Fiction or Non-Fiction

Even though it’s day four of the second semester, Abel, a form one student, just showed up today for the first time since vacation ended. Over the break, he accidentally stabbed his foot with a panga, or a very large knife, so was unable to walk well enough to attend school. I first laid eyes on him this morning in town, recognizing him to be an Orkeeswa student because of his uniform but knowing I had never seen him before. In just one day, Abel’s made quite the impression on me.

After school today I sat with Abel and another form one boy, Oshumu, while I waited for the school Land Rover’s ‘second shift.’ Whenever I’m sitting with Orkeeswa students for a decent amount of time, I never know where the conversation will go. Sometimes I find myself deep in engrossing talks; other times I’m hard-pressed to find any topic that will grab their attention. With Oshumu and Abel, the conversation carried itself; I had almost nothing to do with it.

Oshumu: Can you sleep when you’re in a plane?

Me: Yes, I can sleep.

Oshumu: But then, if the plane goes down, you’ll miss it.

Me: No, I wouldn’t miss it. There would be too many people screaming. It would be really loud and I would wake up,

Abel: If the plane goes down, won’t Superman save it?

(Unlike the majority of our students, Abel somehow knows pop culture references.)

Me: What do you think?

Abel: Yes, I think he would.

Me: (Looking first at Abel, then Oshumo, who doesn’t know who Superman is) Is Superman fiction or non-fiction?

Abel: Non-fiction.

Oshumu: (Looking like I’ve asked him the easiest question in the world) Fiction.

Me: (Looking at Abel) Superman is fiction. He’s not real.

Abel: How about Spiderman?

Me: (To Oshumu) Is Spiderman fiction or non-fiction?

Oshumu: Who?

Me: Spiderman.

Oshumu: (Again, without having any prior knowledge of who Spiderman is) Fiction.

Abel: So many are not real?

It felt like telling a small child that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

A half hour later.

Abel: When you fly in a plane, do you reach the stars?

I love questions like this. A question like this reminds you of all the innocence in the world. It reminds you of how much knowledge you take for granted. What was funny is that, while I know you can’t reach the stars in a plane, I didn’t know how to explain why not. In situations like this, I tend to pass the question to Scott.

Mama Scott



Seuri proudly introduces his sponsor, Mama Scott, to his classmates at school.

In Tanzania, a woman essentially gives up her name when she becomes a mother. Instead she takes on the title of 'Mama,' followed by the name of her firstborn child. So when Pat Forbes, Scott's mother, came to visit us in Tanzania, she stopped being Pat and became Mama Scott. For our friends and students, it instantly made her identifiable and special. Since they all love Scott, they instantly loved her.

Mama Scott's journey from Wyoming to the Kilimanjaro Airport in Tanzania was filled with many firsts - first time traveling alone to an international destination, first time traveling to a developing country, and the first time traveling to Africa. But Scott and I hope all the transfers she had to catch, all the paperwork she had to fill out, all the malaria pills she had to swallow were worth it, because the impact she made on this end was immeasurable.

Since December of 2010, Pat and her sister, Carol, have been the sponsors of one of our favorite Orkeeswa students, Seuri Denis. Like so many of our students, Seuri is bright, motivated, and a hard worker. What Seuri possesses that not all of our students do is a deep-rooted kindness and gentleness that is shown when you interact with him. Now, another trait that Seuri has acquired is a strong sense of pride because he knows he has two amazing American women looking out for him and supporting him and sending him amazing packages filled with books, clothes, and school supplies. Not to mention the plethora of postcards and letters he's also received.

The whole time that Pat was in Tanzania, Seuri was beaming. It's a special event to have a sponsor visit the school and the village. But Pat went above and beyond. She arrived late at night to a foreign country and time zone, and woke early the next morning to attend the village's Catholic church with Seuri. Attending church every Sunday is something both Pat and Seuri have in common.
Then Seuri upped the ante a little more. He invited Pat, Scott, and I to spend the night in his Maasai boma, a small compound of structures made from sticks, cow dung and mud, with a roof made of dried grass. With no hesitation, Pat was up for the adventure. She was thrust into a completely different world of sleeping on the ground, eating Tanzanian food, drinking cup after cup of tea, socializing with his friends and family, and just generally fitting in when everything around her was shockingly brand new.

