It’s hard to believe it’s been 39 days living in my tent on the roof.

Yesterday in an interview, King5 TV’s morning anchor Carolyn Douglas asked, “What’s the toughest part about living up here?” My response, “the wind.”

The last three days I have cursed the wind. I have been buffeted by rain driven into every cranny by what seems like the angry hands of Zeus hurling insults. The 50 ft tarp covering my tent flew off during the storm. Rain soaked everywhere before I finally captured a corner to secure the tarp.

So this is what the labor in Labor Day means.

By then it was 3:00am Monday with no full night’s sleep in sight for the third day in a row. The last straw came when I made a mad dash to the porta potty only to find my bathroom structure had collapsed with the flimsy “roof” barely attached. With what little dignity remained I sat in the rain thankful at least that it was too dark to be seen. At that moment the roof decided to collapse on my head.

I finally gave in. I took off my shoes, my wool socks and my knit hat. At 3:00 a.m. I danced around the rooftop in the rain. Go ahead and laugh. I did. Deep, breath-gasping, belly laughs. And it felt terrific. And I felt exhilarated.

I celebrated our capacity to handle whatever comes our way. And the choices we make to get through whatever happens with humour.

Sometimes you just have to accept what is.  Like things one cannot control in other cultures.

I remember my naiveté, trying to tell my African colleagues in Mali, how the practice of paying bribes to police can only be stopped if one quits paying bribes.  Silly me.

We were driving home from a field visit to the branch office of PIYELI savings and credit institution for which Kaaba is CEO. The light was just beginning to fade as we reached the capital city, Bamako. Of course my white face could still be seen in the car. As frequently happens, we were stopped by the police. The look on the officer’s face could only mean, “hand over money and no one will be delayed”.

Zachary and Kaaba exit the car, driving papers in hand. Lots of gesturing and shaking of heads. The bribe dance has begun. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Suddenly Kaaba and Zachary are moving quickly to the car, “Allons-y, Allons-y” and we’re driving off quickly.

“What happened? What happened?” I ask, my heart pounding with indignation.

“We paid him off and he let us go. Because it’s dark, we slipped him a 1,000 cfa note instead of 10,000 cfa and he doesn’t know it yet. We’re getting as far away as we can before he discovers it.”

At this point with my clearly superior, great white Western logic, I express that perhaps the practice of bribes would end if people would stop paying them. Kaaba and Zachary exchange patient looks and Kaaba says, “You explain it to her, Zachary.”

“If we don’t pay, he takes my papers. To to get them back, I must take a day off of work for which I am not paid, to go to court.  I wait the whole day for my case to be brought before the judge. If I want it to be heard that day, I pay off the clerk. Then I pay off the police officer.  Then I pay off the judge who then gives me back my papers. So what would you have me do?  Follow your logic or mine?”

As we pulled into the office the rain began to fall in torrents.  I took off my shoes and danced in the rain.

Kaaba Soumaré is my courageous African sister. Kaaba is the reason the school we formed in Bamako, Mali, is successful.  She works full-time as the CEO of PIYELI, a microfinance institition as well as volunteer Director of the school in Bamako. Without Kaaba, the school would not exist.

In this week’s update from Mali, Kaaba wrote:

“Les nouvelles de Hèrè qui ne sont pas très bonnes.
Fatoumata Sangaré et Mamou Diarra sont enceintes, donc elles ont été renvoyées.
Astan Traoré est décédée suite à une maladie.”

Translation:

“The news from Hèrè jè (the training center) is not very good. Fatoumata Sangaré and Mamou Diarra are pregnant and thus expelled from the center.  Astan Traoré died after an illness (malaria)“

I am heart sick.  Every part of my being is ANGRY.  If I scream loudly enough will the world hear? If I jump off this roof will our collective will work harder to eradicate poverty?

A child who lost her parents at 2 and hungers for love at 15, thinks the young man paying attention will fill the emptiness in her soul. Rape is part of daily life. For the uneducated, birth control causes  sterilization so the elders tell young women not to accept it. There is no clean water, so the young woman washes in still standing pools surrounded by mosquitos. And she dies.

I am thinking of staying on this roof forever.

Can you see my fist in the air?!

I thought meals up on the roof would be about the food. Silly me. Meals are a means for conversation. Dialogue about what’s ON the table, WHO prepared the meal and who’s AT the table.

Meals have become, slow-down-sit-down-notice-the-food-and-sometimes-even-share-it-with-the-person-who-prepared-it-and-has-a-story-to-tell kind of eating.

I totally confess. I’ve convinced myself I’m so busy that dinner consists of opening the freezer, un-thawing store-bought pizza, standing over the sink eating with my hands to minimize the washing of plates. Napkin? Unnecessary. Crumbs fall directly into the sink. In all fairness, I’m communing with nature while I eat ~ I can see the birds outside my kitchen window.

So meals are a whole new experience up here on the roof.

Meals Day ONE

Sue Sorensen (aka Sue Soaring Sun) lives in Edmonds and has an amazing garden. I ate her garden for lunch; well not exactly the whole thing:  fresh cucumbers, broccoli and peas straight from the pods. Add a touch of natural yogurt with dill ~ voila ~ can you hear me feeling self-rightously full of healthy food! Mom, are you reading this?! Yes, I ate a whole meal of fresh vegetables. (And yes, sometimes I make up words.)

Sue is an artist. Don’t imagine the word “artist” as one-dimensional. As a lawyer Sue uses her art of research to help others know the law. As a garden artist she tills the soil by hand to feed her family with healthy foods. As a mother Sue guides her daughter with the art of love. Add power seller on the internet artist and activist artist helping save the Historic Rose House in Edmonds and you get the picture. A full artistic life.

So I was grateful when she gifted her time to prepare a meal for me. Sue commented, “Like many busy women sometimes you just ‘forage’ to put something together. I happen to be able to forage in my garden.” Lucky me she forages.

Have a look at what people spend on food for a week in different parts of the world.
http://www.everybodygoto.com/2007/10/12/what-people-eat-around-the-world/

What do you notice? How might you think about food differently?

Food As Survival

At the Bamako based Hereje Training Center in Mali,West Africa, previously begging street children eat breakfast and lunch every day at the center. Learning to eat nutritiously is as much a part of the curriculum as health, AIDs prevention, literacy and social skills. While begging on the streets the girls were lucky to eat something every two days.

I noticed the first few weeks at Hereje Center, new students will spend all their money on food.  Students receive a stipend while they learn to prevent them from having to beg during the 18 month training.  The $20 stipend covers transport, their food, food for any family they may have, water plus a portion to a savings account in a local microfinance institution.

I remember asking Sanaba, 15, when she first came to the center, “What is your dream?” Her response, “To eat until I am full.” In the beginning, some students would wake at 4:00 am in the morning to walk to Hereje Center instead of spend money on bus fare.

And what do they do with the extra money you ask? When I asked Assa, 14, she reached into her pocket; with a big grin, she offered me a piece of candy.