s run full out down a jagged street screaming, but let’s stop thinking that what we are saying means anything.

I'm a heat-seeking missle in the middle of an arctic wasteland hoping someone shows up on my doorstep with popcorn, a movie, and a revelation.

I’m staying in a somewhat shoddy hotel room in Lilongwe, Malawi, as I process my close of service with the Crisis Corps. I can tell that I am getting closer to returning to the US after an almost 3 year absence, because what might have seemed relatively upscale only weeks ago suddenly feels sleazy and sub-standard. Although I will miss my modest NGO (the little NGO that could), leaving Malawi does not carry, even remotely, the emotional burden of leaving Swaziland, where I spent 2 years and tremendous, yet wholly inadequate effort fighting a 40% HIV prevalence with my Peace Corps colleagues. And my heart still contracts when I remember the girls at the orphanage where I lived during that time. My experience in Malawi has been surprisingly rewarding; however, I have missed the very personal and interpersonal experience of working on the front lines and living in direct contact with people whose need is so great it pales everything else in my experience.

We went out to our catchment area on Saturday to say goodbye to members of the orphan care groups and the HIV support group that I had worked with over these past 6 months.

officers of the OVC and HIV support groups

We visited the Orphan Caregivers’ Poultry Project that my friend and former colleague, Anna, made possible. The chicken house is completed and the chickens have been ordered.

before and after

They should arrive toward the end of this week. Over 40 orphans and approximately 22 caregivers will benefit from this project.

some of the OVCs and caregivers

Of the billions of aid dollars that have been wasted in Africa over the years, I feel pretty confident that Anna’s money will not share that fate. My NGO has promised to keep us updated and send pictures (as soon as I can get them a camera to do so).

On Monday, I said goodbye to my colleagues at the NGO.

the little NGO that could

In remembrance of all the days Henderson and I biked the 15 to 25 km out to the villages and all the times his bike fell apart on the way back, and unable to leave my Peace Corps-issued bike, I at least made sure his was upgraded. Again I am reminded of the hundreds of new 4-wheel drives in Malawi alone, belonging to inert governmental agencies and fat international NGOs, whose steel-belted grooved tires rarely or never meet dirt roads in the rural areas.

Any emotional ambivalence I might have felt about leaving Africa has been tempered by the horrible fires that are currently consuming southern California. My sister and her husband have had to abandon their elegantly understated home in Escondido and, at this very moment, do not know if theirs is one of the 70 or more homes there that have been engulfed in flames in Escondido alone. My heart goes out to them and all the others who may lose everything they have worked so hard to achieve- almost one million people sitting in hotel rooms, like I am tonight, or in temporary shelters, not knowing what awaits them when the flames die down. I grew up an Army Brat and never settled long enough to purchase (or even afford) my own home, so it is difficult for me to fully appreciate how devastating it must feel to lose a place that is “yours”, where you have built a life of memories, where hallways still hold the ghost of footsteps long past and kitchen walls have soaked up a lifetime of smells and tastes. My heart goes out to them. We are holding our collective breath. And, as I watch on this hotel TV, that has 2 sports channels and CNN headline news, I am awed by the volunteers who come out in droves, roll up their sleeves, and do what is necessary and important. I am awed by volunteers the world over, but nowhere more so than in the US. It is times like this that I am reminded of how remarkable Americans can be when they are called to step up. I sometimes think that people are just waiting, as they watch one more awful reality show, for a reason to be a hero.

I stopped reading African newspapers about 6 months after arriving in Swaziland. I found the daily articles about child sexual abuse, mutilations, government corruption, and the dissemination of misinformation too draining.. It is difficult enough to do the kind of work we do- HIV outreach, economic development for the very poor, orphan care, etc., without constant reminder of the overall grim picture. And in Swaziland, every paper contains a section, page after page, of obituaries, often with accompanying photos of people in their 20s and 30s who have died; people who shouldn’t have died and who leave small children to be cared for by whomever happens to be left behind. So, like a turtle in her shell, I pull my head in and view my small, sometimes manageable part of the world and leave the rest for those who are better able to assimilate grim reality. But every once in a while, if I am stuck in an office waiting somewhere, or at a restaurant where newspapers are available, I will pick a newspaper up and glance through it. Today, waiting in the Peace Corps office, I picked up the day’s paper and glanced through classic headlines about political corruption and party line disagreements before landing on a couple articles that, while typical, leave me shaking my head. The first was an article about an 11 year old boy who was found with his genitals cut off. Alive, but forever mutilated. Not really every day stuff- enough to get a raised eyebrow or two- but nothing that you haven’t seen plenty of times before here in one form or another. I’m sure there was a reason for it that made sense to the person who committed the act, a reason that perhaps even made sense to a whole village, some ritual act of vengeance or cleansing. Something that might make sense if you were born and raised here. The second story was about a man who was arrested for causing his ex-wife’s genitals to disappear. Yes, indeed. The man was so distraught when his wife divorced him and married someone else that he went to a “witch doctor” who cast a spell on the woman. Now, when the woman tries to have sex with her new husband, they are unable because her genitals disappear. Apparently the witch doctor has since passed away and, consequently, it is unknown whether or not the spell can be removed. So the woman went to the police, reported the matter, and the ex-husband was arrested and jailed. Yes, jailed for causing his ex-wife’s genitals to disappear. Swear to god, you just can’t make this kind of stuff up.