The rest of her week was filled with visits to the school and nearby attractions, a day safari in Tarangire National Park, hanging out with Scott and I, and spending more time with Seuri. Even though she was only here for one week, Pat definitely left her mark in Tanzania, with the school, with us, and, most importantly, with Seuri. We only hope Tanzania and the experience she had here lives in her the same way.

Mama Scott's visit coincided with our return to Monduli and Orkeeswa. After showing Mama Scott the Sunday market, Scott and I ran into our former student Gidion.

Mama Scott got to see our Maasai warrior students perform a ritual at the school.

On the day that Mama Scott visited the school, a wall of the kitchen was getting handprinted. Mama Scott got her hand painted and left a physical mark of her visit. Above, Scott's painting Flora's hand.

Mama Scott's farewell meal with Mbayana (in the red shirt) and Seuri (in a new yellow Wyoming Cowboys shirt).

Back to Africa

The Monduli Mountains

As the Arusha-bound shuttle bus pulled away from the Nairobi Airport, the first thing we saw was a superb starling perched on top of a post. Then we saw the acacia trees, and the nests of weaver birds decorated on branches, and Maasai boys herding sheep, and women carrying buckets of water on top of their heads, and we knew we had made it. Back to Africa.

By the time we were done with the immigration process at the Nmanga border out of Kenya and into Tanzania, the sun was setting. It was another sign of Africa. We had left behind the endless summer sunlight of Moscow and had returned to the equatorial sun, when it starts to set around 6 pm and will, reassuringly, rise again around 6 am – a year-round constant. Ahead of us loomed Mount Meru.

For most of the ride, Scott and I reminisced about our past time in Tanzania, recalling names of students and their defining traits, fun trips, times with friends, old routines. We were mentally transitioning ourselves back into that mode of life, slowly letting go of traveling.

Once we reached Arusha, everything that followed was a series of reunions and returning, with some new elements mixed in. The shuttle dropped us off in the same parking lot that we left from one and a half years ago. Peter picked us up, not in the school’s Land Rover Defender that we associate with African NGOs, but a new-ish Hilux, a vehicle the school was in the process of acquiring when we left. He brought us familiar Indian take-out and filled our ears with stories that attempted to erase the gaps of our lost time. We drove past familiar landmarks and finally to Monduli, our final destination. We pulled into town and even though it’s been one and a half years since Scott and I left, it felt like no time had passed. We pulled into Mzee Mbazi’s driveway and the night guards were sitting at the table. Samson, who used to guard the house when we were there, stood up and embraced us happily in the dark. He remembered us. Quinn, our old roommate, who now works in the Boston office and is visiting the school for a two-week stint, came out to welcome us. The house had some new (‘new’ being a relative term) photos on the wall, a couple new pieces of furniture, and different people inhabiting it. But it was the same nonetheless. Scott and I are in a different bedroom now with a different mosquito net. And we fell asleep that first night to the same barking dogs hoping we were where we were meant to be.

That lingering question, a fragment of doubt, was washed away as soon as we saw the first students at the school – Sang’orie, Lota, and Edu. One by one, in pairs, running up to us, or shyly looking our way, the students welcomed us. At the sight of some of them, tears came to my eyes and I wiped them away immediately not wanting to worry the students. When the Groton bus pulled up the driveway carrying the Groton students and a few Orkeeswa students, the door opened and Obedi was the first to emerge. He stood for a moment looking at Scott and I, said in a loud whisper, “wow,” and came running to us. Gestures and mannerisms of the students that I had forgotten were instantly shown – the Maasai handshake, the double hug, the incessant “You’re welcome.” After seeing the students, only then did being back make sense.

The Day

The day our prolonged period of traveling ends. We’ll go back to living somewhere. It’s still abroad, but it’s living instead of traveling. It’s putting down our backpacks, actually unpacking, and putting the bags away. It’s being still. It’s working hard at something (besides perpetually moving). It’s back to cooking. It’s back to routine (as much as teaching at Orkeeswa can be a routine; there’s an endless amount of surprises and spontaneity).

We have a few hours until we have to jump on the subway to Paveletsky train station where we’ll catch the Aeroexpress train to Domodedovo International Airport. At the moment I’m sitting in a small park near the apartment we stayed at for four days. A statue of a Russian poet looks over me. Scott’s gone to the money exchange to get the last bit of roubles we’ll need to exit Russia.

