Nothing Special

Sometimes a day just happens. Sometimes nothing about a day seems important. Nothing captures my attention. There are no big moments, big learnings, big metaphors. We are told that we need to live every day as though it’s our last. Inevitably, one day that will be true. But some days really are kinda boring.

Today was one of those days. I got up. I read the NY Times. I started editing copy for the Hospital of Hope website. I had a couple of really excellent and enjoyable Skype conversations and a few funny email exchanges. I practiced my French with Ayam from the toy store. Now, it’s 7:35. The day has come and gone. I have nothing to report.

The night that preceded today, however, was unusual. We had a bad ass thunderstorm, complete with big wind and lots of flashing and cracking. It knocked out power. It blew in around the windows and doors. It flooded partially my bedroom. It soaked the rug in Paul’s music studio. It poured into the solarium that provides circulation and flooded down into the entrance foyer of the house. It was big and it was wild. It was a little like the storms that blow across the prairie. Raw and raging power!!!

Because of the storm, the day has been pleasant. The humidity dropped, the air was fresh and cool. But other than that, it was kinda boring in Dakar.

Raise Your Vision

Each time I have a sense that the hospital project is grinding along, not moving at the pace I would prefer, something happens that gives me hope. This morning, I was working at my computer and noticed that a Skype contact had popped up. This person is from Africa, someone I was introduced to by a mutual friend but know hardly at all. We had a conversation several weeks before I departed New York…we had another very brief exchange as I was checking my luggage at JFK prior to departing for Senegal…and this morning, for no particular reason, I decided to send him a message.

He answered my call immediately, sitting in his Chicago living room…no shirt…dealing with the early summer heat. We had a good laugh about the heat and humidity. Here, even though we benefit from ocean breezes, it is also almost too hot to wear clothes.

Moussa’s curiosity about the adventure here was all encompassing. He wanted to know everything: how we were managing the politics, how we were proceeding with fundraising, who we are meeting and finding helpful, what kind of support he might lend from a distance, who he can introduce us to, etc. His was an endless outpouring of wisdom and advice. He offered stories from his own experience as a trade specialist promoting relationships between American and African cities. He told about ways he had been surprised and dismayed by the African culture. He revealed that nothing ever moves forward in a straight line in Africa. He encouraged me to not take personally any of what is happening.

But the point Moussa stressed that I most desperately needed to hear was this: “Raise your vision. Look at the goal. Remember that this hospital is for the people of Bargny, for the people of Senegal. They need your help. Remember your goal always.”

And then I learned that our conversation was occurring in spite of the fact that Moussa and his family are facing a day of intense challenges: his daughter has sickle cell anemia, and this morning his son would be donating his bone marrow for her bone marrow replacement. It’s the best therapy for fighting the disease with a 90 percent or better chance of success. Inshallah, Moussa, inshallah. I just had an email from him at the hospital. All is well.

Moussa and others like him are my best therapy.

Thinking about Closets

LGBT Pride 2010…in New York, in San Francisco, in Boston, in Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Washington, Philadelphia, Portland, Dallas…all over the US. In Barcelona, Istanbul, Sofia, Lisbon, Mexico City, and Buenos Aires.

But not in Dakar. Or Uganda or Malawi or Nigeria or Kenya or Cote d’Ivoire or Ghana or Morocco or Russia or China or any of other of the 73 countries where it’s just not ok to be gay.

After I arrived here in Senegal, it was fairly easy to disassociate from my sexual orientation. Bigger than my desire to spend time with LGBT people was my desire to communicate, to be known, to begin to speak French well enough that I could converse with others. As the conversations proceeded and we began to be familiar with each other, I expected that my need for connection would be satisfied.

It wasn’t. I was becoming familiar to and with people in the neighborhood, in the shops, in the family, but not known. Not really. Last week at Mami and Papi’s Sunday gathering, there was a fluent English- speaking gentleman who is also Senegalese. He was curious about who I am and what I think. We had a long conversation about issues and ideas: President Obama’s election, immigration reform in the US, the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, etc. Not insignificant issues when everyone is speaking the same language. He was uncowed by the language differences. Throughout, he translated my thoughts to other family members, to whom I have essentially been a mysterious non-French speaking, pleasant-enough, happy-looking American for the past three months. They haven’t had any idea who I am or what I think about anything.

