This beast of a lion calmly sauntered past our Toyota Land Cruiser, the kind you see on National Geographic out fitted for safari. He did so with a poise and grace befitting his pride, and without so much as a glance at any of the eight of us humans who were frozen in fascination. We peered through the roof of the vehicle, staring in absolute and total admiration. In the strangest of ways, he seemed unperturbed rather than oblivious. I think he knew very well that we could easily have been a free and tasty international buffet-style lunch. If I had extended (note my deliberate choice to not to use the word “stretched”) my arm, his mane would have been at hand. Of course, I would certainly not have had the hand to show for my stupidity. But suffice it to say that this lion, for so many reasons, in this particular moment, gave me great pause.

We were on safari in the awe-inspiring Ngorongoro Crater, a nature reserve which approximates the equally magnificent Serengeti National Park. Ngorongoro, the world’s largest inactive, unfilled volcanic crater, serves as a spectacular amphitheater to view nature at her finest. Surrounded by thousands of animals and birds, large and small, for as far as the finest binoculars could see, our jaws could not remain closed. Spotting The Big Five was on everyone’s bucket list.

Water buffalo, warthogs (Pumba), elephants, secretary birds, zebras, wildebeests, and the gorgeous grey crowned crane (Uganda’s national bird), to name just a few, were all in attendance. Giraffes and impalas were notably absent. We were told of their difficulty negotiating the steep walls that surrounded the crater. Besides which, the crater was noticeably devoid of trees, so there would be little for giraffes to eat. Nevertheless, nature was showing off in her full and majestic glory.

Our experienced and remarkably astute guide foretold the presence of the as yet elusive lion. Once he brought to our attention the behavior of every other animal in proximity, it became abundantly clear that danger was afoot. Why did we not see the obvious before it was told to us? Every single creature that was initially grazing effortlessly carefree, had come to some sort of attention, a distinct unease. Even the ones a great distance away, showed signs of grave concern. Ears were erect, eyes were fixed, and all without exception, focused in one direction. Young-uns stopped their bantering, and millions of legs of varying lengths and dimensions were at the ready to bolt away. It was as though some exotic animal e-mail, some AI, (in this case, Animal Intelligence) had gone viral. All this in our very midst, and we, the “intelligent humans”, were clueless.

Mother zebras drew close to their calves. The gorgeous, unusually pink flamingos took to flight. Incidentally, their pink color, we were told, was the result of their rather unique diet; blue-green algae packed with carotenoids. This particular alga is only found in the highly alkaline soda body of water called Lake Magadi; the magnificent volcanic crater lake in this marvel of nature we call Ngorongoro. Springbok sprung all in the same direction, as if their tails were on fire. The preserve was on red alert, and the other six safari novices, like me were the only living creatures who were none the wiser… before it was made so obvious to us.

You see, the lioness we had spotted a few minutes before was now basking lazily in the midday African sun under a nearby tree. Earlier, she and her cubs had devoured a baby wildebeest in front of our eyes. We had watched in sheer amazement, as she moved at lightning speed, turning 90 degrees on a dime, to leap into the air and snatch this baby away from its parents. The parents, having no choice, moaned loudly in grief, looked on hopelessly for barely a minute, then scampered away leaving their young calf firmly in the jaws of the lioness. Nature teaches us when to throw in the towel.

Mrs. Lioness shook the calf with her fangs for as long as she needed to, until there was no life left in the struggling little creature. She then majestically and ever so calmly strolled over to her baby cubs to present them with lunch. The true queen of the jungle.

Mr. Lion had been quite a ways off in the distance, but now he was focused on one thing, and one thing alone....his mistress. The rest of the world be damned. He was on his way to lie next to her. He did not avert his gaze. If I were stupid enough to try to touch him, I would have distracted him for a few seconds and paid a very dear price. But his mission was crystal clear. He was unstoppable.

Since that most memorable “encounter “, I have come away with so many valuable lessons on life. Lessons taught to me by the so-called “king of the jungle”. Unfortunately, they are lessons that I am yet to master. I learned the vital importance of walking confidently through this life and doing so, always with a definitive and meaningful purpose. The Family Lion demonstrated the need to remain constantly aware of your surroundings, to know when to lash out and when to reserve your precious energy. But the most important lesson I learned, was that of staying focused; keeping your eye on the prize, avoiding distractions at all costs. This is of utmost importance when that prize is your loved ones. The lion became king for a reason. He doesn’t lose focus of what is important.

It’s hard to walk confidently when our purpose is poorly defined, or worse yet, when it does not even exist. We find ourselves shifting with the winds, wafting into oblivion, unaccomplished and discontented with life. My lion did not suffer distraction lightly. He had a goal and he was not to be swayed. The other animals were all busy being afraid and understandably cautious but, they were irrelevant…. without even knowing it. My lion looked straight ahead. But rest assured, he was fully aware of everything in his surroundings. His paw was on the pulse of his territory. Sadly, so many of us go through life staring straight ahead, with tunnel vision if you will. But we fail miserably, because we lack focus on the things that should truly be of importance in life.

I learned a totally different lesson from a playful teenage elephant. It never fails to fascinate me how nature wants and tries so desperately to show us her true nature. But we are often too stubborn, too busy, and naturally therefore, we are slow to learn. Nature constantly reminds us that SHE is the ultimate teacher, the supreme caretaker, the keeper of wisdom. We would do well to pay attention. How different our world would be if we were to even temporarily turn off those silly smart electronic devices and sit in silence with nature? How much would we learn from her boundless fount of information?

We give our impressionable children, even those in strollers, these tools of distraction hoping to make their, and by extension, our lives easier. How silly can we be!! We are training our future, just as we have sadly taught ourselves, to inadvertently, not be observant of what is truly important in their lives. The Native Alaskan and other Indigenous American peoples made me to understand that even the tiniest bird has a story to tell, if only we would listen. Spend time with nature to learn wisdom, they stressed. Sadly, we are so slow to learn, and the television, the computer, celebrities, the wealthy, and the Musks of the world become more interesting. To our detriment.

That darling of an elephant stood out from the dozens of others grazing near our Land Cruiser. We all saw him in the distance, slowly and methodically approaching our vehicle. He too, was on a mission. Not ominously, just curiously, almost playfully. He stood, staring straight at us for a bit, before continuing his approach.

The teeny bopper taught me the importance of carefully surveying your surroundings to determine how and when to leave the most profound impact. All sixteen eyes were on him as he came closer, with a deliberate approach to the left front passenger side of our 4X4. My seat!!! Why me?

He stared mischievously at me, delayed for a few, playing with the sand at his feet. We held our collective breath in anticipation. A Swedish guy at the back for some reason said, “He’s going to throw that sand”. Then like the true comedian he was, my elephant flung some sand in my direction and scuttled off obviously laughing. He glanced back as if to say, I sure showed you, didn’t I?

My elephant taught me the importance of standing back for a moment to survey the scene; all the wonder around you. A little elephant (the term is used symbolically here, since he was almost as big as our jeep), revealed that humor could be found in almost everything, even in an elephant, if we only just took a moment to look. Who knew that elephants had this remarkable sense? But most importantly he showed me that life is so much more entertaining when you find enjoyment and you share it with as many people as you can.

Let’s go out and do just that.

The bamboo stalk-shaped Taipei 101

To be honest, Taiwan was a huge disappointment. Maybe our expectations were just unreasonably too high, but even for those who lacked any expectation, I think the same conclusion would be drawn. Yes indeed, it was safe, efficient, with the latest technology, more than its fair share of electric vehicles, and without a doubt, it was clean. But the buildings were dated, unattractive, and most were industrial in appearance. They were aesthetically…. lacking.

Like the rest of the country, the subway system was spotless, immaculately so. Robotic sweepers earned every penny of their paychecks roaming meticulously through each station. They would apologize if they came too close to you and quickly “stepped” aside, dutifully continuing their assignments. We stood accused and deserved to be reprimanded by a station security guard, for daring to drink a bottle of water while in transit.

But the train rides were otherwise of little interest. Nothing seemed to be photograph worthy. We zoomed past miles and miles of mega industrial complex warehouses and football-field sized rectangular factories. There were few, if any, single-family houses, and most of the skyscrapers that served as accommodation for the twenty-three million Taiwanese were densely clustered, unpainted, bereft of balconies or other any architectural features to offer even a hint of charm. The buildings appeared to have come straight out of Gotham City. The sky being a dull, polluted shade of whitish gray with thick smog, only made things worse. The island of Taiwan was to put it mildly, a bore.

Having heard so much about it and read so many “Made in Taiwan” signs, we had prefabricated visions of a beautiful, modern city. The visit to Taiwan proved to be just the opposite. It was instead, somewhat reminiscent of seeing Buckingham Palace for the first time. A massive unpainted structure with two soldiers standing outside. It just didn’t cut the mustard. We remained puzzled as to what China felt worthy of fighting for to keep Taiwan under its control.

As we usually do in major cities that offer a Hop-On Hop-Off tour, we excitedly bought tickets on our first day in Taipei. To our chagrin, we found it, one of the few cities to be knocked off our bucket list, where there was little reason to even get off the bus. The narrated circuit offering stops at various locations, was tediously monotonous. Taipei was as far away from the word “photogenic” as a city could be. After five hours, we finally alighted at the only stop worth visiting; that of the world-renowned Taipei 101.

The interior of the magnificent Taipei 101
Standing at 508 meters tall, Taipei 101 once had the distinction from 2004 to 2009, of being the world’s tallest building at 508 meters tall. It was truly impressive, and its immediate surroundings epitomized the luxury, elegance and entertainment seen in movies like “Crazy Rich Asians” or in South Korea’s “Gangnam Style” videos. We had our choice of Michelin-Star restaurants and were pleased with our selection of Saffron 46, which offered not only stunning views of Taipei 101’s magnificent tower, but an exotic, exquisitely presented selection of East Indian cuisine. The tower, illuminated at dusk, added that extra touch of spice. But there’s only so much time (and money) one could spend in a top-class restaurant, before starting to look like you are homeless. So sadly, we had to leave.

We meandered for a few hours in the vicinity of the towers. A bustling hub of modernity, with hundreds of young, obviously well-to-do Taiwanese. The earlier extensive bus tour of the city had presented no other places that remotely piqued our interest. I don’t think I could have imagined a city with so few points of attraction. Even our cameras fell asleep from boredom. We zoomed past the industrial complexes back to our hotel as we pondered, what do we do for three more days in Taiwan?