Moscow

We just received an email from Peter. He’s going to pick us up on Thursday night. It’s unbelievable to think that we’ll be back in Tanzania in a matter of days, when it always seemed like months and months away. Seven months of traveling is coming to a quick end.

Scott and I didn’t have many expectations for Moscow, other than that it would be expensive, which it is compared to our previous destinations this year. But there are a couple things of note regarding the expense. One – our accommodation is free. We’re couchsurfing, for the first time, with an extremely generous and warm couple, Oscar and Olya. They’ve opened their (centrally located) apartment to us (free use of their washer and dryer!), took us touring around the city in their car on our first day, offered us dumplings to eat for dinner, are letting us stay for four nights even though our original couch request was for only two, and are just generally considerate and kind. Before ever signing up for couchsurfing, I’ve had this notion that it is making the world a friendlier place. But I’ve realized that it’s not so much making the world anything; couchsurfing is merely the enabler, a vehicle through which people can exhibit the better side of human nature. People, for no apparent selfish reason at all, are inviting strangers into their home and going out of their way to be good hosts. It’s a beautiful thing.

The other thing about the city being expensive – it’s worth it. Moscow has shown itself to be a vibrant, opulent, amazing city. So spending US$2 for a small ice cream cone is fine because it means getting to have a sweet, cool treat while walking around a city you want to be in. Paying US$12 for a ticket to attend the Nikulan Circus is totally worth it because it means 2 ½ hours of pure mind-boggling, hilarious, spectacular entertainment. And dolling out US$6 for a ticket to the Museum of 20^th Century American and European art is not a big deal at all because laying eyes on Monet, Magritte, Degas, Van Gogh, Picasso, Pollack, and Rodin (just to name a few) is like drinking water after days of walking through a desert.

Plus, there are plenty of things for free, like visiting the Church of Christ the Savior. Or walking around Gorkhi Park. Scott and I were thinking that walking through the park would offer us a nice respite from the bustle of the city. We were dead wrong because today, a gorgeous Sunday, Gorkhi Park was teeming with action and people. It almost felt like all of Moscow was there doing one of a thousand activities offered at the park – playing beach volleyball or baci ball or table tennis, paddle boating, sunbathing on a hammock or a big pillow or a blanker, watching a dance off or a skateboarding competition or a Jeep demonstration, picnicking with friends and family, bicycling, shopping at an outdoor market, eating any number of food items offered at the park snack stands or the restaurants or cafes, attending the Moscow Flower Show, playing in a fountain, buying a balloon, sucking on a promotional Chupa-Chup lollipop, watching the snowy white swans, posing for a professional photo, drinking beer, people watching. It seemed like we could turn a corner in the park and there was something brand new to do or observe. Having to endure such harsh winters means that when the sun is out, Russians take advantage of each and every sunray, especially on a Sunday.

All in all, Scott and I have had a great first two days in Moscow. Now we do have expectations, but I don’t think day three or four will disappoint. Tomorrow we’ll tour the Kremlin.

Russian Potatoes

The vendors on this morning’s platform stop were in full force. They were peddling all sorts of goods – framed images of Russian orthodox idols, knit shawls, carnival-sized stuffed animals, Russian trinkets, and a whole array of food, like pre-cooked chicken or fish or sausage set among potatoes all wrapped in cellophane, big chunks of pickled cucumbers in plastic bags, an assortment of Russian pastries, peanuts, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, tomatoes, lettuce, sliced bread, small containers of pickled fish or salad, milk, among other items. After eating bread with cheese and salami and ramen for the last several meals, we jumped at the chance for something different. We purchased a piece of chicken with potatoes, a bag of pickles, one Russian pastry, and we stocked up on bottled water. The chicken was good, the pickles superb, but I think those potatoes were the best potatoes I’ve ever eaten.

Halfway There

It’s been hazy outside for a while now; not quite a full day, but nearly. For some ungodly reason, the windows around our area have been shut and the only way to open them would require waking those sleeping bodies whose heads lay centimeters from access to air. For another ungodly reason, no one else seems to care they are sitting in stale humid air. When someone walks past me to the bathroom or garbage area, it provides a welcome breeze; that’s how hot it is. Even though my body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, I drink warmish green tea in a feeble attempt to feel awake and normal, although there’s nothing normal about spending three and a half days on a train. We are more than halfway through our 86-hour journey.