As we talked back and forth as a group, with Dominic translating, I felt the connection begin to glow. Paul’s sister Ida (pronounced EE-da) said through Dominic: “Oh, this is wonderful. I’ve been wondering who Stephanie is and what she thinks.”

“I’ve been wondering who you are.” How many times have LGBT people heard that from someone close to them…after revealing fully their sexual identity?

Now, for the first time in 36 years as an out lesbian, I understand how it feels to be in the closet, to be carefully choosing what I say and to whom I say it. For the first time, it’s not a concept but a lived experience. I understand emotionally, as well as intellectually, that, as my friends from IBM communicate so aptly, there is a “cost of thinking twice.”

In the closet, it’s dark and hot and cramped and lonely. It’s uncomfortable. It makes me long for freedom. Today, for anyone who is in any closet for any reason, where they are hiding, only partially known, feeling unsafe and insecure…for all of us, I wish a crack of freedom that gives us courage to step out into the light and the air.

US Victory

I was the only person in Dakar cheering for the American team. Or at least that’s the way it felt…and sounded.

This afternoon, when I dropped by the little grocery down the road, the owner had a one word greeting for me: “GHANA!” He was smiling but he and the other 10 guys hanging around waiting for the game to start were sincere. They wanted Ghana to win. The US was between them and the win they wanted for Africa.

I watched until mid-way through the overtime. Then I joined Nathalie and Paul for dinner. I didn’t have to sit in front of the TV to know what was happening. The cheers from the restaurant next door told the whole story. When the overtime ended, I knew Ghana had won. And I knew what I had to do. I had to go to the store and congratulate the guys.

They were all on the street. As I passed, each one yelled out “GHANA!” and laughed and waved. And each time, I laughed and responded “Felicitations!” At the store, the owner gave me a big grin and handshake, which is a remarkably friendly gesture for a Muslim male.

This loss actually felt like a victory for me. It's all about perspective. Just like life.

Caring First

Today was my follow-up visit with Dr. Santos. Paul and I raced downtown in the late Friday afternoon traffic, hitting snarls of cars, horse carts and scooters. Are traffic jams universal on Friday afternoon? [ I know where everyone in New York goes on Friday afternoon from early May until late September. But where are they going in Dakar? Are there also traffic jams in Acra and Capetown and Khartoum?]

I arrived at the office, a little breathless, a little late and apologizing in my oh-so-flawed French. When I walked into Dr. Santos’s office, he smiled and quietly asked, “How are you feeling?” What followed was a 20 minute conversation that included 3 minutes of health and 17 minutes of everything else. On the health side, he encouraged me to consider making some dietary changes. On “everything else”, we discussed family…mostly his three boys in university in Paris, Nice and New York starting next fall, being 58 and wondering what happened to the past 35 years, traveling and how intimidating it can be, being happy in what you do. He is a lovely man. We exchanged email addresses so that I can send him information about the hospital. And then we wished each other good health.

The grace note to the experience was that when I checked out, there was no charge for the visit. This really is the health CARE!

Move Me!

Last night, Nathalie and I braved the heat and humidity to attend an outdoor dance event at the French Cultural Institute. I’m glad we did. It was the first culture I’ve experienced since I left New York nearly three months ago. That’s a long stretch to be without.

The dance was an homage to Maurice Bejart by the company Jant-bi de Germaine Acogny. The dance itself was brilliant. Performed at the highest technical expertise by three masterful men, it defied gender definition. It pulled me into the rhythm, demanded my attention, made me forget the day’s frustrations.

It was just downright wonderful being in the audience, sharing the experience of beautiful expression. The mosquitoes had gone to feast on someone else. The humidity evaporated. The air cooled. The house was full. We were sitting under a nearly full moon, which bathed the audience and stage in spectral white when the lights were dark. That would have been enough for me. But the evening concluded with a fantastic presentation to the choreographer, Germaine Acogny, who received the medalle de Commandeur des Arts and des Lettres from the French Ambassador.

It was a perfect evening for her and a perfect evening for me.

Making Friends

June 22, a good day for several reasons. First, the human comfort factor (my own personal response to the National Weather Service’s “heat index”) is way up. The humidity is gone. The temperature has dropped. The wind is blowing, as it should near the sea. Suddenly, the air is refreshing and cool again. I don’t expect it to last as the rainy season is approaching. But if I just focus on this lovely evening, the cool, moving air is enough to call it a good day.