Our poorly air-conditioned, supposedly Four-Star hotel room did not bode well for the rest of stay. But it was to be home, so we decided to make the best of it. After a night of little sleep, and a complaint to Frankie, the front desk manager, a mechanic was dispatched promptly to our room. Two minutes of fiddling with the control, was sufficient for the young dark-skinned (and this is of significance, to be shared in another story) Asian man to consent to bring us a pan. He left the room in haste. We wondered aloud, what could a pan do to improve the air quality of a 25°C room, and both concluded that this was probably not the first complaint the hotel had received about this problem.

The handsome, polite young man returned with a standing fan, which prompted the question, where was he from. “Indonesia ma’am”. We took the liberty of engaging him in an eye-opening conversation. We learned that the Taiwanese do not belittle themselves to produce “Made in Taiwan” products but instead utilize the services of immigrant Southeast Asian workers. These workers were also employed to do menial and manual tasks not befitting of the average Taiwanese citizen.

The fan did not suffice, but the roach that crawled from behind the television was enough complaint for Frankie to upgrade us to the hotel’s Executive Suite on the top floor. In the elevator up to the 30th floor, we were accompanied by an exhausted, frustrated. barefoot airline pilot dragging his suitcase with his 3-striped jacket and uniform draped over his shoulder. Misery indeed loves company. Commiserating, we learned of similar dissatisfaction with his assigned accommodation and his need for restful sleep since he had to report to work very soon. He hurried off to bed in the room next door.

We, walked into luxury. A one-bedroom suite, replete with a bottle of wine, savory snacks, a glass-covered cheesecake and a to-die-for view of Taipei 101. And the icing on the cake, (not literally…. you silly person) was the smart Toto Toilet in the bathroom.

Toilets in Asia and Africa are a discussion onto themselves. I was slow in learning the significance of the signage depicting stalls offering a mere hole in the floor, and those that actually have toilets with seats. A Muslim woman in Dar Es Salaam had brought the matter to my attention a year ago. To my surprise, she was waiting in a long line for the option of the toilet which was a hole in the floor. She appeared somewhat disgusted that women, especially us westerners, would sit on a seat to urinate. I slapped my eyebrows back into place, assumed the dreaded yoga chair pose, and showed her that I too, was woman enough.

To its credit, and a testament to the country’s superbly advanced technology, Taiwan’s more modern buildings all sported electronic Toto Toilets. I learned quickly however to avoid doing the necessary in any of its older buildings. But I did make a promise to myself that I would keep practicing until I could sit comfortably in the squatting position like almost every Asian person could. More about this later - keep reading over the next few weeks.

But our newly acquired Executive Suite had a smart Toto Toilet. For the unfamiliar among us, these toilets come with a variety of features, including but not limited to, warm temperature-regulated water sprays for both the back and the front (some imagination is warranted here), and a gentle blast of warm air to dry everything off. This particular Toto Toilet came with adjustable pressurization for both the front and back water and for the subsequent warm air. The automated motion-activated lid initially provoked quite a scare on entry to the bathroom, but we relished the toilet seat that was so toasty warm. I mean, really toasty and warm. So, with not much else on our agenda, we took turns fighting for use over this toilet, individually adjusting the pressure and temperature levels, enjoying the warmth and just savoring the good life.

Later that evening I began feeling unwell. Very unwell. Chills, a slight fever and severe dysuria; a fancy way of saying, it hurt like hell whenever I peed. I was so sick, that the correlation was not immediately evident. Like many a building in Taiwan, this hotel was an older one, and this, on closer inspection in hindsight, was one of the older models of Toto Toilets.

I had been experimenting with Toto Toilets, and their iconic, electronic Washlet bidet seat, since they became a craze about twenty years ago. It was my dream to have one installed at home. But the problem was, the toilet requires an electrical outlet in close proximity in order to function. Very few existing bathrooms have electrical outlets next to the toilet. Stands to reason…. nobody plugs in a lamp, hair dryer or razor right next to a toilet bowl. So, I gave up hope. Walls would need to be broken and retiled for me to have my dream toilet. It just wasn’t worth the effort, and dare I say the cost, because these toilets also come with a hefty price tag.

Never once did I consider other important requirements of these marvels of technology. I gave no thought to the many facets of the plumbing involved. What measures need to be taken to ensure microbes did not build up in the plumbing, especially in hotel rooms that may not frequently be in commission? This toilet had one wand that moved horizontally depending on the feature that was selected (imagination essential here). If the wand was not correctly positioned, or if the pressure was too high, “stuff” could be directed into the wrong places. Was someone assigned to make sure the wand was hygienic and safe for use especially between clients, and especially in a hotel that offered roaches and humid rooms to unsuspecting clients? Hence, my predicament of a raging Urinary Tract Infection (UTI).

Thank God for a husband who dutifully rushed down to the nearby pharmacy. I gave him a list of options for antibiotics normally used to treat UTIs. I also begged him, since I was almost sure that antibiotics could and would not be dispensed over the counter (they are not in the United States and many other countries), to at least get me some AZO (Phenazopyridine hydrochloride), the gold-standard over the counter analgesic that numbs the lining of the urinary tract, eliminating the excruciating pain of a UTI.

I writhed in discomfort under two blankets while he was gone but was relieved and shocked at his prompt return just twenty minutes later. He did this with not only the AZO, BUT with a five-day course of Ciprofloxacin, AND a course of probiotics, smartly recommended by pharmacist to counter the probable adverse effects of the very strong Cipro. All this for $60US, and all within the space of twenty minutes. No waiting to get a doctor’s appointment, no co-pay, no insurance, no hours spent exposing oneself to further infections in an emergency room, no middleman. Just prompt, efficient, get to the root of the problem, medicine. Like it should and would be if people who had no business inserting themselves into the medical profession, simply stepped out of the way. A lesson to be learned from Taiwan.

There is so much more to tell about the repercussions of this UTI. So much to share about our subsequent exposure to health care in Asia, about the darker-skinned Asians we met in Taiwan, so much fodder for reflection. But I will spare you the drama for now…. until another week. Suffice it to say, I became an expert in all things “toiletries”, all because of a Toto Toilet in Taiwan.

Border crossings can reveal so much about the country into which you are about to enter, even if you don’t quite understand all the information being thrown at you at that very moment. Soak it in anyway. Pay close attention. There are valuable lessons to be learned.

To the weariest of travelers, a simple 10-minute and yes, even a 3-hour long sojourn at a border invariably offers poignant glimpses into the culture, the people, their level of education, enthusiasm, and training for their jobs. Borders speak volumes about the government of a country, corruption or lack thereof, sanitation (especially the toilets), standard of living, and the country’s priorities; to name just a few.

Sometimes the experience can be exhausting, stressful, and just down-right harrowing. Rarely is it ever fun or uneventful, but without a doubt, there are lessons to be learned, if one is so inclined. And if you are astute, even before you enter the country, you would virtually have given yourself a free tour.

Our arrival into Beijing offered one such experience. So, fraught with information about every single one of those topics, we were left mesmerized. China truly fascinates on so many levels. Incidentally, China is the reason why I was not able to post this story last weekend, much to my dismay. Its government makes it a point to dissuade users from sharing their thoughts, their expressions, their desires in any form, especially on the internet. Accessing Substack was NOT an option. But we must leave that thought-proving discussion for another time.

Beijing’s airport was massive, efficient, spotlessly clean, and equipped with the most advanced technology we have ever come across. Like the rest of Beijing, and indeed China, it accommodated an unusually large throng of people with an ease that was nothing short of admirable. We marveled at China’s ingeniously designed overhead crosswalks, its bullet trains, its beautifully tree-lined bike and pedestrian paths on every street, among many other jaw-dropping innovations. Everything (save for the internet, by decree), just oozed efficiency.

But at the immigration counter, the entry into the country, we came upon a stumbling block. A 20-something year old immigration officer refused, and I do mean….refused, us admission. He could not imagine that I had made all the travel arrangements myself. All the hotel bookings, a cruise, and onward flights....myself......on-line, without the help of a travel agent. “How could you do all of this yourself? Why didn’t you take a tour like everybody else?”, he asked, truly bewildered. We were bewildered at his bewilderment.

He called one supervisor, and then another, a person who was obviously in much higher authority. And together they all stared at both the back and front of all of our documents in utter disbelief. They checked the cruise ship to see if it existed, and they checked its schedule, more than once. One hour later, when they couldn’t find anything to keep us out, we were finally allowed entry into “The Sleeping Tiger”.

The Infamous Tiananmen Square, China’s Iconic Symbol of Public Suppression

It was only after we were in China for a few days, could we begin to understand their predicament. In fact, it became crystal clear. China’s internet usage is SEVERELY restricted. That, and their government’s indoctrination of every one of its people from a tender age, their lifestyle, and the rigid surveillance placed on the average Chinese citizen by the powers that be, make for an overly enthusiastic and diligent workforce. But, it set such a low ceiling on any kind of imagination for travel outside of China, for anything outside of the wheelhouse of their training, that it was impossible for them to understand. “ Why would you want to go on a ship? Do you know how to swim? You sure you want to leave China?”

Cameras, cameras and more cameras.. giving a sense of security.. at a price

China has got to be among the safest countries in the world. Even though the Chinese glance over each shoulder twice when they say anything about their government, if there is one thing that is an obvious given, the country is a very safe one. Cameras were everywhere. At least six to eight facing in all directions at every traffic light. This is not an exaggeration. And in hindsight, while it was not the focus of our attention, at the time, there was definitely at least one aimed directly at this young immigration officer. To an astute traveler, a border opens a window to a country’s outlook on so many things; tourism, trade, but most importantly that window shines light on its average citizens. Our eyes were opened wide in China.

Our suitcases were patiently swirling around the otherwise empty carousel after our hour-long ordeal. So much to discuss about China, but today, let’s talk about another eye-opening series of events at another border. The one known as Namanga. Come with us as we journey through it by bus from Kenya into Tanzania.

We left Nairobi on a chilly morning bundled up with jackets and scarves. Yes that was one of Africa’s surprises. It can be brutally frigid especially to the ill prepared. Who knew!!! The 3-hour journey on surprisingly excellent roads took us through a little of the city’s traffic and then, just like that we were on our way to the border.

Namanga was a modestly unattractive, barely functional excuse for a government building. The day had warmed up significantly to a temperature that one would usually associate with the word, Africa. Dozens of non-uniformed individuals appeared to be anticipating our arrival. Some had been basking in the sun, casually strewn on the broken sidewalks. Most were lunching, or sitting chatting outside the building. They all came to attention once the bus pulled up to the border post, and stumbled over each other to off-load. Amidst the confusion, we surmised they were there to take every item of luggage on board to the customs area.