Windhoek-Etosha-Swakopmund-Sossuvlei. To view more pictures go to Facebook(You don't have to join to view).After arriving rather late at the Windhoek airport, our first night was spent at the Villa Verdi, a lovely guest house in Windhoek. We were provided with a simple breakfast and coffee on a covered porch overlooking the garden, after which we headed out for Etosha National Park, a several hour drive north of Windhoek. Etosha means “great white place” and it is just that, a great, white place. The park is dominated by a large salt pan (natural depression in the ground) formed by a dry lake bed. When you are actually out on the pan, having taken the 3km road to the lookout, the sand takes on a greenish tint. Driving by it in the distance it appears white and beachy and you are almost sure you have reached the ocean.panning on the pan

You start to wonder where the water is. Grass lands are sparse in the park and we marveled that animals were able to survive here at all. We spent 2 nights in the park, at a different lodge each night, and drove the twisty, turny side roads wherever possible. We would go miles extended periods without viewing even a bird and then come upon a watering hole or a grazing area filled with the archetypal African scene of grazing kudu, zebra, hartbeast, giraffe, etc.

The first lodge we stayed in, Mokuti Lodge, provided us with a spacious 2-bedroom bungalow, complete with kitchen and barbeque area (neither of which we were inclined to use, preferring the ease of a large buffet). There are no ATMs in the park, but fortunately they take credit card for pretty much everything you might need. After dinner we walked out to the watering hole, separated from us by a few yards and a fence, where we watched elephants, jackals, giraffe, and various antelope quench their thirst.

night drinking

The second lodge, Halali, was a little less luxurious, albeit quite nice (especially relative to my living quarters for the past 3 years), but was located in a dry, parched area where the sun pounded the ground mercilessly and moving about in the daytime was cumbersome. We retreated to the air conditioned interior of the car and spent the day on back roads. We came upon one small waterhole unexpectedly where we were suddenly within yards of a single robust female lion hunched over and taking her fill. I got a little nervous being that close to a large predator with an open window between us, but she was not the least bit interested, barely acknowledging our presence before taking her fill and slowly moving away. We took a drive out to the “ghost tree forest”, one of our favorite spots in the park.

ghost trees

These are alien looking trees with misshapen and bulbous trunks that grow in Africa, north-eastern Africa, Madagascar and India. We saw quite a number of them knocked over on their sides, their short roots exposed, like bloated tipped cows. In the evening we went out to the view the waterhole at the lodge, a smaller version than the night before but set high in a nicely laid out rocky area a bit further away from the animals. The night was dark and we watched as a large group of rhinos lumbered in, hearing them before we actually saw them. The viewing area was crowded but relatively hushed, quiet enough to hear the butting of heads between 2 large rhinos. A small African Wildcat slinked its way quietly to the water’s edge but was spied by one of the large rhinos who chased it away. A group of sinister looking hyenas arrived like evil shadows on the periphery of the waterhole, edging up to drink after the rhinos had disappeared.

Swakopmund

The third day we headed out on the long drive to Swakopmund, a seaside resort on the Altantic Coast. On the way out of the park we were lucky to happen upon a pride of 7 lions lounging just off the side of the road.

We arrived in Swakopmund to find a beautiful, modern little town heavily influenced by European design sitting just off a palm lined, beautiful blue ocean. In all of the towns we passed through or visited in Namibia, it was difficult to get a sense that we were still in Africa. Nambia was colonized by the Germans and the European influence predominates here. For anyone visiting Swakopmund, the Brigadoon guest house is a small but sweet guest house a block from the beach. They deliver breakfast to the patio just outside your room at a time predetermined by you, tapping lightly on your door to let you know the meal has arrived. They start with the cold items, cereals and breads, to give you time to wake up and get settled before the eggs arrive. What it lacks in ocean view it makes up for in charm and top notch service.

It is a long and empty desert drive out to the dunes at Sossusvlei from Swakpmund. On the way to the turnoff from town, you come upon majestic red dunes just abutting the ocean. The view is breathtaking- blue sky and sea, rust colored dunes, picture postcard perfect, which is nice because, for miles and miles afterwards, all you get is flat dusty desert with hardly even another car in sight. At some point you leave the paved road; however, the dirt road is wide and tightly packed and we lost no speed from the transition. All of the lodges near the gate to Sossusvlei Park fill early during the month of October, so we had to settle for Solitaire Country Lodge about a 90 minute drive north of the park. In one of the brochures we read, the town of Solitaire was billed as “mystical.” In reality, the town consists of little more than a gas station, store, and lodge that, together, resemble something out of a B grade Western film, but in a good way.

