Wedding Season during the Rainy Season

Rainy season - the quintessential equatorial African experience, with moody skies, billowing thunderheads and sheets of rain that soak you to the bone. Summer is the rainiest time of the year here in Mali. Water can destroy life as easily as foster it. Here in Bamako, a single thunderstorm can flood a whole field of crops as easily as sustain them, and can turn streets into rivers in seconds as the runoff negotiates its way back to the mother Niger River. The humidity is constant - I am trying to get used to the musty odor my clothes are fostering from never being able to fully dry. Yet, when compared to the other nine months of the year when Bamako's air is thick with urban smog and the sand whipped up into the atmosphere from the Sahara desert, one can't help but feel blessed by the rain. If I'm home, I often find myself storm watching from the family's roof. There are fewer more peaceful moments in this chaotic, industrial African capitol.

Summer in Mali, like many other parts of the world, is also wedding season! Weddings are typically Thursdays and Sundays. City traffic, while being absolutely insane anyways, is regularly made impassable by wedding motorcades that honk their way through town. Yet, Malians appear to LOVE wedding season. It is as great an honor to host a wedding as it is to attend one. The host feels particular pride in feeding as many people as possible - sometimes entire neighborhoods in addition to wedding guests - and the guest whether family, friend, or stranger is quick to make many meaningful blessings of prosperity to the wedding party and their family. What results is an impressive communal connection that builds ties and nurtures relationships across ethnic groups and social classes alike. 

In any case, weddings usually have three phases, including a civil, religious, and traditional ceremony. The civil ceremony takes place at the courthouse and concludes with a big party. The religious ceremony is more private and happens at the mosque. And the traditional ceremony happens in the home. The bride and groom usually only see each other during the civil ceremony, as the rest of the time celebrations are segregated between men and women. And, while I can’t speak to the civil or religious aspects of wedding ceremonies here, I was able to attend and participate in traditional ceremonies myself this past weekend as Gie and I celebrated our fifth anniversary with a belated Malian celebration. 

As you can expect, the traditional marriage ceremony is rooted in ritual. From the groomsmen stitching rolls of linen together to form the bedding for wedding night, to the aunties and griots encircling the bride in song and dance as she has her hands and feet washed by her grandmother, these customs have been practiced for generations. 

The night before my traditional ceremony, I was also treated to having henna applied to my hands and feet. The process took several hours, during which a steady stream of neighborhood ladies stopped by to meet me and congratulate my mother-in-law on her good fortune of marrying off her eldest son.  As drums played and many blessings made, Tante Tu delicately taped designs on to my hands and feet, applied the henna, then wrapped my limbs in plastic bags to help the dye “cook” for over two hours. The end result however was well worth the effort. When the plastic bags and tape were finally peeled away, a lovely, rich ochre lattice of flower petals and filigree was revealed. More than anything, Tante Tu’s meticulous care made me feel truly welcomed and accepted within the family. 

The morning of my ceremony was laid back, even while everyone hustled and bustled around me with preparations. Cooking, washing, cleaning… oh my! I did try to help and put myself in close proximity with the women cooking the feast but Mama Coulibaly told me it wasn't good for the bride to be out in the rain. I have a sneaking suspicion though it was to get me out of the way, since I’m guessing I looked clearly lost. In any case, relieved of any duty, I got to sit back and marvel most of the morning. 

By 1pm it was showtime. I hopped in the shower and donned traditional robes – a beautiful indigo blue – laid out for me by Mama Coulibaly.  I was then escorted out to greet the guests and start the feast – red rice with vegetables stewed with mutton and a side of spicy hot pepper sauce. Delicious! 

Griots performers were the entertainment for the afternoon, singing and dancing the history and achievements of the Kone and Coulibaly families respectively. Griots are the artists, musicians, and storytellers of the Malian people. It is socially acceptable for them to joke, jest, and create in ways that is considered too crass, emotional, or inappropriate for other more stoic ethnic castes within Malian society. They thus serve a purpose in not only passing on oral histories for generations of Malian families, but to create a vibrant cultural memory. Every family has a griot that will show up to big family events such as weddings and funerals. And while our particular family griot had a prior engagement on my ceremony day, there are plenty of entrprenurial griots looking for work.  Sometimes you even have multiple griots showing up to a single party, practically leading to a duel for the appreciation and sponsorship of the hosting family by lauding the family’s achievements and magnificence. The three griots that showed up to my traditional ceremony literally brought megaphones to out-laud their competition. And for their obsequiousness, family members usually slip money into the griots’ hands which in turn increases the volume of the flattery. Everyone ends up having a WONDERFUL time – the Griots go home with pockets full of money and the hosting family feels honored, valued, and important. 