The sidewalk employees hurriedly scuttled off with the suitcases and boxes available to them at the back of the bus. It became blatantly clear that this was their means of earning an income. We watched nervously as our purchases were taken out of our control and to an undisclosed area on the other side of the building. Thankfully our bus driver had graciously endeavored (after a loaded casual handshake) to hide some of his passengers’ most valuable purchases in an effort to avoid heavy custom duty. He had come highly recommended by trusted friends, but we still said a few Hail Mary’s as he assured us that everything would be in order when we recollected them.

Signage was lacking and what little there was, was written in Swahili. Note to self, we should have mastered that language before trying to make a go at this. We joined the first and might I say, only, line we saw with twenty or so odd (pun intended) individuals in waiting. The lady with the chickens was particularly impressive trying to keep them under control while she struggled to get her documents in order. It was comforting to see that the elderly, pregnant woman and families armed with tiny babes were attended to forthwith. They were subsequently escorted by non-uniformed persons and were back on the bus in short order.

We started chatting in line with some of the folks who were as fortunate as we were to be enjoying this incredible journey. A young 20-something year old single Caucasian school teacher from California left quite the impression. She had just chucked her job to venture off to the unknowns of Africa.... alone. She had never traveled outside of California before. A recent breakup with her boyfriend had spurned this urge for adventure and self-discovery.

She was heading to the base of Mount Kilimanjaro to meet 10 other climbers, none of whom she knew. They planned to embark on a 7-day round-trip climb up the world’s tallest free-standing mountain. We talked at length of her six-month strenuous program in preparation to accomplish this feat. She carried with her in a heavy backpack, winter gear, crampons, layers of clothes, a huge flashlight, a tent, hand and toe warmers and everything she could think of to prepare for and brave the sub-zero temperatures at the top of this monstrosity of a mountain.

She appeared not the least bit concerned about any possibility of danger. Instead she was looking forward to the two days she was going to volunteer at an orphanage housing 300 children in Arusha, Tanzania. This she excitedly shared was also part of the package of self-discovery she had signed up for.

Twenty minutes later we arrived at the front of the line only to find out from a rather nonchalant immigration officer that its translation in Swahili meant “Persons Entering Kenya”. Unfortunately we were heading in the other direction. Our bus driver sensing our predicament directed us to the Tanzanian immigration area.

There was no line to be had and so we were able to walk straight up to an officer who was not to be interrupted from scrolling through his phone. After sometime, we managed to capture his attention. Our presence did not dissuade him from continuing to chow down on his afternoon snack even while his hands, ungloved processed our papers. The treat he was delighting in, was reminiscent of a cross between unpeeled shrimp and some strangely exotic large, yellow insect. I couldn’t help myself but ask the obvious. This sweet, kind man was ever so generous as to offer us some of his Nsenene. He graciously and nimbly picked a few up and passed them to us through the little hole in his window

Further questioning revealed that the lifeless worm-like delicacy was in reality freshly fried bush crickets. Maybe if it weren’t a Thursday afternoon, I would have been brave enough to take him up on this once in a lifetime offer. It’s something I shall forever regret.

After this somewhat uneventful interaction we proceeded to customs, desperate to find our possessions. We had no idea what to expect with regards to duty on our newly acquired African treasures. We knew we were about to pay the price for having been resoundingly overwhelmed by the ingenious craftsmanship and talent we had the privilege of seeing in Nairobi.

A 10-kg imposing elephant, meticulously carved out of black shiny, ebony wood was only one our prized possessions. We had met his maker, a young, handsome, obviously well-educated Kenyan man who had learned the tricks of his trade from his father who sat nearby. The family business displayed hundreds of mind-blowingly beautiful wooden carvings.

We would cherish this elephant for as long as we could. We had him carefully wrapped in yards and yards of bubble wrap and tape at the Two Rivers Hotel in Nairobi where we had spent the previous five days. Allow me to veer a little off topic, but I would be remiss if I did not recommend this hotel to anyone considering passing quality time in Nairobi. It is located just on the outskirts of one of East Africa’s largest malls.....the architectural open- air masterpiece known as the Two Rivers Mall.

At Two Rivers, we were treated to exquisite dining at restaurants offering tasty, local African cuisine. We marveled at the many services, like hour-long yoga classes with highly trained instructors, for the price of a mere US dollar. There were free ping pong lessons from world-class Kenyan athletes, and countless one-of a-kind stores exposing the many rich cultures of that vast and fascinating country.

While engaging in afternoon games of ping pong, we learned from several high school Kenyan teachers and student athletes of the extremely high standards of education in the country. They boasted that it was one of the best in all of Africa. And this fact was not latent. The many Kenyans with whom we interacted were polished and impressively well-informed, demonstrating an admirable ability to speak intellectually on almost any topic. And they could do so with ease, in several different languages. Casual glances at newspaper stands, billboard ads and the wide variety of services whether they be medical, business or financial around Nairobi were constant reiterations of how much emphasis Kenya placed on a sound and well-rounded education system.

Another gem, was the Village Market just a half-an-hour walk from the hotel along beautifully tree-lined boulevards. The Maasai Market there was phenomenal. Nestled in the hills of Nairobi, this unique, outdoor shopping location offered unusual restaurants, one of a kind boutique shops and lots of family entertainment, all set in an outdoor paradise of verdant greenery. What an unexpected treat Nairobi was to experience.

Forgive me. I keep straying off topic.

Our beautiful elephant lacked tusks. For some odd reason, they kept falling out. It remained a mystery to us that its young sculptor, who revealed his incredible talent producing this amazing example of art, could find it so difficult to get something as simple as wooden tusks to fit into place. They kept falling out. Our elephant looked pitiful without them and not wanting to have them misplaced, we wrapped the not-so-elegantly carved tusks, separately and securely for safe-keeping.

A delicate springbok was also hand-carved out of ebony. He slept adjacent to our $9 meter-high, wooden, intricately hand-painted gorgeous specimen of a giraffe. Someday I will overcome my shame surrounding its purchase. Having gotten so used to bargaining with vendors in Africa, I did not look carefully at the gentleman who had brought this wonderful creature to life, sacrificing several hours of his very skilled craftsmanship. I was pleased with myself, to have rattled him down from his asking price of $6 to my purchase price of $4. When he hoisted himself up to finally close the deal, to my horror, I saw that he had no legs. Just two little stumps that held him tight onto his makeshift wheelchair.

Unfortunately I only had $9 in my wallet, and so that was all I could offer him. The smile on his face will never be erased from my memory. It was, sadly for him, the equivalent of a day’s wage. I remember this unsung artist every time I look at our beautiful giraffe.

An oversized oil-painting, depicting the magnificence of a family of elephants in the foreground of the snowcapped awe-inspiring Mount Kilimanjaro lined the top of the boxes we packed, together with several gorgeous pieces of batik and exquisite acrylic and oil paintings. Oh Africa!!! The wonders you have to behold. Why has the world painted you in such an undeserving and unbecoming light?

It was assumed my husband had lost all of his sanity when he came struggling back to the hotel room accompanied by husband and wife metal sculptures each measuring about 2 m tall. Unimaginably impressive, the pair was statuesque, elegant and each, perfectly captured the mysticism of East Africa’s Maasai. They sported meticulously beaded jewelry woven into their tunics and their necklaces. The shorter female held a large black, white and gold elaborately painted, hand- carved urn. Her partner ensured her protection with an imposing one-meter long, oval-shaped silver, gold and white shield. The couple each balanced an 8-inch sized candle holder above their heads and the other arm was gracefully held akimbo. Their long skinny wire legs completed them. They were nothing short of magnificent.

A gentle reminder that we lived halfway across the world and had no way to transport these 20 kg new family members home, fell on deaf ears. Mr. and Mrs. Masai found temporary housing in bundles and bundles of paper and bubble wrap, which made them even less easy to be absconded. We had full expectations of paying dearly for them, and all our other purchases at the border.

This particular customs officer was status post lunch and appeared not to be in the best of spirits. He made no bones about showing his disgust at having to be so rudely disturbed by.... his job. As discussed with the bus driver our Maasai family was safely hidden under a tire at the back of the bus. But not seeing our huge elephant, we said a soft prayer that the sidewalk stragglers had found it far too heavy to be bothered with.

The rest of our African treasures laid bare on the counter awaiting inspection.....everything tightly wrapped and secured in almost their own weight of bubble. Our customs officer was not inclined to trouble himself having to open any of it. We glanced around the barren office. A desk with shoulder-high stacks of dingy, yellowing notebooks and paper, hid in the corner of the room. It appeared to be trying not to be seen with the scrappy remnants of his lunch.

There was not a pair of scissors, a knife or any type of object remotely capable of cutting open packaging in sight. Our “cheerful” customs officer began to mumble.

“You will have to pay high for these”.

No surprise there. We replied humbly,

“Yes sir. Of course. How much is it?”

After careful consideration, but still without any further physical inspection to determine even an approximation of the value of our purchases, he consented to an sum of $70US. Out of thin air. Trying not to appear at all relieved, we hesitatingly responded

“Yes sir. Do you take credit cards?”

“No. I am sorry. We only accept cash.”

Oh dear. Well we only have $8 in cash. Is there an ATM machine or a bank close by?

Modest, unattractive, barely functional excuses for government buildings, rarely have either of these. We were well aware of this fact. So not surprisingly, his answer was a resounding,

“No”.

We were so delighted with his prompt retort however.

“Ok. Give me the $8. You are free to go”.

A handful of the sidewalk-dwelling employees were a welcomed sight to hurriedly take our bounty back to the bus. We sped off thankfully before the customs officer could change his mind.

On to the next adventure.

Several weeks ago, I asked a childhood acquaintance for a small favor. Nothing financial, not demanding much time, just a small favor. The response surprised me…. “What’s in it for me?” A bit taken-aback, I answered without really considering the implication of the question, “Friendship?”. The pregnant pause was answer enough.

I had been asked this exact same question about 13 years ago. At that time, my reaction was so very different; a combination of disgust and anger. It’s amazing how time changes one’s perception of the same reality. For some reason unknown to me, neither of these sentiments were part of my psyche on this most recent occasion. Instead, I felt a sense of profound sympathy, almost bordering on grief. My thoughts revolved around the tragedy of someone approaching the seventh decade of life, without having grasped the essence of it all; what truly makes a life worth living. It puzzled me that a person could have existed for so many years without understanding that one of our main purposes on this earth, is to willingly give of what we have received? The secret, I have found, indeed the only path I know, to true happiness.