Namib Balloon Safari

We rolled out of bed early to arrive at the Sossuvlei gate in time to be met by Namib Sky Balloon Safaris for our early morning balloon ride over the desert. This was a first for both of us and, although a little pricey at USD 400 each, the panoramic view as we drifted along high above the hills was worth the expense. Although the brochures show the balloons floating over the red dunes, we did not reach the dunes which we could see in the distance. But floating over mountains surrounded by early morning mist was sufficiently ethereal and, after a scrumptious meal laid out on tables in the desert by the balloon trip organizers, the dunes were only a short drive away.

Deadvlei

The dunes of Sossuvlei are everything the books and postcards depict. They are massive and burn bright red against a cloudless blue sky. It was like being transported back to the Sahara desert in southern Morocco, that mystical magical vastness which leaves one inclined to believe in something larger than oneself. At the car park for 2 wheel drives, several kilometers from the largest dunes, we hopped on one of the shuttle busses that take you out to an area where you can hike around and climb dunes if you are so inclined. We hiked out to an area called Deadvlei, a small copse of petrified trees left to die when the river changed its course. It was an eerie place perfectly suited for science fiction scenarios- dark dead trees rooted in a lake of dry white sand surrounded by the red dunes.

After a second night in mystic Solitaire, we headed back to Windhoek on a road that wound through hills sprouting high desert vegetation and loaded with wildlife at each turn. We had enough time in Windhoek to stop for a cappuccino in an outdoor café before heading for Daan Viljoen Nature Reserve, a jewel of a surprise just outside of town where you can take a several kilometer hike among wildebeest, antelope, warthogs, zebra, giraffe, etc. We got to the airport in plenty time for my evening flight out.

Six days is not enough time to see Namibia, nor is it sufficient time to get a sense of the African cultures that gave rise to this diverse and extraordinary country. Unfortunately, a century of colonial rule followed by inclusion under South Africa apartheid, saw the widespread extermination of many indigenous tribes and the forced assimilation of others. In 1904, under German rule, an edict was declared that, “All form of tribal organisation must be stopped. Tribal groups deep in the bush which try to escape political supervision will not be tolerated. They would only serve to provide memories of tribal life and the days when the Africans owned the land." Consequently, although a few small groups were able to seek refuge in the bush and survive in small numbers, outside of museums it is difficult to get a sense that this country was home to a large variety of different tribes with unique cultural practices and beliefs. The San bushmen, probably the best known of these groups, still exist in Namibia but, with the exception of a cultural village that would have cost us 400 USD to visit, they are, according to meida accounts, “marginalized and landless.” Nonetheless, with its copper, zinc, lead, manganese, uranium, and diamond mines, its seaports and fishing, and its tourist attractions, Namibia seems prosperous relative to many African countries with an emerging and larger black middle class than most other places. An encouraging trend but at a high price.

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To Namibia. I am off to Namibia today to spend the next 6 days on a speed dial tour of the country by rented car with my friend and former colleague, Steve Kallaugher, ex-PCV extraordinaire and founder of Young Heroes Swaziland (see newspaper clip).

I will post more about our adventure later.

My friend, Steve, tells me that there is no point in spending too much time worrying about what comes next because, in reality, something always does. It’s not a direct quote but I think I captured the essence of it. Likewise, Buddhist philosophy tells us that if we stay in the present moment, essentially if we take very good care of this particular day, then our path will unfold exactly as it should. If we take care of today, tomorrow will take care of itself. All of that notwithstanding, I am spending an inordinate amount of time lately wondering “what’s next?”

The past 3 years working in Africa, and particularly the past 6 months of capacity building and NGO administrative work, has certainly qualified me to work for one of the myriad NGOs across Africa that are doing HIV outreach and development work. But as I pour over the job listings, I am reminded that, for the most part, I detest these organizations. While, admittedly, a modicum of good comes out of their work here, their primary purpose is to survive and expand as organizations. Serving the people who are poor and suffering is a nice and occasionally marketable output; however, it does not seem to be essential. I do keep sending in my resume to the Clinton Foundation because the work they do, which includes efforts such as securing flow cytometers to quantify CD4 counts of people with HIV to determine their readiness for antiretroviral treatment, would allow me to make use of my biomedical background as well. But the Clinton Foundation likes to hire people with advanced degrees in public health from Ivy League Colleges and, even then, it helps to "know someone who knows someone…" We can tell the Clinton folks here in Malawi by the polo logos on their shirts and the tassels on their loafers. It has been suggested that they are a little “out of touch” here.

I also sent a CV out to the International Rescue Committee (who approached me with an interesting job description 3 days after I accepted the Crisis Corps assignment) because my sense is that they do more “front line” kind of work in areas of greater need. Beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess. Right now I am a “probability wave” (see any high school physics text) and could be anywhere, traveling in any direction at any speed. It is only when I make that decision that the wave collapses and my direction can be determined. Perhaps it is time to step away from poverty and suffering for a while and remain in the land of good and plenty. But even before I left the States 3 years ago, I would find myself standing in the cereal aisle of the supermarket, eyes glazed over, immobilized and maybe a little terrified by all the choices. And even now I wonder why, when millions of people are sick and dying, while there are currently 23 MILLION ORPHANS in Africa alone, while people are persecuted and killed for their beliefs (of lack thereof), why in the world we are intensely preoccupied with whether or not a woman gets extra time to take a college exam because she is pumping breast milk for her infant? Why in the world is this a news worthy issue?