But there’s more. This morning, the intrepid trio—Nathalie, Paul and I--met with USAID Senegal’s health division. There was a moment in the very engaging discussion when I almost laughed out loud. I was flashing back to high school debate competition and my box full of quote cards, many of which came from USAID sources. And here I was 40 years later, sitting in a USAID office in Dakar, discussing the need for, the cost of and the potential financing scenarios for the Hospital of Hope.

We got good information but we didn’t get money, And worse, if there is something worse than that, we got discouraging words about the potential for construction capital from any governmental agency, whether US, EU or anywhere else in the developed world.

As I said, not encouraging. But not all bad either. I can safely say that we won another friend/fan for the project. The USAID officer’s support may lead us to another source. We’ll see.

On days like today, when the news is not all good…and the humidity is terrible…I remind myself that the Hospital of Hope has lots of wonderful friends. They’ve given us all the funding we have so far. They’re also building our website, translating texts, designing collaterals and strategizing about our social media campaign. We just haven’t found all the friends we need. Not yet. But we will, one introduction at a time. And we will build a hospital. Stick with us.

How sticky can it get?

The first day of summer brought first-day-of-summer-type weather to Dakar. Keeping in mind that I’ve never been in Dakar in the summer, I really don’t have a clue what the weather is like here. My internet explorations produced such annual temperature ranges as 68-86. It was a fact reported by a trusted source like Wikipedia, so why should I question it?

Question everything.

The temperature yesterday was 92; today it was 89 with 86% humidity. Maybe Wikipedia got the temperature and the humidity mixed up.

But it definitely beats Switzerland’s first day of summer, where the “real feel” of a west 51 was only a little above 40. On the first day of summer?

Can we blame BP for this? Or is it the druids dancing at Stonehenge who are responsible?

Gotta go turn on the AC and get under the covers.

Living the Reality

Yesterday I had to go to the doctor. For me, the only thing worse than going to a doctor in New York would be going to a doctor in a developing country.

As I have previously blogged, I don’t have health insurance. Knowing that I was leaving the US, I chose to take my chances because: a) I just don’t get sick very often. B) I have an enduringly strong constitution; c) I can rely on the good advice of the M.D. with whom I am living; d) I have health good luck and don’t get the stuff that other people get routinely, the colds, the bronchial infections, the flu.

But there I was in the office of Dr. Pierre Santos, general medicine and gynecology. I was surrounded by families with small children and pregnant women, most of them in traditional Senegalese dress. I was very obvious in my Capri pants and t-shirt, but I was focusing think on pain management and nothing else.

And I was in pain…lots of pain…and discomfort from the recurring gastro-intestinal problem that I afflicted me shortly after arriving in Senegal. My abdominal muscles were contracting repeatedly…pain on and pain off, pain on and pain off…for hours and hours. At times, I thought I would pass out. The experience confirms my choice to never bear a child. I am a chicken. I knew it when I was five and saw the bloody, howling birthing scene in the movie “Alaska.” The next day, I told my mom: "No kids for me!"

Dr. Santos is a compact, no-nonsense guy. He examined, diagnosed and wrote a prescription in about 10 minutes. He asked me to return next week. I was charged $35, and then I went to the pharmacy where five prescriptions cost another $35. I could not distinguish any difference between what I got in Dakar and what I would have gotten in New York. The treatment would have been the same. The only difference would have been the fee, which in NYC would have been five or six times what I paid.

In addition to feeling grateful for being restored to normalcy in a mere 24 hours, I am very aware that my $70 medical experience is out of reach for most Senegalese people. The affordable and accessible, high-quality care that we hope to deliver through the Hospital of Hope is essential. As Nathalie says, the imbalance between the developed and developing worlds can be positively affected by health care. I’m really glad to be a part of the effort to bring that care to Senegal.

Sticky and Contented

The votes are in.

Nathalie: yummmmm.

Paul (three votes): first, after he stole a bite from Nathalie’s bowl (because he couldn’t wrap his head around mango any way except fresh and cold) and licked his lips; second, when he asked for his own bowl; third, when he asked for seconds.