I harkened back to the one other time in my life when I had been jolted by these 5 simple words. Context is of extreme importance, so I must give some. Bear with me.

On January 12th 2010, the capital of Haiti, Port au Prince was completely devastated by an earthquake measuring 7.3 on the Richter scale. Because of pre-existing vulnerabilities, the quake which lasted a mere 40 seconds, proved far more devastating than Japan’s 9.0 magnitude event on March 11, 2011. The latter tremor, lasted six minutes, moved Japan’s mainland several feet, and resulted in over 18,000 deaths and casualties. Haiti’s death toll stood at over 300,000 with more than one million rendered homeless. Thousands suffered life-threatening injuries. Building codes aside, Port au Prince stood very little chance, of coming through unscathed. The tremor rocked it to its very core.

I decided to be a part of a medical mission that left for the disaster zone one week after. Commercial flights were all canceled and only emergency air transport and medical ships were being allowed to enter the city. Our group of 34 was fortunate enough to be offered, at no cost, a private jet owned by an American football player, who I presumed, was of Haitian descent. Truth be told, the plane was only licensed to carry 32 passengers, but in a crisis, the cargo-hold, became first class seating for two extra, with all the leg room one could ask for.

We landed at the city’s international airport and were met by a scabies-ridden mutt. There was no one in attendance at immigration or customs. The huge airport itself was deserted, giving an eerie premonition of what lay ahead. The dog asked nothing of us and so we hurried along quickly to Port au Prince. There was no place to work safely among the rubble that was now the city. The Red Cross, Medecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors without Borders), The US Navy Ship Comfort, and other international disaster relief teams, had already set up football-field sized tents and facilities in the safest parts, areas that were determined to have the most need. We were late to the party.

So we were packed into several minivans to drive to Saint Marc, a major port city, which under normal conditions would have been about two hours outside of the capital. But these were far from normal conditions. We managed to do it in four, stopping along the way at makeshift “gas-stations” which essentially comprised a person running out of a house with a red gas container to fill us up. The ladies took every opportunity to use an enclosed restroom, in spite of them all lacking any basic amenities, including, soap, paper and water.

We passed the port of Port au Prince with several large floating hospitals that had arrived within days of the catastrophe. They came from around the globe. One could not help but notice the hundreds of collapsed buildings, many still with rotting bodies inside. Rigor mortis had set in and limbs no longer dangled out of the buildings. We saw at least one skull that was in an advanced state of decomposition. The city smelled of death; an understatement if there ever was one.

I remember passing a cemetery and mumbling to my colleagues on the bus, “Those were the lucky ones”. Several in our group thought it an odd, and dare I say, insensitive comment to make. But interestingly, as the week progressed, many came to ask me, “How did you know?” Indeed, the deceased were spared the unimaginable horror of this apocalypse.

In Saint Marc, we were welcomed by a family with a home which was deemed structurally safe and large enough to house all of us together, six to a room, with some sleeping on the floor of the living room. Logistically, and for safety reasons, it made sense for us to all be together in one location. We were a diverse group. Pauline, the organizer of the trip was from that area and knew the lay of the land. She and a few other administrators worked tirelessly before and during the mission, to ensure that we had adequate safe drinking water and three healthy meals each day. They managed the medical team which included four desperately-needed orthopedic surgeons, a pharmacist (a story to tell on its own), several registered nurses, a respiratory therapist, an obstetrician, three general practitioners and me, the only pediatrician.

There was no air-conditioning. In fact, there was no electricity. I thought I was overly prepared with my three mini portable fans and a Ziplock bag full of Duracell batteries, but after running 24 hours a day for four days, they too, succumbed to a natural death. The generators that had been brought with us on the plane, were to provide energy and air-conditioning for the make-shift surgical suite and the pharmacy to keep the medications at a safe temperature. The fuel required for them to function was limited, We needed to keep a supply of clean and distilled water, both essential to perform surgeries safely. As a result, there was little left to allow for anything in the way of luxury. We were each given two Dixie cups of water to wash up at night. But, I digress.

The team set up shop in an abandoned clinic which was about one hour outside of Saint Marc. Every morning we readied ourselves by 7 am to drive the dusty, pot-holed roads. And every morning, at 8 a.m. we were invariably greeted by long lines of people, all waiting patiently and gratefully. The more critical patients were transported from Port au Prince by buses and many just found their own way to us. It’s amazing how word spreads, even without access to cellphones. We saw hundreds of desperate people every day. Working until 7 p.m. for eight days in total, still wasn’t enough to fill the need. A mere drop in the proverbial bucket; in this case…ocean. I sat in Saint Marc’s church that Sunday, our only day off, and cried and cried until I had no more tears.

Alfonsina Storni, the famous Argentinian poet who wrote “Voy A Dormir” (I’m Going to Sleep”, just before committing suicide, was far braver than I was. I tried one night to “go to sleep”; by walking into the filthy ocean that surrounded Saint Marc. I think it might have been the day my battery-operated fans breathed their last. I walked and walked as far as I could, up to my shoulders, my only thought being that anything would have been better than returning to the living hell that was behind me. But I just could not do it. I turned back, to face the music of the rest of the mission. I am still unsure if I made the decision, or if it was made for me.

I can’t say I recall the day I met Jernielo. Strange, that someone could end up becoming a part of the fabric of your being, but yet you can’t even remember the first day the two of you met. All I know, is that one forgotten day, he and I began working ever so closely together. My first recollection of him, was his amusement and fascination with my portable fans. He chuckled as he taught me the phrase “bouffees de chaleur”. Hot flashes were the bane of my life at that time with menopause at its peak. I did not venture far from my trusty fans that blew hot, dusty air my way, when those awful feelings of suffocation and despair inconveniently decided to show up.

He was assigned to be my translator by …. God-knows-who. As we shuffled the patients along the assembly line, we became extremely close friends. His English was decent, as was his Spanish, and he was fluent in French and Haitian Creole. In our few quiet moments, I learned that he was a 25 year-old fourth-year medical student and had dreams of owning his own OB-Gyn clinic. His name was derived from both his mother and father’s combined. He spoke sadly of several of his classmates who had died or were maimed in the tragedy. His future as a student was desperately uncertain, since the university buildings themselves, had been declared unsafe, and many of his professors were among the missing.

He shared all of this information in the matter-of-fact way that only a Haitian could. He had survived one of the greatest disasters known to man, but yet he found the will, the strength, the heart, to give freely of his time and talent to help his fellow country- folk. The universe alone knows these unsung heroes.

Jernielo was not only my translator, he gave me perspective on the strange lives (and deaths) of his people. I learned so much from this young man who was half my age; so much about his culture, that strange and admirable Haitian culture of survival, yes survival against all odds. Jernielo taught me what was truly important to someone who had lost everything, (and I do mean, everything), and had nothing to live for; nothing except life. But I keep digressing.

So, Jernielo was not the least bit surprised when we discovered that the pretty little baby decked out in a fancy pink outfit, replete with a pink bonnet, and pink panties, had a penis! In his world, coming to the doctor’s was reason enough to wear one’s Sunday best. It was such a special occasion, and this was probably the best and the only outfit that little Vladimir’s mother had for him to wear.. And even though nothing was really medically wrong with Vladimir, his mother felt the need to be reassured of this most important fact; a fact, that those of us with the luxury of good fortune and health, often take for granted. Despite having to wait under an unbearably hot tent, with hundreds of people, for several hours to be attended to, Vladimir and his mother both walked off into the dusty streets, wearing wall-to-wall smiles. To Jernielo, none of this was fascinating, or even of interest.

We laughed at such oddities, because to me, Haitian life was so difficultly strange, or maybe, that should be, strangely difficult. I was impressed at his ability to normalize what many who lived outside of Haiti would find egregiously uncomfortable. We chatted together as we cleaned foul smelling, gaping wounds that had remained festering for over more than a week. We were happy to see these wounds heal as their owners returned faithfully every day to be rechecked. Mind you, some of these people lived hours and hours away. So many, resorted to sleeping on the ground, under the stars, outside the clinic, in lieu of returning home. They did this without any fuss for days on end.

We bonded as we braced broken bones, checked if amputated limbs were healing satisfactorily, and as we comforted families who were in the process of losing, or had just lost, a loved one. Far too many had lost so many loved ones. As we worked, we would lift our gaze to notice the pickup trucks from the morgue which came to collect the bodies of people who unfortunately sought help only too late. The corpses were literally thrown into the bed of the truck, while wailing families looked on in despair.

We assisted the over-worked surgeons dressing their patients with recent amputations, helping to drill screws into broken bones, and serving as operating-room assistants. I must admit how fascinated I was at having the opportunity to actually perform procedures (under supervision), that I was only able to be a witness to during my training. The need was so great that the orthopods gave specific directions and then just left Jernielo and me to perform minor surgeries.

There were mercifully far fewer children to be seen than adults, so in our spare time we counted pills in the pharmacy and packed them neatly to be dispensed. Jernielo gave detailed instructions in Creole to the mostly under-educated adults. He gave them with such tenderness, and with his undivided attention. I looked on in admiration, thinking to myself what an excellent physician he would make some day. Honestly, we selfishly cherished the time together in the OR and in the pharmacy, if only because of the air-conditioning. With each passing day, our friendship solidified.

Throughout all of the misery, this remarkable young man, never once complained. In fact, he frequently wore a smile. He shared stories with me about his life. He lived alone with his mother in Port au Prince. He feared for her safety being alone, back in the city with its many aftershocks and desperate looters. But he felt the need to make this sacrifice to be here to serve his people. His father had flown the coop shortly after his birth and sadly never looked back. Word had it, that he was living in America, but Jernielo had nothing more than a picture of him from 25 years ago. His father never sent anything by way of finances or food, not even a pink, frilly outfit for his first-born child.

Jernielo’s fiancee, Daphne, was from Saint Marc. She was in nursing school and was in a similar predicament to him. Her school buildings had been demolished and she was uncertain of her future as a nurse. She spoke no English, so my interaction with her was limited. Her only words to me, and repeatedly so, were, “I love you”. I suspected that these were the only three words she knew in English. We hugged often to make up for the lack of verbal communication.