As I was riding into town this morning, a woman got on the minibus holding a young child. Judging from his length, I might have said he was about a year and a half, but he was so thin and tiny, he looked younger. The child’s contorted face looked as if it was frozen mid-scream, his mouth stretched into a wide grimace with a few jagged teeth exposed, eyes bulging, eyebrows knitted together as if knotted in pain. Despite the agonized look, no sound escaped other than an occasional soft rasping from his throat. I couldn’t look at him and I couldn’t look away. The woman holding him was old enough to be his grandmother but possibly young enough to have birthed him late in life. She did not nurse the child, which would be unusual for a mother over the course of an hour and a half minibus ride, so I suspect she is a non-maternal caregiver. She had a haunted look about her and I wanted desperately to relieve her burden. I am aware that there are sick children and encumbered caregivers everywhere, but nowhere moreso than Africa. And I was reminded, once again, why I am here and why I may need to continue on this path if it is, indeed, “next”.

My friend and former Swaziland colleague, Julie, sent me this article. It requires no further comment from me. The article is heartbreaking and the message goes far beyond the discarded foetuses, so read it thoroughly and you might better understand my comparisons between these two countries SWAZILAND: Foetuses in a stream highlight plight of women

The traditionally low status of women has meant they are often subject to abuse

MBABANE, 26 September 2007 (IRIN) - The discovery of about eighty foetuses in a stream used by a peri-urban community in Swaziland has raised disturbing questions about the desperation of women in a country where unwanted pregnancies are common, abortion is illegal and two-thirds of the population live in poverty.

"A means must be found to give women control, or at least a say, in sexual reproduction, so they do not have to resort to drastic and dangerous measures," Sipiwe Tsabedze, a social worker in the central commercial town, Manzini, told IRIN.

That would be a considerable achievement: before the new constitution was adopted in 2006, Swazi women had the legal status of minors, and were unable to own property or open a bank account without the permission of a male relative or husband; family planning is generally disdained by Swazi men.

A recent national survey investigating the scope of sexual and other types of violence perpetrated against women and girls found that one in every three had experienced some form of sexual violence before turning 18. From infancy until they turned 24, nearly half (48.2 percent) of Swazi women experienced some form of sexual violence.

Desperation in deteriorating conditions

The first small corpse was found on Tuesday in a stream at Logoba, a community on the outskirts of the Matsapha Industrial Estate outside Manzini. The remaining foetuses were discovered by police who continued searching the water and surrounding area.

Logoba residents made a sweep of their informal shantytown and small farms nearby and evicted sex workers, who were accused of being responsible for the aborted fetuses.

With unemployment topping 40 percent and rural job opportunities drying up in the persistent drought, people have been drawn to the Matsapha factories in record numbers. Hundreds idly wander the roads hoping to find work.

Worsening economic and humanitarian conditions in the country have been blamed for the rising number of women resorting to sex work. The Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse has documented jobless women trading sexual favours for a meal as common practice.

"These women are not prostitutes per se. They are starving human beings forced by circumstances to degrade themselves. The men who command them do not use condoms, and the women are powerless to make them. The risk of contracting HIV is high, and when pregnancies result there is nothing the woman can do," Alicia Dlamini, who counsels abused women, told IRIN.

Swazi men have shown little sympathy for women forced to undergo abortions. Men calling a national radio show expressed outrage at the women's actions, without pointing out the responsibility of any of the men who had impregnated them.

"Based on the scope of the findings it is clear there is someone who is assisting people to terminate pregnancies through unnatural means. This is illegal," police spokesman Vusi Masuku said in a statement.

"The answer is not to legalise abortion. Swazis are a long way from tolerating that," according to Tsabedze.