With my ears ringing however, I was happy to escape the attention of the griots via requests from many of my new aunties and cousins for a quick photoshoot.  It was only a brief reprieve. 

The next phase of the traditional ceremony was to bathe (again) and don a second outfit of customary robes. The first outfit usually gets donated to a local family in the neighborhood while the second outfit gets bestowed to my mother (hi mom!). After changing outfits, Tanti Fifi checked my appearance and when satisfied draped a black headscarf over my head so that it hung over my eyes and wrapped loosely around my neck and shoulders. I was warned that now that the scarf was on I could not take it off until after sundown. I was then paraded out with song again for the last part of the ceremony – the washing of the hands and feet.

The washing of the bride’s hands and feet symbolizes a connection to the past as well as a fresh beginning. An elder woman from the community guides the bride and has her sit upon a stool with her grandmother or auntie seated besides her.  The elder woman then washes the bride’s grandmother/auntie’s hands and feet before turning focus to the bride. Many blessings are made during this time. As I did not have any of my family members present, Tante Iya requested to be my person. Suddenly however, as Tante Iya was being washed, my sinuses –  which had been stuffed up all day from a headcold – opened and began flowing! Unable to blow my nose and trying to discreetly wipe away the clear snot running down my face, the elder woman sharp as a tack caught me in the act and declared to the audience “Aww, she’s crying!” To which everyone cheered. I of course understood absolutely none of this because the entire ceremony was in Bambara, so I just kept smiling and internally cursing Sudafed for working too well. 

In any case, the ceremony continued onwards. My hands and feet (and face!) washed, my final task was before me - to stand and kick over the stool behind me. I had one chance to get it or risk a lifetime of bad luck, elder woman declared. Still not being able to see anything, I channeled my inner mare and gave it a good hind kick with follow through, like I really meant it. I heard a thud and massive cheers erupted again. To end it all I was escorted back into the house and over the following hour the party slowly began to break up. People came to me with their praises, prayers for many babies, and lengthy goodbyes, with Gie as always kindly translating everything for me.  By the time the last guest left I was absolutely exhausted. Yet Mama Coulibaly was positively beaming, making the many trials worth the craziness. 

Let me tell you, I don’t know how Malians have the energy to go to two of those crazy parties a week for three months a year. It’s a whole new level of commitment. And yet, in a country where there are no guarantees – where surviving the daily grind is an act of rebellion – where even the rain can wash away your livelihood – it’s no wonder that Malians take the time to cherish and solidify their connections to one another. I am thankful that I have been able to honor my new family by observing and respecting their traditions, as well as taking the time to celebrate our (second) wedding.   

Keeping up with Kone-Coulibalys

Our first weekend in Bamako and we are being kept to a busy schedule! From 9am to 7pm Gie and I are on the road, with trusty Abou behind the wheel, visiting the dozens of family members around the city.  Since Gie has been away from Mali for nearly 15 years, it was important for him to pay respects to his elders and also present me for a sort of unofficial evaluation as his wife. 

Upon arriving at a relative's home, Gie leads the way and makes the introductions. We are greeted with hugs and handshakes. We take off our sandals at the door as a sign of respect. Then we take our seats as a younger member of the household, often a young woman, pours water into a communal cup and offers us each a drink. I smile alot following the exchanges as Gie speaks in a combination of Bambara (his local dialect) and French, exchanging some of life's biggest life updates with aunties, uncles, and cousins. We stay maybe 15 to 20 minutes at each home before offering our thanks and moving onto the next. 

These brief encounters offered so many impressions. From the unique blend of Islam and west African culture to the mashup between the rich and poor, Mali challenges all assumptions about what it is or should be. 