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There’s a brand new crop of people in our compartments. They are unfriendly to us, their English-speaking train neighbors, but they are unfriendly to one another as well. They sleep, arms strewn over their faces and bodies, they read, do puzzles in the paper, play with their phones, stare into the small surrounding space or out the windows. The young man sitting across from me who replaced Helena is listening to a small digital music device after finishing up a Russian-ized Men’s Health magazine.

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Russians eat tomatoes like apples.

Train Life

People bring all sorts of items on the train to make their ride more comfortable. My bed partner has brought a six-inch stand-up mirror to help her put on contacts; I just sleep with mine in. The family across from me has brought a porcelain teapot for their morning hot beverage; I just have a small stainless steel mug. Others take out clear bottles of face cleaner, hold a cotton pad to the top of it, and wipe their faces before applying a new layer of foundation and other beautifying products; I never wear makeup.

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About 25 hours after leaving Irkutsk, the heat had really settled into the plaskart class car and it was thick and sticky and suffocating. There was no way to escape it. The open window tops running down one side of the car didn’t do much to circulate the air. People started fanning themselves with train-issued wash cloths, pieces of newspaper, a puzzle book. I could feel a single sweat drop trickle down the middle of my chest. To think we still had 60 hours left on this train.

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After spending over 24 hours on the train, getting off can be a process. This process often starts about one hour before your destination when the providnitsa reminds you that your stop is coming up. There’s the stripping of the mattress, collecting all the train-issued linens, balling it up and giving the pile to the providnitsa. When that’s done, you roll up your mattress with the pillow inside, fold up the blanket, and make it all tidy for the next passenger. You may have to change out of your comfortable “train wear” and back into a pair of jeans or a dress or a nice shirt – the general making yourself look presentable to the outside train world. There’s collecting all your bags and luggage, repacking toiletries and other loose items you needed during the journey. You pack all the food items back up and throw away the garbage and wipe the table clean. You may want to use the bathroom one last time. There’s the rechecking your area and lifting the seats up to look for anything that may have been forgotten (especially since the man who got off the train 12 hours ago forgot to grab his laptop). And when all that’s done, you wait anxiously, all ready and organized, for your stop.

Exhale

Around 3:20 pm today, we made to Bolshoe Goulostnoe – our goal, our destination. Without knowing the distance or the right trails to take – only knowing we had to get back to Irkutsk for our July 3  train  – we made it. From Lisvyanka where we started the Great Baikal Trail, past Bolshoi  Koty and another unnamed town (at least on the map it’s unnamed) to Goulostnoe. And we probably had the best weather – sunshine, blue skies, and an ever-filling moon. The lake has been crystal clear. From the trail, a great vantage point as it was always above the lake, we could see the sunlight shimmering on the surface and the blueness of the water change from light to dark to darkest. We spotted seals on both days of the hike. And always, we were surrounded by wildflowers. Scott said it was like being in a bouquet.

There were some tricky parts but most of today’s eight-hour hike was gradual and easy. As we approached Goulostnoe, we started to see tent after tent. Hundreds of people were taking advantage of the sunny weather by car camping. Most of the set-ups were elaborate with a walk-in tent, outdoor chairs, a grill or a fire going, and the smells of great food wafting through. On our jaunt around Baikal, from our tour of Olkhon Island to this hike, we’ve noticed that Russians like to get their tan on. They like walking around in skimpy outfits and exposing their skin to sun – a natural desire when it’s so sunny and you’re near a large body of water and you’ve recently survived another Russian winter.

When we finally reached Goulostnoe town proper, we found a shop. Other folks were there as well stocking up on beer and food and  then, undoubtedly, driving back just out of town where all the sunning was taking place. Scott and I had similar goals. We got a liter-and-a-half of cold beer, a smoked omul fish, a carton of juice, some snacks, and hightailed it to the sun. Only we stayed in town. We joined a few others in sitting by the lakeside. We put our heavy bags down, plopped down on the grass, took our shoes off, and exhaled. The only thing left to do was drink beer, snack on fish, and soak in the sun (or cover one’s self from the sun as Scott did).

Now we’re above the town, high on a hill, spending a final night in a tent. Our plan is to wake up early and catch a bus to Irkutsk.