Dear "getting use to mortality, death, temporary, impermanence etc.",

My blog shows me what key words were used in a web search that caused someone to land on my blog. I don’t know who you are, if you are male or female, young or old, blue or green. I don’t even know if you will check back But your search terms stopped me short. You are looking for something important and I knew my recent postings would be of little use to you. I am hoping you return because, you see, I do know a little about what you are looking for. Four years ago, almost to the month, I wrapped my arms around my son, Joel, said goodbye, and sent him off to basic training for the Army Reserves. Three weeks later, they brought home his ashes in a small brass box with his name engraved on it. He was my only child and I his only parent. He was the most precious thing. I never really wanted children- they are noisy and demanding and, without exception, the most serious commitment and responsibility anyone will ever take on. And I am not one for responsibility and commitments. But the moment they laid him on my belly, after a long and very painful delivery, he immediately became the most important, amazing, spectacular thing I had ever done. And every day thereafter, for the next 18 years, I would look at him with boundless awe and my heart would contract with a mixture of pain and pleasure that only love knows. For 18 years we shared an amazing journey together. And then he was gone. Just like that. I have known death before- my father died when I was in my early 20s, my ex-husband died within a few years of Joel’s birth, and I lost a stepfather as well. This was different. This kid was magnificent- tall, healthy, quirky, smart as hell, loved by most everyone, certainly a better person than either of his parents ever were. And then he was gone. Just like that. Who could have predicted that a tiny weakness in one of his heart’s arteries would have taken him down? It was stunning, life changing. Joel’s death catapulted me on a journey that is unlikely to end for me- to understand how something that magnificent can just be gone, just like that; how the earth was allowed to continue spinning and the universe refrained from imploding when he was ripped from it. My spiritual leanings throughout my adult life, since my recovery from alcoholism when I was just 22 years old, have been to combine the best of Christian and Buddhist philosophies, ignore the dogma, and leave the rest for the theologians to figure out. I understand impermanence now, fully, and its acceptance is liberating. And, now, having lost Joel and after spending almost 3 years in Africa trying to save my own soul, I have come to understand death. However, there are many answers I am still looking for- the “why?” of it all and the “what comes after?” Even if I had the answers, they would be meaningless for you until life serves them up in language that is best understood by you alone. But I can assure you that your search, "getting use to mortality, death, temporary, impermanence etc.", will be the most important thing you ever do in the end. It will take you places you never dreamed of going and connect you with people who will change your life forever. Your journey will not be easy because the questions you are asking are the most difficult of all but, even if you never get the answers, your life will be fuller for the asking.

Best regards,

Alyson Peel

I came home to my barren little room after a week of easy living to find no water, no electricity, a layer of dust on the floor, and a bug the size of a small crayfish floating in my toilet. But at least I have a toilet, yes. The minibus ride was enough of a welcome home, with a child of about a year and a half screaming and squirming the entire hour or so. It was surprisingly generous that the driver made a couple unscheduled stops, first to buy the child some water and then to allow the mother the opportunity to find something for the child to eat. Only when a bag of candy was produced did we get any peace. Unrelated women offered to hold the child for a bit to give the mother a rest and to try their hands at calming the child, so the child was passed around to find comfort in others’ arms. Malawians love their children, the men and the women both. In Malawi you are almost as likely to see a man with a child on his lap in the minibus (unless it’s a tiny infant still nursing) as you are a woman. Seeing men with young children, walking with them, carrying them, interacting with them, is not uncommon here. This is in direct contrast with my experience in Swaziland where children were exclusively in the women’s domain and if men did interact with children it was usually cruelly. In Swaziland, one of the most common phrases used with children is, “tawu ku shaya” or “tak’shaya”, meaning “I will beat you.” It’s one of the first phrases we learn when we move to our communities and villages and one of the most difficult issues for Peace Corps Volunteers to confront. Swazi children are beaten routinely and, if not being beaten, are constantly being threatened with the prospect future beatings. Even at public and school functions that are supposed to advocate for children, the children are treated roughly and without affection.

Malawians are kind to each other and they are kind to their children, at least in the rural areas I have visited. I don’t know why it would be so different across cultures that, in many areas, have common ancestry, but the contrast is undeniable. Certainly there are people in Swaziland who care for children and who treat them well and love them deeply, but it is not part of the cultural norm to be kind to children. In Malawi I have yet to see anyone hit a child and beating is not permitted in the schools. Perhaps they are treated aggressively in the home, but I have yet, in 5 months, seen anyone strike a child in public or even threaten to do so. There is some thinking in Swaziland that you must be rough with children to prepare them for the hardships they will encounter when they grow up. Additionally, child sexual abuse, at least of the very young children, is not common in Malawi and not accepted, tacitly or otherwise. Again, it probably occurs, as it does everywhere, but I have lived in and known communities in Africa where the sexual abuse of children is not uncommon and is condoned by silence. It was good for me to come here, to this place where small children play freely and are relatively happy, where they do not live in constant fear or with demons who take human form. Now if we could just create a world where they stand a good chance they will not be orphaned, where their odds of reaching their 10th birthday are better than 8:10, where they do not suffer the ravages of malaria that may kill them when they’re young but, if not, will continue to deplete their strength throughout their adult lives, where they can go to school and learn about the world, where their bellies are full of food rather than distended by malnutrition, where HIV is not looming in their future, where there is hope of something better for their own children and the opportunity for them to provide it, where we don’t turn them into beggars through our own misguided intentions but, rather, find a way to enable them to take care of themselves and their families without having to depend on the inconsistent good will of others. Not a perfect world, but a better world.

(oh, wait a minute, I AM a brain scientist). anyway..."WASHINGTON (AFP) — Former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan, for years an inscrutable seer on the economy, is causing a stir by alleging in his new memoir that 'the Iraq war is largely about oil.'" Gee, really?????????

Sorry, but sitting in Pretoria for a week undergoing medical tests has left me a bit testy. I am well, all tests are fine. I go back to Malawi tomorrow and finish out my Crisis Corps service with enthusiasm. It helps to know I have a week in Namibia with Steve, former PCV extraordinaire and founder of Young Heroes, and 3 weeks with my wholly lovable redheaded sister in Madagascar. I will post on both trips. And then I'm coming home. It has been too long.

at the joberg airport waiting to go back to malawi.