But most of all, I am finding Mali's culture to be overwhelmingly heirarchical, balanced by the nurturing of incredibly complex social relationships. By complex social relationships, I mean knowing and understanding everyone's standing within the family from sibling to great aunt and third cousins. Everyone has a role to play, especially in arbitration. While you may never outright question the decision or speak against those older than you, a wise Malién will regularly work the back channels to have their concerns expressed to the person in charge without suffering the consequences of dissent. In other words, if I disagree with a decision of the patriarch, one could talk with the aunties who talk with their husbands who then meet with their brother (a peer) to make those concerns known. 

To an American who was raised on a strong sense of individualism and direct often times blunt communication, this process still amazes me! Americans would likely find this cultural practice maddenly passive - yet I have a feeling the rest of the world would label it artful diplomacy.  And while it's not the first time I've witnessed this sort of cultural phenomenon, it is the first time it's personal. Gie's role as the first born son of the oldest child on his father's side puts him in a leadership position automatically, which vicariously means that as his wife I am also allowed some privileges. But those privileges also come with specific duties and expectations. Essentially, these first few days I am trying to learn all those unspoken rules, perform certain roles, speak a new language and avoid as much embarrassment as possible. 

Least to say I'm exhausted. 

Despite navigating a different social currency however, I must clarify that my various cultural bumbles have been treated kindly and gently corrected when necessary. My husband's family has truly welcomed me with open arms and incredible hospitality. Thanks to them the culture shock is much less than it would be otherwise. I will keep on smiling until I simply can't any longer. 

Bamako, First Impressions

Our first day in Mali, we arrived mid afternoon after 23+ hours of flight time. I felt such relief seeing the red dirt with cinderblock houses and specks of white sheep come into focus as we made our descent through the clouds.

At first glance from the ground, Mali is poorer than Mozambique and absolute chaos. And of course, opportunists look for, well, any opportunity. We got shaken down for bribes pretty much the minute we stepped off the plane even with Gie and Abou, his brother, speaking the local language. Apparently, customs suspected food in our bag and this guy offered to "help", grabbed one of our bags and led us to the customs guys saying "they are with me." Of course it was a setup. Immediately I got suspicious and started waving him away, telling the guy to back off, telling Gie to tell him to back off in Bambara. But he wouldn't leave us alone. He then demanded payment for greasing up the customs agent for us. When we refused to pay, he got irate and followed us all the way to the car berating and cursing us. I let loose some Portuguese/Xitswa reflexively, from another lifetime. Anyways, Abou got us in the car and pulled around to the exit but as we went to finally leave apparently we didn't get the "right ticket" to pay. So poor Abou had to walk back to the airport to get the ticket that allowed him to pay! A perfect TIA (This Is Africa) moment... and one heck of a welcome! 

We took a collective breath and put all that behind us though once we started driving. Gie and Abou were chatting nonstop making up for 15 years of lost time - pointing out things that were the same, things that had changed. I loved this homecoming moment for my husband. And it allowed me to just take everything in. So many things feel familiar - the humidity that leaves your skin constantly dewey, the contrasting red dirt and bright green of rainy season, the trash absolutely everywhere, and all the half-completed abandoned projects strewn across town - skeletal evidence of temporary, fleeting wealth bartered for dreams. As far as driving goes, the four lanes of traffic acted as mere suggestions rather than rules. It was not uncommon for Abou to tap the horn mildly, politely in the face of an oncoming vehicle crossing into our lane, or motor bikes buzzing past us in packs. I tried to imitate Abou's level of chill - if he's not worried, I won't be either. Still there's a reason car accidents remain to be one of the top causes of death. TIA.  

We finally arrived home, and it was the homecoming Gie had been dreaming of for so long! We pulled up to the big iron door gates and with an impatient beep of the horn we are let into the compound and immediately surrounded. Big hugs to brother Zanah, a firm handshake to his father, and a mother grasping her son in happy tears. "You really are a man now" she told him finally stepping back and taking him all in. I also got the universal mama bear hug. "Welcome to your home, daughter" she said and with that we all paraded into the house for a tour. 

The rest of the evening was spent eating supper and lounging in the living room, telling stories. I told them that I felt bad not learning French to communicate and it was waved off by his mother saying, "Don't worry, you need to learn Bambara instead, French is not really our language." Take that colonialism. Bamabara it is.