Pauline was her cousin and she had sought Daphne’s help in arranging everything on the ground in Saint Marc that was necessary for a successful and safe mission. Daphne had alerted Jernielo of our cause and he came willingly to help. We had no money to reward either of them. There were many other Haitian volunteers like them who like angels, just gave of their time and talent. They shared meals with us, but otherwise, they volunteered their services merely from the kindness of their hearts. Besides which, he laughed as he said, he had nothing else to do that was meaningful. anyway.

As the time approached for our team to return home, Jernielo’s requests for me to find a way to have him accompany us, grew more and more intense. Admittedly, we were two persons short from when we came, having lost the pharmacist and Marguerite, one of the Haitian nurses who was part of the team. Sadly, one night, she got word that her mother and brother, both missing at the time of our team’s arrival to her country of birth, had been found dead. Marguerite had worked tirelessly for several days with us, even though her mind could surely not have been at ease. Overcome with grief, we bade her a sad farewell after she got the awful news.

Jernielo persisted in wanting to go to the US with us on our return. I stressed to him that there would be much more than a stray dog, with or without scabies, to greet us at immigration in the United States. In addition to which, blind eyes may have been turned to an overloaded airplane with two extra people departing the US, but there would be no such luck on our return. He could not, and did not understand. As we sat in a restaurant across from Toussaint L’Overture Airport a few hours before our chartered flight, he kept insisting that he could fit into one of the now empty duffle bags for the hour-long flight. All of us volunteers had given away everything that was no longer essential, so we did indeed have several empty bags. I am sure we gave those away as well.

It was then that I brought up the topic of his father. Maybe it was time to reach out to him to ask for help. Jernielo became infuriated, a side of him I had not witnessed before. He rose up from the table and stormed out of the restaurant, shouting, “I will NEVER call that man. Look at what he did to my mother.” He left in a huff and did not return.

Our trip home was uneventful. My husband who picked a group of us up to take us home, hung his head out the window all the way. He said we smelled like rotten flesh. A few weeks later, when telephone communication was possible, Jernielo and I were in touch again. Every time I mentioned his father’s name, the anger returned…. sometimes in the form of rage. I thought it best to leave the topic alone….until I returned to Haiti a few months later on another medical outing.

On this occasion, our group was working quite a distance from where he was based, making our reconnecting difficult. It was comforting to learn that he was back in school. Since she was close by, I visited his mother, the frail, petite, haggard-looking soul, with whom he lived. She was close to my age, but appeared at least ten years my senior, and that is being kind. I was utterly horrified to see their living conditions. “Humble”, is too inadequate of a word. She greeted me into her dark, one-room “house”…. structure, might be a better term. In it, there was an old wiry mattress that was supported above the ground by concrete bricks. It lacked linen and there were no pillows. There may have been an armoire and/or a chair in some state of disrepair. I do not recall anything else in the space. My memory fails me. I do remember vividly though, my disbelief that someone, especially a highly-educated person of such self sacrifice, would have to live in such utter destitution.

The day before our team returned to the States, my dear friend traveled a great distance, (and probably at great expense), to say goodbye to me. Unfortunately I did not have much to leave with him except a few dollars. He asked me if I had a toothbrush, to which I answered “Yes, but I have been using it.” I will never be able to erase the vision of him walking off into the distance holding my toothbrush and what little toothpaste I had left. I cried inside and out.

On the flight back home, my mind could not rest. I had to find some way to help him and his mother. I remembered that sometime in the past, he had given me the phone number for his 22 year-old half-sister who lived in Florida. She had been born in the US and I had gotten the impression there was not much in the way of interaction between the two of them.

I found the number and called. My intention was to obtain his father’s number, address, or something …. to be honest, I was not sure what. I was somewhat taken aback at her nonchalant response when I posed the question to her. She appeared not to have time to speak to me, so I said I would call at another time. Which I did. No response. I called several times but the phone just rang. I had an address in North Miami and went physically to it. She had gone to work, her mother told me through a half-opened door. I am still not sure if this was indeed true. But, realizing that she was not going to be easily rid of me, she eventually consented to give me the information. Not before she went on a tirade, sharing some choice 4-letter words about their father and how badly she and her mother had been treated by him.

I learned that she too had not seen him since she was a child. I listened quietly as she ranted about his lust for various women, about how many other innocent children were left in the lurch of his many relationships. Then she said something with an ounce of glee in her voice, something that was of the greatest importance to me. She told me, as a result of his casual spreading of sperm, he was now on his death-bed suffering from HIV-AIDS and was not long for this world, barely surviving in Atlanta, Georgia.

The latter piece of information more than piqued my attention. It hit me like a brick. Time was now of the utmost essence. I immediately set about the task of determining the immigration paper work necessary for a parent to apply for an adult child to move to the United States. I got all the documents in order, printed them, and secured pre-paid Fed-Ex envelopes to facilitate their urgent delivery and return to me. With his phone number in hand, and all the information at the ready, I called Mr. Pierre the very next day, excited to share news of his son.

He answered, a frail, ghastly-sounding version of his son. He was impolite and abrupt. I tried to be kind, and attributed this to his feeling unwell. I explained in detail who I was, the reason for my call, sharing my many interactions with his son and how much I admired and loved him. I described the substandard living conditions in which he and his mother existed. I even told him about my toothbrush. I asked the simple question, if I sent all the documents to him that day via Fed Ex, would he sign the two pages that were necessary and return them back to me in the pre-paid envelope? I told him that I was willing to pay the $800 cost of the application. All he needed to do was to sign it.

That was the first time I was asked that now infamous question, “What’s in it for me?” It was all I could do to not hang up the phone and vomit in disgust.

Adorah

Giselle related the horror of the night before. The two of them were driving on the Florida Turnpike around 11:00pm, when their car struck a man who ran into her lane from the shadows. Physically ran. On foot. Onto the freeway. The man flew into the air and landed motionless, lifeless, on the cold surface of the dark, lonely highway.

Abbie, who was buckled in her car-seat, began screaming. Giselle recalls taking her out of the car, and placing her at her side on the grass, as she waited for and eventually spoke at length to the officers who visited the scene. Abbie continued screaming uncontrollably and incessantly. She clung to her mother tightly throughout the ordeal. Giselle was understandably under the assumption that the poor little thing was just petrified. Being preoccupied with giving a report, which of necessity, included signing documents, she could not have her in arms throughout the entire fiasco.

They finally got home around 4:00am, but Abbie was not able to be comforted. Giselle noticed her itching intensely. It was only then that she saw the dozens of bumps on her legs. It finally dawned on this already distraught mother, that she had inadvertently placed her child in a nest of ants, while the investigation ensued. After the several hours of questioning, she received a phone call just prior to coming to my pediatric office, that the incident was determined to be a suicide.

I distinctly recalled a Saturday afternoon, 3 years prior, attending Abbie’s delivery at a South Florida hospital. As she emerged from the womb, covered with blood and meconium, her father Danny’s phone rang. Dead silence as the reason for the call became evident. Jeremiah, his son in New York, had just killed himself by jumping in the path of a train. It appeared that he had not taken kindly to the idea that Danny had remarried after divorcing his mother. And to add insult to injury, had elected to have another child with this new wife.

I knew the family very well. Danny, her father, was an airline pilot, and as such traveled extensively and often. He was currently in Dubai and not expected back for at least a week. I had taken care of several of his offspring and had been to his various homes on many occasions. Jeremiah was his eldest, born of his first marriage. Jeremiah and Abbie’s two half-siblings, had moved to New York with Danny’s first wife. Sadly, I lost contact with Annette, his second wife, the mother of his 2 other children. Abbie was the product of his third relationship, and I had had the pleasure of taking care of her since birth.

Giselle was young, herself very petite, in her late 20’s, and without much family support. As a result, she was a frequent visitor to the office, seeking not only medical advice, but far too often, emotional support. She was all alone and lonely and being of similar ages, she bonded well with certain members of my staff. They cheerfully referred to her as our own little frequent flyer. Today was no different. The young mother was beside herself with distress. She was not only standing in the face of a second suicide, but her innocent daughter was suffering miserably as a result of this one.

We spoke at length after Abbie had been attended to. Giselle was carrying the heavy weight of guilt, dread, responsibility, life, and indeed death, all alone, without the support of her husband. She couldn’t hold back the tears. I sensed her despair, and agreed to accompany her to the funeral of the young man. I did not want her to suffer this ordeal alone. I asked my secretary to secure all the necessary information about the funeral arrangements, to alleviate the burden on her. I would pick her up so we could travel together.

I collected her at 11:30 am that Saturday morning, and we headed to the cemetery. My work schedule and her child-care arrangements did not allow for us to attend the church service. Through her tears, she remarked on the coincidence that the cemetery was the same as the one in which Jeremiah was buried. Danny himself, had expressed surprise the night before when she spoke with him. Danny had requested his son’s body be returned for burial in the family plot in Florida. Sadly, I was unable to attend that funeral because I had a previous engagement out of town. Having had a caesarean section, with some complications, Giselle also was not in attendance. We marveled at how strange life could be, and discussed the fascinating concept of synchronicity.

There was some trouble finding parking. It was raining and there seemed to be a few other funerals occurring at the same time. As a result, we arrived later than anticipated, and the burial proceedings were already underway. I offered to drop her close to the group of mourners, and I would come with the umbrella. We drove up to the large gathering all clothed in black. She slowly stepped out of the car and closed the door. But before I could drive off, she lost all her color, and promptly fell to the ground. A crowd from the funeral rushed to her assistance.

I jumped out of the car and in the midst of attending to her, I happened to glance at the name, place of death and the date of transition on a marble stone that was very nearby. I read it in disbelief. New York City, 3 years earlier to the day. It was Jeremiah’s tombstone.

Patrick was serving one of the delightful South African curry dishes, as we sat on their back porch. He and his wife Vani had prepared quite the spread for us, for his pre-retirement party that Friday evening in Anchorage Alaska. Glancing up at the black bear which was roaming the garden he had carefully curated himself, he chuckled and casually said, “If you’ve lived in Alaska, you will never be the most boring person at a cocktail party”.

That sentence struck me like lightning. In the strangest of ways, it confirmed my suspicion, that I was not losing my mind, and that Alaska, was indeed one of the most remarkably, unusual places that a person could call home. I know, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, Alaska is ridiculously and bitterly cold, and yes, it is so far behind God’s back, that most people could not even identify it on a map. So, sadly, and far too often, the only thing one associates with that mystical, magical place, that vast giant of majesty and of awe-inspiring vistas, is….frostbite….a total misconception of the richness of life that Alaska had to offer. THAT, was what Patrick was referring to,; something way, way more profound. And only the “crazy” folk who had chosen to spend a part of their time on earth there, the enlightened ones, could truly appreciate exactly what he meant.