I don't post many pictures of myself, or of me having fun. For those who like that type of thing, I have created albums on facebook that are nothing but me. If you are interested, you can view at: Facebook

You do not have to be a member of facebook to view. enjoy.

I have been dealing with some health issues for a while and have not been able to keep people updated. Consequently, I put together this little film of the women and children from my recent post who made my eyes well up with tears and my throat close. This is my heart, this is why we're all here:

Yesterday we biked about 25km out to visit another orphan caregiver group that my NGO has organized. It was a hot, dry, dusty ride out there and we are pretty exhausted when we arrive. We are placed in a small room and dozens of small, wide-eyed children in tattered clothes file in to greet us. Then the women in the caregiver organization come in to perform a dance to welcome us. They took us out to the community maize field where the maize they grow goes toward the orphans, either feeding them directly or sold to provide school supplies and school fees for some of the older children. The group is caring for 43 orphans and the maize is not enough. The group built a beautiful pig kraal and the agreement was that, after building the sites, a partner agency would provide husbandry training and 4 pigs (one male and 3 females). This is the same project that was undertaken by my NGO at 15 other sites in our catchment area for OVC groups. We completed our part of the bargain and all of the kraals were completed by October; however the “partner” organization who committed themselves to this effort has not come through with either training or livestock. So the pig kraal is currently used as a preschool area for the younger orphans who are not attending primary school yet and the OVC group is struggling to care for these children. We visit with the children in the kraal and they sing for us and show us some of the figures they are making with mud and clay. They are packed into one of the sections of the kraal so tightly there is no room to move. I wondered if they always sat in there like this or if they are just gathered into one small place for our visit. I suspect it is easier to control the children when their movement is so severely limited, but it can’t be much fun for them or conducive to learning much.

After meeting with the children, we have a more formal meeting with the village headmen and the OVC group. The women tell us of their accomplishments and their struggles to provide not only for the orphans, but also for the elderly and disabled, some of whom were also present at the meeting. As I look out over the crowd, I am moved again by how much the women in Africa take upon their shoulders. The women hold this continent together, but just barely. They are so pleased to have me there, in their words a “humble white woman who would come by bicycle all the way out there to just visit with them. “ Well, in a rare moment I may sometimes approach humility, but probably not often enough. I start to get choked up. It just comes on me sometimes when I least expect it and it is just one more reason public office is not for me. I struggle to retain the tears, dabbing tissue at the corners of my eyes. God, don’t let me cry. I know my turn to say something is coming up and there is no way for me to bow out. I search my mind for happy or funny memories, anything I can latch on to that will stem the flood. The strategy works only briefly and intermittently. My time comes and I stand. Henderson stands next to me to translate. I start to say something about the women in Africa, how they are holding up Africa, how it is through their strength that anything survives here. Then my throat closes. I stand there knowing that to utter another word is to allow the torrent of tears to flow and I cannot do that. I am not ashamed to cry, but one never knows how that will be interpreted here. They are strong and they expect the same of me. A few tears leak out the corners of my eyes and everything is quiet and still. No one moves, no one breathes. The moments seem an eternity for all of us while I can neither continue nor sit down. Eventually the worst of it passes and I finish, talking about the ravages of HIV, the necessity to get tested and treated, the need for pregnant women to get antenatal care and testing to protect their unborn children and prevent more children from being orphaned, the importance of caring for those children already orphaned. I sit down exhausted.

After the meeting was over, I greeted a man sitting on the ground holding a cane. He was slender and small, dressed all in white, with some gray showing in his beard. He shook my hand with a noticeable tremor. He told me, the shakiness in his hand recapitulated in his voice, that he and his wife are both HIV positive and how difficult it is for him to get to the nearest clinic, which is quite some distance, to get ART for both of them. Governments make a big deal about the fact that ART is free in most places in Africa now, but free doesn’t take into account that they are not widely available and the cost, not only in terms of transport cost, but in terms of physical demands where transport is not locally available and you have to walk miles to even find transport, is higher than many can pay. So, many will die.

I rode back to town wondering if there is a way to come up with some pigs for this group. I also wondered how I can leave when there is so much that can be done. I told Julie I would never come back to Malawi because all eyes are on Malawi and there are countless NGOs and governmental agencies tripping over each other, few making any tangible difference in places like this small rural community. Every time I go into Lilongwe and see all the cars, with their organizational logos plastered on the doors, I become nauseated. I pass all the new buildings in the capital that house the major aid organizations that cost millions to operate, and I want to rip my hair out. Everytime I go to the restaurant even in my small town and see another group eating there because they are attending yet another workshop, resentment boils up in me. But when I get out into the rural area, where most of the people are living, and see how much they are doing with so little, I am awed and I want to help them do more. And even if I could put behind me the poverty and difficulty these people face in their everyday existence, the faces of so many orphaned children will haunt me in my sleep.