Stephanie –who has been jonesing for pie: yum, yum, yummed my way through a bowl and wished for a second.

Our Mango Crumble has been declared unanimously the best dessert made in this house since Nathalie and Paul moved in!

Clarification: It’s also the ONLY dessert made in this house since they moved in. A tiny detail and really unimportant.

Mango Crumble is on everyone’s lips tonight. We are firm believers that we make our own happiness.

What next?

We were sitting here in the living room, having a meeting about next steps to get the hospital project moving again. It was 4 pm. We were actually more excited that Switzerland had won its first game in the World Cup, defeating favored powerhouse Spain, than we were about talking shop.

Somewhere in the middle of the discussion, we decided we needed to talk to Bargny’s assistant mayor. Paul called and five minutes later, we were on our way to his office. The meeting lasted two hours and included a review of the new drawings, the site plan and a long discussion about the community relationships, construction management, procurement and politics, which seem to be in full force…so much so that Mamadou Gueye said a committee had been formed from within the town and their sole responsibility is to deal with issues arising around the construction.

How did we get from feeling as though nothing was happening and wondering how to get things moving to feeling as though we had lost control and the project was out of our sphere of influence? Either this is a nightmare or remarkable progress. Perhaps more important, the level of information that Mamadou Gueye divulged suggests that we have a partner. He wants the hospital built. He wants to engage the community. He wants it all aspects of the project to be truly humanitarian. He wants us to proceed absolutely according to the procurement standards established by the city. He wants to introduce us to the people he knows at the corporate and community foundations in Senegal. And he wants to claim this as a victory for his party, in opposition to the current president.

Who knew our little hospital project would become so interesting?

Hot, Humid, Heavy

The rainy season is approaching, so says Paul. I have to believe him because I have no reference points of my own. One thing makes me want to believe him, and that is that everything about the weather changed during the two weeks that I was in Amsterdam.

When I lived in LA, the same thing happened: I was gone for two weeks in the middle of winter, which in LA meant that the temperature only went up to 75, not 85, and there were heavy black clouds until 11:30 a.m. Those were the big differences. But there were also barely perceptible changes like the tiny succulents that were blooming down low in the grass. And the small, washed out, easy-to-overlook blossoms in hedges. Easy to see if you didn't expect them to be there. Easy to miss if you were a lifelong Los Angelean.

The Dakar changes are somewhat the same. Perhaps because I don’t know what to expect, I experience the variation more vividly. Although we've been living by the sea, and humidity is normal, now, the humidity is way, way up. And it’s warmed up at least 10 degrees in the past two weeks. As a result, the air has become heavy. Before I left, it was refreshing. Now, it’s just heavy. Very heavy. It would be unbearable, except that the wind has been blowing relentlessly for two days. Outside, it is possible to be comfortable, even in the sun. But inside, with all the windows thrown open as wide as possible, with the wind whipping down from the roof through the central ventilation corridor of the house, there’s not much relief. It’s sticky. It’s tropical.

It’s Africa.

Hot, Humid, Home

I’m back. In Dakar. When I stepped off the plane, the humid air slapped me in the face. What a difference two weeks and a few degrees of latitude make!

Paul was waiting…Mr. Cool and Casual was leaning against a wall at the airport, standing out in his Red Cross t-shirt…a big X on his big chest. I spotted him immediately. Even though our language capabilities are limited, I have no doubt this guy missed me and loves me. We laughed and hugged and laughed and kissed and laughed and laughed…all in our babbling pidgin French/English. Our language skills were as bad as always, but we couldn’t stop trying. We understood enough.

When we pulled into our parking lot, the young man Adama, who sells us our daily baguette, smiled and waved and welcomed me back. Hugs and kisses awaited at the house, as Ieta and Suzette were at the door immediately. More laughing about the official Amsterdam t-shirts that I brought for everybody. Then we sampled peanut butter on baguette…because I see a real market opportunity for buerre de l’arichede. Of course, the key is to develop a palette for peanut butter here in the peanut capital of Africa. Tomorrow we’ll refine the experience by adding jam to the PB. And we’ll start working on the creation of our first mango crumble. I’ll let you know how that goes.

It is good to be back. It’s different. And it’s good.

Present...

...and accounted for. I will be back with regular posts soon. My time in Amsterdam has been focused on talking rather than writing. It' been very good. More later.