So here we are! This is bound to be a month of culture shock, integration, and adventure. But I did tell Gie when we married that I wanted anything but a dull life. He's certainly keeping to his end of the bargain. 

Mali: the prologue.

Well, hello again! I'm "dusting off" this blog for another adventure of a lifetime. Next week, Gie and I are headed to Mali, West Africa - a trip many years in the making. 

Life has been a whirlwind since the last time I wrote. I'm happily married. I finished nursing school and am entering my second year as a critical care nurse in a local hospital.  We've survived 2020 and the Covid pandemic (so far). All those big dreams I wrote about and agonized over in that little grass hut in Mozambique have come to pass. And now, I'm gazing toward the horizon of the next adventure - getting to know the life, language, culture, and customs of my husband's country. Most importantly I'll get to finally meet my husband's family in person - a much overdue tradition after Skyping them into our wedding almost five years ago. We'll be gone for around a month - a privilege that working so much overtime during the pandemic has ironically granted me. And I'm excited! But also, a little nervous? Uncertain? I expect many of the sights and smells I have stepping off the plane will feel familiar. After all, I will once again be attempting to integrate into a place in which I am blatantly an outsider. Not that my Malian family will make me feel that way. In fact, I expect quite the opposite.

That's my bread and butter though in so many of my international experiences - "cross cultural integration" AKA how-to-make-friends-and-build-a-life-with-minimal-social-competence-and-the-charity-of-others. Deep down, I believe I will welcome that lost and humble feeling again, even though this time there's more anxiousness attached to it than the care-free fearlessness (i.e. naivety) of my 19-year-old self who jumped on a plane to Zimbabwe so many years ago alone and only minimal planning (I realize now my parents were saints, let's be honest). 

At least this time, I'll have Gie. 

 So, watch this space guys. I will definitely be journaling, and I will try to post a couple times a week depending on the amount of connectivity we have. Would love to hear your questions and feedback. 

No time for grief - Volunteering with the nurses at the Vilanculos hospital

[I originally wrote this post in September 2015 and kept it private. I am posting now for your review].

The first thing you always noticed when walking through the double doors and into the darkened hallway was the smell. The sickeningly sweet wash of formaldehyde, the slight bite of antiseptic, and a weighty, warm, sour aroma I eventually realized was the smell of rotting flesh.  It was a smell that embedded itself into your clothing, into your hair – so pungent and domineering that upon arriving back home after my first shift, I in a frenzy and on the verge of tears, stripped off my clothes and threw myself into the shower. My white lab coat, crumpled dejectedly on the floor, glowered, accusingly in silence as I scrubbed my naked, sunburned, sweaty body and scalp with such ferocity I imagined the molecules of disease, death, and heartbreak washing down the drain with the hot suds. 

I volunteered at the Hospital Rural de Vilanculos for two months in early 2015 and it was during this time that my understanding of the true nature of Mozambique’s poverty deepened tremendously. Because, as one woman told me, “As pessoas chegam aqui para morrer”- people come to the hospital to die. It's safe to say Mozambican's don't expect much from their healthcare system - one of the main reasons cuninderos - witchdoctors - remain so influential.

As I’ve written before in other posts, the problems plaguing the Mozambican health care system are numerous and complex. From the theft and selling of state-sponsored medicines on the black-market, to doctors having to bridge the gap between science and popular beliefs in witch-doctors and magic, to a lack of consistent patient education crucial for patient treatment adherence -  each of these topics could easily boast their own million dollar research grants.  This post is not to dissect those problems. It is instead to document my observations and people I met there there. 

My day would start with a brisk walk to work along the palm-treed sandy roads of the bairos, curling my toes through deep patches trying to keep the sand out of my not-so-white shoes. Dressed in my bata, I would get nods from other commuters, nods sent as expressions of respect to the white coat and all that it symbolized - education, authority, knowledge, power. "Doctora!" they would shout, waving. "Nao sou uma doctora... I'm not a doctor," I would reply abashedly. But they'd already be gone, dodging behind the next corrigated metal loja for a shortcut.