We have spent the last week or so biking out to the villages to interview members of our HIV support group in hopes that we can show the film to other areas and encourage people to get tested and to form similar support groups. In our most recent trip to the area, group members also brought small children of group members who have tested positive for HIV and are currently receiving ART (antiretroviral therapy). I was struck by how healthy these children looked- these families are taking good care of them. Two of the children we saw have been on ART for one to two years. The only tell tale sign of HIV infection for both was the glaring developmental delay that is so classic in children born with HIV. The girl, whose grandmother we spoke with, looked no more than 7 years old but, in fact, is 11. Her parents died when she was 3 and her grandmother has been looking after her since. She was sick for a number of years and the grandmother took her in for testing a couple years ago. She has been on treatment since. She has had minimal schooling. When she was younger she could not attend because she was too sick. Now, she is much better but far behind. Additionally, the other children tease her because her head is large and she is so much smaller than her peers. The grandmother said the clinic has advised her not to tell the child about her HIV status and to tell her the medication is for malaria. I am in favor of disclosure, especially in an area with such a strong support group, but it is up to the family. I explain to the grandmother that the girl needs to know what to do if she gets hurt and bleeds, which children often do, and that she must know to prevent other people from coming in contact with her blood. The girl is also 11 in a country in which sexual experimentation commonly begins that young. I worry about how children are told and that they are told in such a way that doesn’t make them feel bad about themselves, but I think they should know. I make a mental note to contact Baylor College of Medicine, who does pediatric HIV outreach here and elsewhere in Africa, to see what trainings they might provide for local clinics and support groups.

A volunteer from Japan, Takeshi, who is attached to another NGO in our area that routinely ignores him because he has difficulty even with English, accompanied us on our most recent trip. He is a journalist in Japan and writes for a paper there. Takeshi and I have become friends and we try to meet for lunch at least once a week. He was interested in interviewing people living with HIV/AIDS and, because our group is so strong and the people at my NGO so accommodating, I invited him to go with us to talk with some of the group members. In listening to his questions, I was reminded of some of the biases I had early on in my understanding of the HIV pandemic in Africa. We know that one of the major contributors to the spread of the pandemic is the status of women and children, who have no protection under the law and who have access to nothing that does not come by way of men.

Takeshi’s questions made it clear that he is under the impression that women are raped, taken against their will, and that it is always the men who are going out and having other wives and girlfriends while the women are at home trapped, neglected, and abused. While it is true that these things happen, and certainly more so in Swaziland where the men are very aggressive and harsh, the realities are often quite different and more subtle. It is not uncommon in Africa for women to have children from several different fathers and for them to pursue, actively and sometimes aggressively, relationships with men, particularly men who have money. Likewise, it is not uncommon, or at least not unheard of, for married women to have relationships outside the marriage. Girls are married off at very young ages, generally to men much older and often to men who have another wife. These marriages are not based on love but on providing children and caring for the home. In any such relationship, especially one that includes protracted absences by the husband, women can be vulnerable also to outside relationships that provide them with comfort and emotional fulfillment. Maybe we don’t all need to feel loved, but most of us do.

In any society in which nothing is available to women independent of what is permitted them by men, sex becomes a commodity. Sex is not viewed as a sacred act between two people, nor is it even necessarily a recreational activity to be enjoyed but, rather, it becomes something to be bartered. It happens more subtly in affluent societies, in which the most beautiful women gravitate to the most powerful and wealthiest men, without regard to character, and poorer women who have less to barter, or who are supporting addictions, will resort to outright prostitution. It has been thus throughout the history of our species and, if it happens in societies where options may exist, how can we not expect it to happen in a place where women really do have nothing. So, the abuse of women can be more subtle than we envision. Sometimes it arises blatantly and directly, e.g. an older man offering school fees in exchange for sex from a young girl, but it can also present as a young woman actively seeking out an older man who she knows can provide these things for her. Sometimes it comes wrapped in the illusion of affection or love, manifested by “gifts” that suggest a relationship which exists nowhere in reality. Men here do not think of themselves as abusers of women and, interestingly, often cite themselves as victims of women who have left them for other men. It is not always straightforward and, while women certainly suffer the greatest inequities, I would propose that both men and women are victims of a culture that, in present times, is maladaptive and that has perpetuated the spread of HIV.

This is a culture in which, before young girls are married off, the family pays to have a man come in and have sex with her in a practice called, “clearing away the dust.” Likewise, someone is brought in to have sex with a woman after her husband dies as a ritual cleansing. Of course the women have no say in this; however because it has been this way for as long as they remember, they see these rituals as normal. These cultural practices and others like them have perpetuated the use of women as property and result in the acceptance by women that they are property. In the wake of HIV/AIDS, theses practices are falling away rapidly and it is widely recognized that something must be done to protect women and children and to promote the independence of women if anyone wants to make headway with the disease. Likewise, African nations are unlikely to progress developmentally without active participation by the women. Many governments recognize this and women are increasingly being invited to the table. Changing underlying beliefs and biases may take much longer and we are naive to think otherwise.