Building

The glorious summer days that greeted me on arrival in Amsterdam are gone. We are in the middle of a classic weather pattern…the sky is gray, the temperature is cool, the air is damp and chilling. After three early summer days, completely unexpected and totally blissful, I am not going to complain. But as with my return to New York after living in Los Angeles, my post-Senegal blood is a little thinner and the cool a little less welcome. But so what? The warmth of friendship more than compensates.

Yesterday, David and I hopped on the bikes and went. Our first stop was to have been the new subway station under Centraal Station. Amsterdam has a comprehensive metro-transport system that includes trams, buses, and rapid-transit trains. Since 2002, the city has been building a 20 km north-south subway line. Several of the stations are nearing completion, including the station near Michael and David’s home. The bore is about half-way along the route and is now estimated to be completed in 2013.

The station designs reflect that the Netherlands is home to some of the most innovative designers on the planet. The multi-use spaces include shopping, bike parking, theaters and other sorts of leisure activities. Unfortunately, we had to learn all this from an exhibit rather than a tour of the new station. The newspaper published the wrong open house date, and we missed it. Nonetheless, a project of this scale is exciting simply because of the challenges that are inevitable when boring two massive tunnels through a central city that is a) laced with canals; b) built on reclaimed land; c) has many residential areas that are 300-500 years old.

Engineers and parents…two professions that always amaze me!

Touched down...touched

From Dakar to Brussels and Brussels to Amsterdam, I arrived with all my bags and all my brains. It’s lovely to be under David and Michael’s roof.

This gorgeous day—flawless blue, cloudless, mid-70s--day dawned much earlier than in Senegal. The sky began to get light around 5 and I was ready to get up and have some real coffee. Out around 7 to walk and admire the difference between early spring and late spring in this city of canals. En route to Dakar, the trees were still budding; now, they are deep green and in full leaf. Then, everyone bundled up against the cool temperatures of late winter; now, they are in skirts, short sleeves, sandals and sunscreen.

After four years of multiple visits to Amsterdam, I can feel my way around the city without a map, whether walking or biking. I like having some sense of where I am and where I'm going. And it is a perfect day to be out and about.

Changing Places

My bag is packed. I am so ready to go to Amsterdam. And just to make sure I don’t forget that Dakar is my second home, Ieta and Suzette are sending me off with a jar of the hottest pepper sauce on earth! [See the blog for 5/31.] I am hoping to breathe a little fire into my Dutch friends, who all love Indonesian food and think it’s spicy. Ha!...think again!

Frankly Indonesian, Thai, Korean…none of them can hold a candle or a blowtorch to this sauce. I’ve grown to really enjoy it with traditional Senegalese cooking. Today, perhaps because I’m leaving (and they are so excited to have one less bed/bathrooms to clean), Ieta and Suzette prepared yassa, a Woloff dish…chicken with a wonderful onion, olive sauce that’s flavored with Maggi, which is the brand name of an herb combo like boullion. The pepper sauce does something to the yassa…I can’t explain it…it just does. Yummy!

Odd, as excited as I am to be going, I am also a little hesitant about leaving here to re-enter my own familiar Western culture. I don’t think it’s the culture but the past that has me a little edgy. For two months, I’ve been very free of my past. I’ve been relatively unknown, somewhat mysterious because of the distance created by language…not that there have been all that many direct questions. Twice I’ve been asked if I have children, once if I am married and twice about my work. It’s odd to be so free of questioning, given that “What do you do?” is the driver for most American conversations. Here, nobody asks much of anything. They have allowed me to simply be present…so much so that Paul’s family has decided I am really Senegalese and have said that I never get to leave.

In Amsterdam, I will be attending and speaking at an LGBT diversity conference. I will be leading and participating in discussion about issues that were the focus of my professional and personal life for 20 years, issues that I helped frame. I have been relatively unengaged with these ideas for the past 2 months. The few times I have uttered the words gay or lesbian have been in conversation with Nathalie or on a Skype call with a friend from the US or Europe. As I left LGBT behind to come to Senegal, now I am leaving the Hospital of Hope behind in Senegal.

My once integrated life is feeling just a bit scattered. I am wondering if I really have figured out what I want to do with my life. Glad to have an opportunity to think about it.