Walking through the gates of the hospital and through the open-aired waiting room, my eyes would be met with the sight of hundreds of people already waiting for  consultations. These consultations are served on a first-come, first-serve basis, so unless you are literally dying, you have to wait your turn like everybody else. But of course, you don't really just "wait your turn." The minute anyone with any sort of VIP status, whether its the friend of the second-cousin twice removed of one of surgeons, or the son of the mayor,  receiving prompt medical care is largely who you know. And if you don't happen to have any connections, then resign yourself to finding a bench or what little standing room is left.

I was able to drift through the hospital unquestioned - my presence tolerated because of my estrangeira privilege, and because frankly the nurses could use as much help as they could get. Even a white girl with a soft heart and soft hands.

And so, I did as I was told - to fetch this and grab that. Traga this, traga that. Consequentially, I was given an unparalleled opportunity to observe and witness the stories of the men, women, and children from across the northern province seeking care.

My mentors were Nera and Hortencio - bright and pragmatic nurses who ran the front-lines on the TB, HIV and infectious diseases ward. I was their shadow - glued to their hip, like a child clinging to a mother's skirt. Sights, sounds, and smells I often found overwhelming and upsetting caused them to hardly bat an eye. I wouldn't say that they suffered from compassion fatigue (but maybe). Rather, there was simply no time to grieve for each new life-changing diagnosis. They delivered HIV diagnoses to patients like one gives their spouse a routine honey-do-list. Mana, you are not pregnant. But, oh by the way, the test indicated that you are positive for HIV. But don't worry, we can treat it. Let's start with this... And you need to stop by the farmacia...

No time for grief. Just triage.

Next person. Next day. Next fight. Next life.

Heal them. Lose them. Either way another bed will become empty and be filled again tomorrow.

What struck me more than anything, was the degree of such meaningless loss. From loss of limb to loss of life. That as amazing and heroic as the hospital staff were, they could never give their patients the best possible care because the system in which they were operating gave them insurmountable odds. I remember how typical it was for the electricity to go out in the middle of someone's surgery. Nera would say a little prayer under her breath when it happened. If you were lucky, the generator would be started up. But that would only happen if someone had filled it up with gas. Gas costs money and the little money the hospital had may or may not have gone toward filling the generator.  I saw a grandmother in her 70s get her leg amputated with only minimal morphine. The doctor didn't want to "waste" any more on her than necessary because she was old, and he'd rather it go to someone young with many more years left to live. Her pain and agony is something I will never forget.

Add to that the death of my dear friend Hermenigilda in childbirth a year into my time in Moz.

And the near death of my friend Joana from sepsis that was poorly diagnosed and treated.

There are too many other stories to count. Loss adds up, especially when it's personal.

It's these encounters with preventable death, preventable loss that make me angry. Angry that this injustice is a reality for so many. Angry because even a few minor changes would have a huge impact in saving lives and improving quality of life.

Living with anger ultimately however makes you humble because you know what it means to feel powerless. Ultimately, it makes you realize that there are only a few things in this crazy world that you have any actual control over. Suddenly those few things give you hope. Hope that if you act to the best of your ability in the things that you have control over, you can stare down these everyday cruelties. Stare them down and fight them back into the abyss.

Hospital rural de Vilanculos taught me all these things, and affirmed my desire to pursue nursing school. One day, I hope I can give back all that it gave me and more.

For clarity, gaze from the hilltop.

Moments of clarity.  It's two girls sprawled over a fluffy green comforter in a sunlit upstairs bedroom, discussing C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, and agonizing over what it means to live a meaningful life. It is the elder who, at the end, looks back and forgives. And it is the addict who wakes up one morning and never takes a puff or drink again. Clarity. It’s the smartest scientist in history who labored over theories of relativity for years but didn’t connect the dots until he got on a bus. The moment the fog clears, the static dissipates, and time is stretched like a slingshot, tight to bursting and released in a roaring trajectory that, upon threading a single poignant realization, begins to stitch together ones heart and soul to reveal greater truths.

Humans strive for clarity because we’ve grown to dread the alternative.  In a world that barrages us with injustice and confusion, clarity, we believe, tries to bring us back to core values and ideas. To what "really" matters. Reality broken down into its simplest juxtapositions for when we feel so overwhelmed with life's complexity we would rather just crawl back to bed or morph into a Kafkian cockroach, than start muddling through all the contradictions. What will we tolerate and not tolerate? What will we fight for and not fight for? And if we stand for one thing, doesn't that obligate us to stand for another? What truths do we want to define us? At the risk of oversimplification, clarity allows a way of stripping away our fear, our doubts, and instead encourages us to act.