All of that notwithstanding, it is difficult to cite any one issue that is responsible for the spread of HIV here. There are polygamous societies elsewhere in the world that do not experience a high incidence of HIV; although there is probably more fidelity within the multiple marriages. There are societies where women suffer more abuse and fewer freedoms that have almost no incidence of HIV. There are societies like our own that are sex-driven, where adultery is common, where child porn is the most actively sought item on the internet, where adolescents are plenty sexually active, that have much lower incidence of HIV.

HIV originated in Africa and spread quietly until it achieved notice in the west through its introduction into the gay community, a relatively isolated population. The gay community was, unfortunately for them, our canary in the coal mine, putting us all on alert and making us all a little more cautious. It achieved a widespread 10 – 20% prevalence in Africa before the world started paying attention and is spread primarily through heterosexual sex here. I think if 15% of our broader population was infected before we became aware of its presence and mode of infection, we would be knee deep in a pandemic in the west right now, even with the benefit of technology and widely available mass media coverage. It is easy to sit back and think we are much better, somehow morally superior. It’s easy, but it ain’t necessarily true. We got lucky.

On Wednesday we went to visit another orphan care group in our catchment area. This group cares for approximately 180 orphans (children who have lost one or both parents) spread out over a large number of villages. My visits to the field are always heavy with mixed emotions. I love to go out to the villages where life is or at least seems simpler in so many ways. Most people have their own home or homestead in this beautiful land and enjoy a social network that has become a thing of the distant past in our culture. As we ride our bikes further out, we see the women gathered together around cook pots or grouped on straw mats, the men seated on porch steps or the ground in their own separate groups. Children old enough to walk on their own or be cared for by only slightly older siblings play on their own, collect water at the pump, or run about in the fields. At face value, it seems idyllic and would be were it not for the endemic diseases, lack of food security, absence of access to basic services, etc. It is hard to say how much of this will be lost as development encroaches on rural lifestyles, bringing the bitter with the sweet. But these people want development; they want the opportunities to work, to educate their children, to live in a modern world from which they have already reaped the detritus with none of the benefits.

As I sit and look out over some of the orphans the group we are visiting cares for, I am once again confronted with the brutal reality that so many African children have lost a parent, a caretaker, a loved one. Millions of them. The orphan crisis in Africa is mind-reeling. Even if you take HIV out of the equation, the maternal death rate is extremely high and these women often leave behind an average of 3-4 children. When you subsequently add to that death resulting from HIV/AIDS and malaria and you end up with a continent of children essentially raising themselves. Relatives take on the increased burden of these children, but not without great difficulty which, when resources are scarce for their own children, can result in mistreatment and neglect. I look out at huge eyes staring back at me and am drawn in, hypnotized. In Africa, where direct eye contact is culturally considered rude and only recently and uncomfortably practiced in the rural areas as a result of increased exposure to “westerners”, these children are quick to lock eyes with mine and reach down into my all-too-fragile psyche. I want to nurture them all. I look at one boy who appears more gaunt than the rest, some illness lingering in his eyes, and ask if he is sick and who is caring for him. There is some uncertainty about where and with whom he is living but they confirm that he has not been well. I have been here long enough to know that, by singling him out, I will garner him a little much-needed attention and a visit to the clinic.

The group shows us the gardens where they have been growing vegetables and maize for the children and the stove where they cook porridge for these kids. The stoves are a low wood burning innovation developed by an organization called “Total Land Care” that has been doing some amazing work with agricultural and forestry initiatives as well as income generating efforts for the rural poor. The stoves are built with dirt from ant hills and ashes that leave a small opening in which corn cobs and small sticks are sufficient to cook large meals by conserving heat. The women explained that, to cook a big pot of rice, you only needed to boil the rice for 2 minutes, remove it from the fire, and place it in a basket of dried banana leaves for 30 minutes while you went on with whatever other chores you might have. Beans take 15 minutes on the fire and an hour in banana leaves. After TLC introduced this idea, the village has incorporated the use of these stoves in every homestead. In a land where firewood is scarce in many places, this is an important innovation. What makes it especially important is the degree to which it has been embraced by the community. What makes it interesting to me was that the July issue of Newsweek features an article about wood-efficient stoves developed for the Sudan by a Berkeley physicist, funded by USAID. I suspect the funding ran into the tens and maybe even hundreds of thousands of dollars and the stoves will cost $25 each, well beyond the means of many rural poor, so the plan is to rent the stoves to the families for 50 cents a week. I doubt that the stoves are any more fuel efficient than the ones developed by TLC which cost nothing but a little labor and I wonder why we need more models. To underscore the issue, all you have to do is enlist a Google search for “fuel efficient stoves Africa” to learn that a number of people and organizations have likewise developed fuel efficient stoves suitable for use in Africa. I dunno, maybe it is as reasonable to have that many people developing stoves. Maybe after a couple million dollars we will end up with the perfect fuel efficient stove for Africa that is also cost efficient, although it might have been more cost efficient just to send firewood. Maybe we need that much redundancy. Maybe Berkeley physicists make better stoves or warrant better press. Maybe we should invite MIT to design some stoves as well. But maybe, just maybe, the mud stoves that are working now in Malawi, which people can afford and have already embraced, are sufficient. Maybe we could develop alternative fuel sources for a little of that cash…