You see, as we were dining inside their screened back porch that overlooked his masterpiece of a garden, I had noticed the large bear making his way to the oak tree close by. Vani, bless her heart, and without skipping one of its beats, said as calmly as ever, “Yes, he comes by very often. It appears that he climbs the tree to steal the bird food we put out.” So, trying not to seem at all perturbed, I asked, why not put the bird food somewhere where he can’t get to it? Well, we thought since Patrick was about to retire in the next week, he would have more time to move it then. We continued cheerfully passing dishes around, as if this life were normal.

A week after the party, and the feeder was still there. The other one is…. gone

This was just one of dozens and dozens of such fascinating conversations to be had in Alaska. Conversations to which I had become accustomed in an amazing place that was larger than the states of California, Texas and Montana combined. A place that had justly deserved its title as The Last Frontier. The frigidity of the climate, and its remoteness aside, Alaska was just literally “out there”. Situations such as these, were summarized with only the slightest bit of effort, and were somehow made to seem almost normal; making me, the listener, seriously question my own sanity. Let’s share just a few choice encounters.

My first interaction with a patient in Alaska, the very day I started work there, was in a delivery room. A 13-year old girl was giving birth to her first baby. You see where I am going with this. To say that this, a catastrophe in itself, was not the most remarkable incident of my first day on the job, might help to put a bit of perspective on things. There, sitting comfortably on a sofa in the delivery room, was a gentleman (and I use the term…loosely) with a blanket covering the lower half of his body.

As I was attending to the newborn, and encouraging the young mother to attempt breast feeding, I couldn’t help but notice his rhythmic movements under the blanket. Alaska, to its credit, teaches you very quickly, to not be perturbed about unexpected occurrences, and, even if you are, to not appear to be. I was proving to be a quick learner. But still, I must admit that all the weeks of on-board training for this job, did not serve to prepare me for such a scenario.

Once I was assured that the infant had a good latch onto the breast, and that the new mother felt supported and was resting comfortably, I tried to appear unhurried, as I exited the room. I was anxious to find the charge nurse to alert her of my concern about this man’s strange behavior, especially in the presence of a 13-year-old child. (Sadly, I felt the need to delete the word “innocent”.) I found the seasoned, registered nurse whose name was Alicia, working diligently at her computer. She listened, but did not bat an eyelid. Her gaze never left the computer, as she calmly said to me, “You must be new. Yes, that’s the mother’s grandfather. We think he is also the father of the baby.”

I was still in a state of shock, when a male nurse came to the floor to bring up some medications. I noticed he lacked an ear. I think it was his right one. He cheerfully introduced himself, brought attention to the missing appendage, and calmly described, his having been attacked by a bear several years prior. This folks, was my welcome to Alaska. My first day at work.

I had sought my own, very aged, father’s blessings while trying to make the decision to accept this once-in-a-lifetime and unusual pediatric position. I did so admittedly with some trepidation and was surprised at his response, knowing that if I accepted it, I might never see him alive again. His words back then, were profound. “Go see your Alaska my child, and remember to take God with you”. I wonder if he truly knew what he was saying. I made a mental revision of my contract, the pros and cons of quitting on day number one, and for some strange reason, decided to proceed and to call Alaska home, nonetheless. I would take God along for the ride, if He dared. To this day, I have no regrets.

To be fair, this was really not my first patient interaction with an Alaskan infant. I had done a 6-week rotation as a medical student at Seattle Children’s Hospital, more than 30 years prior. While I was there, a Unangan newborn was airlifted from one of the Aleutian Islands, off the western tip of the Alaskan peninsula. The baby came urgently by air ambulance because it was born with three eyes. You read that correctly. There were two, in what would be considered the normal locations, and the third in the center of her forehead, just above her eyebrows. Since those were the days before cell phones, I have no pictures to share. I still wonder where, and how, that unfortunate person is today.

To add insult to injury, after a barrage of testing and examination, it was discovered that the errant eye was the only one of the three that was functional. I was a fly on the wall, awe-struck, as pediatric neurosurgeons, ophthalmologists, geneticists, and a whole heap of other specialists, that I did even know existed, were consulted, literally from every renowned facility in the world. They all racked their brains, trying to make sense of this awful, and unprecedented situation. Not surprisingly, as the student assigned to do the grunge work of obtaining the medical and personal history, I discovered that the infant’s young parents, were siblings. Both, teenagers, to be exact.

This was the first of many more off-springs of consanguineous relationships, with which I would have the good fortune to be challenged. Severe developmental and mental problems, combined with varying degrees of dysmorphism, and parents who were woefully ill-prepared for the task ahead of them, were all par for the course. How I wished I had paid closer attention during those boring Genetics lectures in medical school. The chance of seeing those ridiculously rare disorders, was miniscule. Or so I thought. But obviously, not in Alaska!!

Duhhh!!!!

Alaska is most likely the only place where a nurse takes a second to look over her computer, to calmly ask the secretary, “Has this mother ever brought one of her other children in to the clinic almost dead before?” Stopped me in my tracks as I heard her, but everyone else on the team, just seemed to ponder the question, as if it were a normal one. What was I missing?

Who studies wolves??? And why??

Then, there was the father who physically lifted his 4-year old daughter in for care, because she had stepped on a fish hook. The screaming child was still attached to the hook. It became immediately apparent that she had the worst case of dental caries, I had seen in my 30-odd years of practice. Every single tooth in her mouth was rotten. She topped the scale at 30kg (66lbs), a testament to the 4 bottles of whole milk she drank every day, and to the one she still got during the night. When asked about any recent visits to the dentist, dad appeared puzzled. His response was, “There’s no need for that doctor. We’re just so grateful that none of her cavities hurt her.”

Lest you think that Alaska was only strange when it came to medical problems, think again. Consider the man who came to our garage sale and happily purchased a snow blower that was slightly smaller than the average. He couldn’t hold back his excitement, saying how much he knew that “The wife would love this as her Christmas present”. Who gives his wife a snow blower for Christmas, for goodness sake?? And this being Alaska, I am sure she was thrilled.

One day, my secretary jumped up suddenly from her desk and ran out the clinic as if it were on fire. On her out-of-breath return, she casually shared that she had forgotten her handgun on the dashboard of her car. Asked why was her handgun even out….well, the mother moose that had birthed twins a few days before, was wandering around her front door again. I recalled her being late several mornings in the past few weeks because the moose was lying at the front door.

This same secretary was a no-show for 3 consecutive days, way prior to the baby moose ordeal. No phone call. No excuse. Nothing unusual in the working world of Alaska. This had occurred so often in the past, that the administrators had an unspoken rule. If someone doesn’t show up, without a call or written excuse, after 2 weeks, they were replaced, no questions asked. The reason will become crystal clear, once you read my future post on fishing season in the Great White Beyond. Stay tuned.

So when she did reappear to her over-flowing desk, exhausted and obviously lacking sleep, I inquired softly as to what might have been the problem. She muttered something about having to care for her mother, her aunt and her grandmother. Concerned, I asked whether they were still ill. She snapped at me “You just don’t get it, do you? They weren’t sick, they were drunk.”

You forget how bitterly cold it is outside, when an 8-year old shares his reason for becoming a vegetarian. “Meat tastes like the boiled porcupines my foster mother used to beat me to eat in Saxman.” And should you be curious enough to ask, you will become one of the few of Alaska’s culinary enlightened. Porcupines, of course taste much better when they are fried. Who knew??

Alaska offers you 20-something-year-old parents who give up bull-fighting because their daughter turned 4 years old. The mother was happy to report that she indeed was the impetus for the decision, after a bull stepped on dad’s chest and broke three of his ribs. He lifted his shirt to reveal several keloidal scars. “When I saw him lying on the ground with the bull’s hooves on his chest, I was sure he was dead.” Thankfully, they had come to a compromise and now, he only did Double Mugging and Chute Dogging instead.

Naturally, I put on my “I know exactly what those are, but please tell me more” face. So they proceeded to educate me that the former involves throwing a rope around the horns of a charging bull, and mugging it afterwards, while in the latter, you actually start the “sport” off wrestling the bull, and bringing it down to the ground.

Dazed, and again trying to look as unperturbed as possible, (something that I had almost mastered by the time we left this crazy place), I happened to notice a raised and sizeable bruise on the little girl’s left arm. Both parents proudly chorused together that “Yesterday, she went Mutton Busting and she won.” My question to the clinic’s social worker as to whether this might be considered child abuse, was all but laughed at. I moved on to the next patient in utter disbelief.

Heading home from daycare

Alaskan laws are like no other. Were you aware that it is illegal to shoot a moose from an airplane in that state? And if you were, did you also know that it is illegal to push a moose out of a plane? And don’t you dare give a moose, or any other wildlife for that matter, alcohol. One should know that it is illegal to wake a sleeping bear. In Juneau, which is the capital of the state, and which has no roads connecting it to the rest of the world, it is illegal to bring a flamingo into a barber shop. Barbers deserve the right to be able to work without distraction. Ohhh Alaska!!!

On weekends, it was fun, but illegally so, to hang a carcass of an animal out in your backyard to see what wild creature might be attracted to it that night. Wolves, lynx, brown and black bears, (Anchorage was too far south to welcome polar bears), wolverines were all delightfully caught on candid camera. Moose’s Tooth Pizzeria came alive on Saturday nights with stories of the previous night’s outdoor camera recordings.

Many a morning, I drove to work at 7:45am in pitch darkness. The sun would wake up around 10am. But to say it was dark, was not to be honest. There was indeed a bright glow, an eerily, beautifully, magical glow, that the Far North reserves for those who have earned the privilege to witness it. And, just when you might be becoming numb to the wonder of it all, if you are patient, Alaska will treat you to any of a number of its secrets that it had been holding back.

One morning, nothing special, I was on my way to the hospital as usual. That morning became the most memorable morning of my entire life. I was greeted by an indescribably spectacular rainbow of showers coming from above. The Aurora Borealis gave a full, and might I say free, 2-minute Broadway performance. There was almost every single color that a paint store could mix. The aquamarine in particular just glimmered, and for some reason, still remains in my memory. To say it was priceless, would be the greatest understatement. Tears found their way down my cheeks and I remember wondering, if someone could remain an atheist after seeing such a display.

There were dozens and dozens of such experiences, each one competing with the other in making living in Alaska, not merely bearable, but unbelievably worth it. Those are to be shared at some other time. But the reason for today’s story, is the polar bear’s liver. Another Alaskan gem. So here goes.