I have felt overwhelmed, as I think many Millenials have, at the host of national and world problems we will inherit, let alone the ones we are already dealing with as we come into adulthood. As CollegeHumor's Onion-esque post "Why It's Socially Unacceptable To Do Anything in 2015" suggests, in our age of interconnectedness and globalization, there's nothing we can do, even at our best moments as social-justice-allied-fair-trading-human-rights-advocating-small-carbon-footprint-creating humans that doesn't negatively affect someone else in another corner of the globe, or even our own neighborhood. 

And that is SO DEPRESSING, right?

Massive national debt. A visibly shifting global climate. Unemployment. Rising housing costs. Gentrification. Children bringing guns to shoot their teachers and classmates in school. Abundant racism and structural violence against minorities. An ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. The list goes on.

I graduated university with a Bachelor's in Politics, and so for years I held a deep conviction that the answer to social change lay in policy reform and populist movements. Change the rules the privileged play by using the system, or change the system through grassroots activism (apathy remains greatest pet peeve amongst my peers - How can people just NOT care about the state of the world or their community? I will never understand...). Because I am passionate about cultural exchange, activism, and human rights, I believed studying Politics would lead me one day to a position within a NGO, embassy, or international development organization that would help people help themselves, or at the very least put me in a position to help indirectly redistribute the imbalance of wealth that plagues largely the global south. I knew my journey would begin with Peace Corps, but I didn't know where that journey would lead me.

Until now.

Peace Corps offered me many rich moments of clarity. Moments that shocked me, angered me, turned my conceptions of the world, the pretty theories I'd learned as a scholar at college, and my ideas of what was "right," upside down. I saw corruption first hand, and saw the shakedowns pass from the obesely privileged down to the poorest peasant granny. No one was immune. I saw presidential elections bought with cases of beer and free t-shirts. I struggled to reconcile the fragile morale of my students, who had so little faith in their own intelligence, that even my best and brightest thought they had to cheat or bribe their teachers to pass. And then I had to look my students in the eye everyday, and tell them they must fight for their education knowing full well that it very likely would lead them nowhere. I mourned the death of dear friends who died from completely preventable and horrible diseases. And for the first time in life, I knew what it felt to feel utterly helpless.

And I hated it.

Did I really want to become a development worker (foreign or domestic) who was stuck in some big city somewhere writing briefs and reports about a community I'd never met, making 10-100 times the wages of people I was supposed to be serving?

Or, did I want to have an actual practical skill that could visibly contribute to the betterment of health, wellness and education of a community in need?

When you put it like that, the answer becomes obvious. Clear.


My love of politics and public policy is real, but I know my place is on the ground, working hands on with people who policies fail to reach. As one of my most beloved professors' and life mentor in college reminded me, people have never been a number to me, they've always been personalities, faces, laughs, and feelings. They are characters who's stories have energized me, scolded me, and gentled me. It's the people who I miss most about Mozambique, and it's the people who have taught me that where I belong is where I am needed, nothing more, nothing less.

It was this clarity that solidified my transition into medicine and caused me to restart my career from scratch.

-----

With seemingly impeccable timing, a hometown friend loaned me Tracy Kidder's Mountains Beyond Mountains, a powerful narrative describing the life of Dr. Paul Farmer, a fierce global health advocate and one of the primary founders of the now well-known"Partners in Health" (PIH).
From its initiation in 1987 in response to health projects begun in Haiti, PIH has expanded across the globe, unrelentingly advocating health as a human right for all peoples.

Mozambique ranks #178 out of #187 on the United Nation's Human Development Index primarily due to the lack of access to medical care. So, it's not surprising that Mountains Beyond Mountains also offers one of the most concise analogies of the challenges met by global health workers. As Kidder writes during his visit to Haiti,

"I offered him [Dr. Paul Farmer] a slightly moist candy, a Life Saver from my pocket. He took it... and then went back to gazing. He was staring out at the impounded waters of the Artibonite. From here the amount of land the dam had drowned seemed vast. Still gazing, Farmer said, "To understand Russia, to understand Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Boston, identity politics, Sri Lanka, and Life Savers, you have to be on top of this hill." The list was clearly jocular. But I had the feeling he had said something important. This view of drowned farmland, the result of a dam that had made his patients some of the poorest of the poor, was a lens on the world. His lens. Look through it and you'd begin to see all the world's impoverished in their billions and the many linked causes of their misery. (44)

Oh, messy inteconnectedness! A decision made by a few leading to the destitution of millions.

Yet, despite all this, Dr. Farmer responds by treating one patient at a time.


This time, I believe I've chosen well.

Mozambique's Nirvana - Benguerra Island, and the Bazaruto Archipelago

My fingers carefully ply the leather straps, cinching up the girth inch by inch, making sure the saddle pad stays smooth and flat against my mount’s reddish-brown sides. As I do this, Slash, a beautiful yet mischievous chestnut gelding, turns to eye my handiwork and tosses his head in impatience. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” I laugh as Slash whips his head forward again, ears propped lazily backward to express his perpetual annoyance with the slow, two-legged kind. He takes a big breath and sighs dramatically. I swear, if horses were people…

Finally, with my helmet on I swing up into the saddle. It’s a little black McClellan saddle, incredibly lightweight with high clearance to my horses withers, and named after the American Civil War officer who used its antiquated relative in combat. Wedging my feet into the stirrups, we set off, with Squib, our gentle giant senior, in tow.

We take a right out of the stable “gates,” an aperture hacked from the thick surrounding bush, and head south through the local fishing village. Our easy amble takes us past excited children who herald our arrival with cheers of “Cavaloooo! Mulungo!! Cavalo!!” We pass the quintal or circle of huts of the chief – a well-dressed, older gentleman named Arone – and wave hello to his wives. I yell over the hedge row to one of the wives Adna and ask if I can come buy fish from her later that afternoon. We agree on a general time determined not by hours, but rather by the height of the sun in the sky.

Moving beyond the village now, a new quiet settles in around us. At first, there’s nothing but the sound of Slash and Squib’s hoofbeats muffled in the sand, the creak of warm leather, and the occasional coughs of Manuel, the head groom, from behind.  But after a few moments, my ears adjust and the bush begins to come alive. Song birds conversing across the rolling dunes, scuffling lizards, darting doe-eyed Suni, and the rustle of the salty wind carrying whispers from the mainland. Soon we come across some wild fruit, shaped like small orange plums. I swipe some as we pass and pop the sweet fruit into my mouth, breaking the delicate skin with my tongue and sucking the sweet flesh from the seed.

I marvel.

I marvel, like most nature lovers do, at the incredible bounty of life throughout the Bazaruto Archipelago. Benguerra Island itself, where our horses are located, boasts 11 different ecosystems over 34 squares miles. And that’s not even taking into consideration the life below the ocean’s surface, where coral reefs explode from the sandy bottom to host an abundance of reef fish, giant turtles and Devil rays Moreover, the Dugong, an endangered relative of the American manatee, is now being actively monitored and protected by National Park staff. Thus Benguerra, and her 6 other sister islands, make the Bazaruto Archipelago an absolute nirvana of biodiversity… and a conservationists dream job.

Now rewind. Two weeks ago. I was in Maputo to sign off on all the paperwork that made my Close-of-Service with Peace Corps official. Passing me on the stairs one day, our Country Director Sanjay Mathur, invited me up to his office for a quick chat. “Please,” he said gesturing toward the round table at the base of a giant map of Mozambique – l sat like a child at her mother’s feet. Mocambique, what surprise do you have in store for me today, I wondered. “Karina, I have an incredible opportunity for you. I had lunch with Greg Carr last week and he has a colleague who is in need of a Community Liaison Officer for her brand new conservation project. I don’t know much about it, but that the job will operate between Benguerra and Vilanculos, and I thought since you’re interested in staying on in Mozambique a little longer, this could be a good fit for you. Shall I write you an email of introduction?” I couldn’t believe the words. Sanjay, having lunch with Greg Carr, the millionaire who’s made his life work rehabilitating Gorongosa National Park?? A colleague who wants to hire? This could be the big break I’ve been looking for! An opportunity to launch me into an actual career doing work I care about!  Somehow, I stuttered out a few excited syllables along the lines of “Yes!” “Please!” and “Perfect!” Sanjay leaned back in his chair grinning and said, “Well great then, consider it done!” I practically danced out of his office.