Late one April afternoon, (and the time of year is of significance), an air ambulance brought in a 4 -year old from Utqiagvik, Alaska’s northernmost city. The critically-ill, intermittently drowsy, very disoriented toddler was vomiting profusely and complaining of generalized pain. She screamed in agony when any of her extremities were touched, even lightly so. Her lips were cracked and her skin was discolored and peeling. She itched uncontrollably. Her tongue was a odd shade of gray. A video of her could be right next to the word “misery” in any Google search. (I almost wrote, encyclopedia …. hmmmm. I date myself.)

Shortly after arrival, she began having violent seizures and diarrhea was pouring out of her. Alicia, our charge nurse from Labor and Delivery, the textbook definition of serenity, happened to come into the emergency room. She glanced over at the chaos nearby, and calmly said to me, “I guess they caught another polar bear, huh.”

True enough. The family had killed a polar bear 2 days prior in their village. Because of climate change, the icebergs were already melting, even though it was only April. Something unheard of in previous years, and a cause for great concern, and one, not just for Alaska’s indigenous. The parents reported that they had to work quickly to secure their catch, otherwise it would sink into the frigid waters of the Arctic Ocean. As the entire village hastened to portion the polar bear, the little unmonitored toddler got into its liver and started touching it. She was now showing signs of severe and acute Vitamin A toxicity. The family shared that a young cousin had died from a similar situation, a few winters before.

I struggled to recall the one and very insignificant paragraph in Nelson’s Textbook of Pediatrics, the 500-page bible of pediatrics, that I had memorized 30 years prior. We never learned about polar bears and definitely not about their livers. That day, I witnessed the effects of a severe overdose of Vitamin A. An overdose that would be almost impossible anywhere other than Alaska, because no child could consume the 250 vitamin A pills necessary to achieve a similar result. A polar bear’s liver has more than 100 times the daily limit of vitamin A for an adult male!! For a child, just the act of touching the liver of a polar bear was fatal. Who knew?

Prior to my moving to The Land of the Midnight Sun, I consulted a military veteran who had been stationed at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage for many years. In an attempt to reassure me that I was indeed making the right move, and with a distant, dreamy look on his face, he said, “Ahhhh, Alaska, where you can truly live a life that is worth living. I would move back there in a heartbeat”. Back then, I looked at him askance. Perchance the military had messed too much with his mind. But I am here to tell you, four years later, I resoundingly concurred. I too, would move back in a heartbeat. I am not too sure God would be willing to return with me however, because it was indeed a rough, rough ride.

Everything, just everything about Alaska fascinates. Its people, their strange and admirable perspective on life, its vastness and incredible beauty, its wildlife, its moose that give birth in your garden, and take up residence for weeks there without permission, the spectacle that is the Northern Lights, and not the least of them all, the courage and zeal it takes to be a part of one of the world’s most inhospitable regions.

So look past the weather, the frostbite, the discomfort, the remoteness. As the famous poet Robert Service wrote, “Be master of your petty annoyances and conserve your energies for the big worthwhile things. It isn’t the mountain ahead that wears you out- it’s the grain of sand in your shoe.” Alaska was that “worthwhile thing”. It pulled at every string of my heart. Patrick hit the nail smack on the head. Alaska will liven up any cocktail party, because it livens up life itself.

Woof. Darn, yet another truck full of those humans. No space for me to hop on. And so I am forced once again to continue running along this lonely road pondering the vicissitudes of life. It’s remarkable that in so many ways, I am just like those 2-legged animals wandering aimlessly along the streets (of life) scraping a meal here or there whenever I can.

Hard to believe, but I have heard that some of them gather dogs like me ( they call us “strays”…...a word that doesn’t quite sit well with me. I sense it is not much of a term of endearment) and take us to places where people in long white coats make us no longer able to have babies. The horror of it all!! How come they don’t gather some of their own to do the same for themselves? It seems so many of them are capable of reproduction, but just can’t take care of their offspring. So interesting, they get to decide what’s best for us. I wonder who should decide the same for them?

Woof, woof and another woof. That’s my friend Scruffie. He lives up the hill and he gets to go inside this place called “a house” at night. The people who live with him, don’t mind if he comes and spends a few hours with me, but he has to be back at home before dusk. Otherwise, strangely enough, they come looking for him.

I once met a prissy little pup named Nibbles. What kind of name is that for a real dog anyway? She was good friends with an even snootier, dazzling white, tiny specimen of a thing, named Rico. I think Rico was also called a Maltese, for some reason. Rico watched a thing called TV, and even had his favorite TV shows. To me, he didn’t even seem real. But, I digress.

I learned that Nibbles was a cross between a Pomeranian and Pekingese. Apparently she was born by......design. Those strange two-legged folks prearranged and, I dare say, paid good money for her parents to copulate. How come nobody ever paid for me to have sex ? As a result, she did not carry the title of mutt. Truth be told, she and Rico both looked extremely well put together, but sadly, neither of them took a shine to me.

Nibbles lived in what they call “a gated community” and she spent most of the day inside a house with the people who lived with her. Yes....inside!! She only came out, when something called a leash, was put around her neck and then she had to be .....walked. Like she didn’t know how to walk before!!!!

Nibbles had monthly appointments at a place she hated called “the groomers”. She and Rico sometimes crossed paths there. Yuppie Puppie was a barbaric, but surprisingly, perfectly legal establishment where our kind were forced to stay, be bathed, have hot air blown in our direction, and then quite ruthlessly, made to sit still, while our fur was rearranged into unusual and ridiculously unnecessary styles. Then to add insult to an already injured ego, a sickeningly sweet smell was sprayed on her before her trip back home. That dog always smelled like she was dropped in a bottle of some strange non-doggy perfume. Poor little thing.

Nibbles would leave home looking like Scruffie...well almost, but would annoyingly return with a bow on her head and her fur trimmed to a sort of human perfection. And she said the people she lived with, paid to have this done....I kid you not (or to be politically correct… I pup you not). She told me money was exchanged for what they called, a service. How very very odd??

Nibbles was trilingual. That means she understood more than just woof. She was fluent in English and understood every word spoken to her by those two-legged creatures. But much to her dismay, she was forced to learn another language called Spanish. She deftly figured out, that the people who lived with her, spoke it when they wanted to give her a bath or take her to Yuppie Puppie. Her days of hiding under the middle of a king-sized bed when they mentioned the words “bathing” or “groomers” in English, were a thing of the past.

I still can’t believe and maybe she was not being honest, but she said certain dogs at Yuppie Puppie got blue bows at the end of December while others got red ones. She learned strange expressions like Happy Hanukkah and Merry Christmas, and she had something called turkey for Thanksgiving.

Nibbles got to ride in the basket of a bicycle. She frequently went on to something called a paddle boat and yes, even sat in the front seat of a car. She had the privilege of hanging her head out the window and smelling the fresh air along the way. If I didn’t see her doing it myself, I would not be a believer. She confided in me that a few of her furry friends did not have this luxury. They were strapped into doggy car seats for a ride.

Sadly, Nibbles suffered from post-traumatic stress. She too had been to one of those white-coated people in the past. Try as we might, she could not have a baby. No wonder she showed no interest in my advances.

When the two people she lived with went out of the house for extended periods, Nibbles was taken to somewhere called Doggie Daycare. There she met other non-mutts and she even had a Border-Collie friend called Maia. Their humans got a daily report about their interactions and behavior each day. For heaven’s sake, it was almost like getting grades in high school!!!!

They both socialized, barking together, going for long walks, and eating what they called, treats, little balls of processed liver or kidney. Yucchh!!! She never seemed to eat real scraps of food with flavor, food thrown on the floor off of plates. Oh the shock of learning that she had never jumped onto a table to steal a piece of meat!! She’d never had a roti, pizza, or an empanada, or eaten a dead chicken’s gizzards. Where’s the fun in a life like that?

It was my humble opinion, that because of her helicopter parents, Nibbles lacked spunk. She had lost the essence of being.... Dog. One day, the neighbor’s Manx cat, Toby, looked askance at her and Nibbles dared to bark at him. Well, Toby chased Nibbles all the way back to her house and left her there frightened and shivering, licking her wounded ego. Just shameful!

Nibbles traveled a lot. She considered herself somewhat of an adventurer, an explorer if you will, and as a result carried this air of worldliness about her, something to be envied. I wished I could have lived in the world she described, but somehow I knew I wouldn’t fit in.... just like she couldn’t fit in to mine.

She spoke of a place called “the beach” where something that looked like water, but tasted extremely salty splashed against yellow grains of sand over and over again. At the beach, there was a long line far out in the distance called a horizon. It was supposed to have the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Sometimes the two people who lived with her, would sit and drink something they strangely called “drinks” and watch the sunset. Other two-legged people also did this, sometimes even without dogs. But most people tragically did not even notice the horizon or the beautiful sunsets. They had no time to watch the sun rise. They were too busy doing something called work.

Nibbles described it all so perfectly, that I too, became an adventurer, though only a vicarious one. But she never could explain to me why the water kept going back and forth on the sand. She never saw anybody throwing it or pulling it back. It just sounded a little too good to be true. She might have been pulling my leg, but it’s a good thing, I had three others to stand on.

I tried not to roll my eyes when Nibbles and her bougie friends, Emma and Pabu (which she told me means “run” in Chinese) barked on and on about their camping trips under the stars. The way they carried on, one would swear that sleeping outside at night was so exhilarating. I get to do that every night, without all the fanfare, and even in the rain, for goodness sake.

She had been on a plane on many occasions and had to be “crated” in a small box for extended periods during those trips. This was a fancy way of saying imprisoned. How unimaginably cruel that must have been!!

One of the places she visited was a strange country called South Africa. She described fences there, that not even the most agile of our friends could jump over because they were so high . And even if they could, she said there were wires on top that would send a shock of electricity through you if you even tried. Who thinks of these things? And more importantly...why? Humans are a strange bunch.

This little bitch (because that’s what she was) told me that one day in South Africa, she read a large florescent bill-board sign (yes she was sophisticated enough to be able to read) that said

“Dear 1.4 million pet owners, don’t leave neglect in the wake. Insure your family members before it is too late and they are gone”.

Yes indeed, some of those two- legged people have insurance for four-legged creatures like me. But yet under that very same billboard there was a bedraggled woman of very dark complexion, breastfeeding a scrawny inconsolable baby. Two obviously malnourished young dark-skinned children played in the scorching hot dirt nearby with raggedy clothes and no shoes.