I scheduled an informational interview with this colleague the following day. The woman who answered was friendly and engaging, clearly passionate about her project and interested in getting similar minded people on board. As she described the work of her company (who's name I've omitted for the sake of professionalism) I couldn’t help but start feeling excited too. “We want to develop Benguerra in a way that’s environmentally responsible and also beneficial to needs of the local people,” she explained after I’d summarized my work as a PCV in Mozambique the last 27 months. “While we want to build a lodge, yes, we also want to offer islanders employment and skills training. And ultimately, we are hoping to forge a partnership between our company, the National Park officials, and American universities to develop an exchange program for graduate students to collaborate with Mozambican scientists on environmental and marine research. The Community Liaison Officer would be an educator, community organizer and negotiator between shareholders of the project and the Mozambican community.”  

A job where I can bring groups together for common goals? Where I can use my Portuguese and cultural knowledge? Where I could do environmental community initiatives and coordinate skills training sessions? Where I could be the shepherd of big money backing social justice and progressive development work? Develop better park conservation strategies through promoting scientific research? All while guaranteeing that Mozambicans could participate fully in the process? I knew that as long as my work didn't devolve into a token position as the bringer of bad news and disenfranchisement to a people I just spent the last two years serving, I was hooked.  We've been in employment negotiations ever since.

Now, back on Benguerra for December riding Slash, I see the island a little differently. As the “dona de cavalos,” I am trying to learn all the little caminhos and bairros, and befriend some of the families. Surprisingly I discovered that the islands were uninhabited before the war. Thus, most current local residents are leftover civil war refugees, living on the island for only the past twenty years. In the longitude of Mozambican cultural memory, that’s nothing. But the population on Benguerra is growing, putting stress on the resources of the island. Over-fishing, slash and burn deforestation… It ultimately makes me ask the question, how can we mitigate the effect of humans on nature? Benguerra is still a wild place. And as a National Park we should want to keep it that way. I suppose if I had it my way, we’d leave the island alone completely, provide strong financial compensation to islander families to relocate to the mainland, and rehabilitate the Archipelago as a true, pristine National Park like we have in other parts of southern and eastern Africa. As long as this process was done carefully and in consideration of all human rights (as in people were willing to leave, not being forced), I think it would be a proud moment for conservationists worldwide. Because on the path we’re on, we've got to get smart about development, or we'll start seeing the rapid deterioration of Mozambique’s Nirvana.

So the question is, can we create a system people will adhere to that manages resources effectively enough to keep the quality of human life high, with low environmental impact? It’s a question any company that wants to invest here will have to answer to if they hope to succeed. Yet National Park or not, Benguerra – whether one likes it or not – is going to be developed. That’s just how Mozambican politics work. All it takes is the right "incentive" to the Ministry of Tourism for lands to get set aside for special interest groups. While investors cannot buy land from the government, they can certainly "borrow" it. And so, knowing that this is the game we are forced to play, I personally hope a company focused on equitable development practices has the first say, for everyone's gain. 

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Slash and I are moving faster now, breaking into a light canter up the sandy chute to the lookout point. His ears are pricked forward in equal parts curiosity and vigilance. At the top we come to a halt. The view takes my breath away even now. To the north, Flamingo Bay named for its feathery occupants, and the Great Dune of Bazaruto island, a shimmering sentinel in the afternoon heat. To the south, the wind-swept moonscape of the southern point. To the East, a panorama of the interior lakes and on the horizon, the white foam of lazy ocean rollers smashing into Two Mile reef. To the West, the cerulean blue waters of the mainland channel, swirling sands shifting with the tides. 

This is a place not even words can properly describe, nor camera capture. It is an experience that must be lived, touched, breathed, smelled, seen. This is why we must protect it from the urges of necessity, from spoiling, so that others may too travel to this special world and understand the value of Nature free from the binds of humanity.

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Looking West - Across the Channel to the mainland

Local beach criancas, messiing around :)

The interior lakes and big Dune.

South point! 

And introducing our horsie stars, Slash (above) and Squib (below)