Nibbles woofed sadly when she remarked that even her worst outfit, and she had many, was better than what those children had on. She was certain her diet was more balanced and healthy than theirs. And every time she went to that beach place, her tiny feet and trimmed nails were protected from the heat of the sand by comfortable little booties.

Nibbles slept on a four-poster bed with a specially made mattress and pillow. It was just perfect for her size. Her bed linen was changed once a week. Every night she slept at the foot of the people who lived with her. They paid something called a mortgage and were careful about strangers wandering onto their property. They were exceptionally unreceptive to me. So sadly, there was no way I could sleep next to her on her four-poster golden, slice of paradise. I felt so hurt when she told me this quite smugly.

Once Nibbles ventured off and got lost. The people she lived with could not find her for a week. They did a strange thing and offered something called a reward for her return. They were seriously going to pay someone if they brought her safely home. Why do I hear about so many little children and woman who have gone missing, but there’s no reward for them?

I learned a lot from Nibbles. I learned that freedom should not be taken for granted. Leashes, crates and cages were a reality in her world. And savoring the sun on your fur was not always an option. To be honest, nothing seemed optional for her. She was always at the mercy of these people. Living in an air-conditioned house was a palace compared to sleeping on the streets like I do. But that luxury usually comes with sterilization and rarely the liberty to run free and truly experience a dog’s life like I do. So very sad.

Nibbles died at 19 years of age. She had to be what they call “put down”. With all her privilege she did not even have the choice to die a natural death like I will have. She was spared the joy of being run over by a car or truck or eating tainted food. What kind of death is that?

Oops, woof woof. Here is another truck. I may be able to get on this one. Got to run or maybe get run over.

On October 7th 2016, Hurricane Matthew, a category 4 storm made a direct strike, ravaging the southern coast of Haiti and the major city there, Les Cayes. Matthew tore through the Tiburon Peninsula of the poorest country in the western hemisphere with 145 mph (235 km/h) winds, leveling entire coastal villages, claiming hundreds of lives and leaving more than 1 million people in severe need of humanitarian services. The damage was without precedence, save for the devastating earthquake that rocked Haiti’s capital, Port au Prince, just 6 years before. In that apocalyptic-like disaster, hundreds of thousands of lives were lost. For weeks after, lifeless arms dangled out of collapsed buildings, bodies were thrown into the backs of pickup trucks to be taken to mass graves, and the stench of death seeped into your pores. But I must leave that for another story.

I had been to Les Cayes before, and enjoyed working with some very good people there. I found great pleasure providing for the medical needs of their children. All destitute, some hungry, and most malnourished, they wore big smiles and offered the tightest hugs. So this disaster touched me personally. I had hoped to organize a small humanitarian mission of teenagers and young adults to accompany me to the area, once it was declared safe…..enough.

My previous visits to Haiti had taken the wool from my eyes as to the depths that poverty could sink. My hope was to enlighten, even just a few young people, showing them, not only another side of life to which they might never be exposed, but, way more importantly, to challenge them to consider in their course of study, or even in their choices in life, becoming part of a solution to the suffering of others. It is so easy to turn a blind eye, especially if that eye had never been pointed in a particular direction in the first place.

So I envisioned revisiting an orphanage named Espwa in Les Cayes, over the American Thanksgiving holiday, the last week of November that year. Started in 1998, by Fr. Marc Boisvert, an American Catholic priest, Espwa, means Hope in Haitian Creole,. And this place of refuge was indeed, just that. It was a virtual oasis, a glimmer of possibility, in the midst of Haiti’s persistent and unimaginably overwhelming poverty and destitution. To me, it was the morbid equivalent of Walt Disney World in Orlando Florida. What started as Fr. Marc’s miniscule project attempting to house children who were forced to fend for themselves on the streets of Les Cayes, had morphed into Haiti’s version of paradise, a 125-acre orphanage with an entire village that had miraculously sprung up around it in support.

Espwa was a remarkably well-oiled machine that was 100% volunteer-based. Volunteers came in all forms, shapes and colors. Carpenters and electricians from France and Canada, used their talents to construct not only buildings, but desks, cupboards and beds for the children. Plumbers from the neighborhood offered their time to repair broken pipes and to teach the older children their trade. Nurses came for a week or two, sacrificing their vacations to attend to the children and even to the needs of nearby villagers. Information technology specialists built websites to inform the rest of the world about the amazing life-saving work being done at Espwa and to beg for financial support. Those who could not offer their talents physically and in person were able to donate to the project, frequently via monthly stipends. And ever so often, a group of international health care professionals, would be organized to provide preventive care, checking vision, hearing, nutrition, giving vaccinations and everything possible to help a child lead a healthy life.

Fr. Marc oversaw and organized it all over the years, to the benefit of thousands and thousands of Haiti’s neediest little ones. His modus operandus was “Love the children first, then teach them”. After 20 years of service and sacrifice, at the age of 74 years, this man of God returned to his Maker on July 15, 2024.

Pwoje Espwa as it became known, utilized its massive acreage, not only to the benefit of its over 700 rambunctious little inhabitants, but it also served as a source of opportunity, indeed a tool for empowerment for the residents nearby. Espwa offered a broad range of services, including much-needed mental-health services to minimize the post traumatic stress that plagued every single person over the age of 6 years. Espwa was the community center for vocational job-training, parenting programs, free health care, especially for pregnant women, free medication, and adult education classes. In addition to its many dormitories, there was a large school house, a kitchen which employed women in the community, a humble, dusty playground with dilapidated play equipment, and what was my favorite spot, a large, verdant vegetable garden and animal farm which supplemented whatever nutritional needs the children had, that were not already supplied by donations.

A variety of fruit trees were planted to provide a much-needed sustainable source of essential vitamins, minerals and dietary fiber. The trees also offered their shade from Haiti’s scorching heat and were Espwa’s version of a free Disney-like attraction for children to climb and to play hide-and-seek. Sadly, almost every one of them was now flattened by this hurricane. In Espwa, I had found one of the few glimpses of hope in a country so blighted by misfortune. To me, it was Haiti’s pediatric Shangri-la. Fr. Marc had graciously welcomed me to Espwa when I volunteered in the past. It was time to return the favor. I promised him I would come to help.

So as usual, I put out my SOS calls to other doctors and benevolent friends for assistance in providing diapers, medications, baby formula, clothes, canned foods and everything we could gather to make the lives of the suffering there just a little easier. My secretary and nurses would beg airlines for discounted or even free tickets. We would reach out to businesses for monetary or other donations. I have so many other stories to relate about previous and subsequent journeys into this land of almost hopeless devastation. But today we’re going to talk about Kiki.

There were no volunteers for various reasons, not the least of which were safety concerns on the part of their parents, and understandably so. Young folk having to miss a turkey dinner with its highlight of the Thanksgiving football spectacle, probably played a huge role as well. Suffice it to say that everyone of the 15 or so young people I approached to join me on this adventure, all declined. All, except for Kiki.

I had the privilege of being Kiki’s pediatrician since he was a little tike. His family was a blend of chaos and perfection. I admired his parents for their radical devotion, not only to their 4 young sons, but to truly, and I do mean truly, making this world a better place. Michael, Kiki’s father had volunteered in the Peace Corps and met Marjorie, the woman of his dreams, many years ago in Haiti. They built a family together, and while Michael continued his selfless work of providing food and ensuring that the most basic needs of people who were suffering around the world were met, Marjorie held down the fort at home, doing a damn good job of raising their boys.

She would bring them for their visits to my office and I often sensed the concern, the worry, in her eyes when her husband was off on yet another challenging and dangerous assignment in obscure far-away countries like Afghanistan and those of The Middle East. She worried even when he worked in her own country of Haiti, Interestingly, I learned that she herself feared visiting her own place of birth. Having come from a family of some means, posed a risk of kidnapping, should she venture to return. In spite of this, she and her family did not forsake her homeland.

Marjorie was the model of a good mother. She ensured the boys did their utmost best at school and could hold their own speaking French, Creole and English. She drove them to soccer, football and cheered them along on every activity they chose. Marjorie’s mother, frail and petite, lived with them, partly because it was unsafe for her to return to Haiti. She spoke absolutely no English. The love and devotion that her grandsons, especially Kiki, showered on her, was nothing short of astounding. Michael spoke so fondly of Grandma and treated her with such love and compassion, that if it weren’t for the obvious difference in their skin color, one would swear she was his mother.

Marjorie was my main cheer-leader on any of my missions to her homeland. She would rally the Haitian community in the neighborhood to render their support, financial or otherwise. She was up until the wee hours of the mornings, sorting and packing duffle bags stuffed with supplies but yet, she still found strength to drive one of the many vehicles carrying dozens of boxes, suitcases and duffle bags to the airport for our early morning flights.

That family held a special place in my heart. No…in my soul. I had met on numerous occasions, birthday parties, graduations, grandma’s 80th, and sometimes for no particular reason, its strange and interesting extensions. An adopted Chinese cousin named Grace tumbled on the living room couch with the boys like she was their little sister. I marveled at their acceptance of diversity, be it same-sex relationships, race, culture, food…..all just par for the course among this crazy group of fun-loving people who epitomized the word “love”. The apple does not fall too far from the tree. And so I was not the least bit surprised when 16 year-old Kiki volunteered to accompany me and to be my trusty translator.

So we got to Espwa after a more than 5-hour harrowing drive through the chaos that was (and continues to be) Port au Prince. From the moment we landed at Toussaint Louverture International, Kiki assumed the responsibility for my safety. He fended off men who approached me, wanting to help with luggage and to be of any assistance. Kiki watched over me like a mother bear caring for her cub. Marjorie had prearranged everything to perfection. Our driver took us safely along the rough, potholed roads of what used to be Haiti’s lush countryside and we were relieved to be greeted at the gate of Espwa by Fr. Marc who was anxiously awaiting us.

The ladies in the kitchen had prepared as elaborate a spread as could be mustered in Haiti. We rested for the night and the next morning I busied myself with the medical needs of the children. The few doctors in the community were overwhelmed. The city had been inundated by water, and the horrendous wind of the hurricane had annihilated all of its infrastructure. There was no electricity, no running water and the sweltering Haitian heat and humidity was almost too much to bear. Very few trees were left standing, and so there was precious little in terms of shade. The hot concrete buildings that were still standing were the only source of respite from the midday sun. Dangerous debris, pieces of galvanized zinc, broken bottles, and garbage was strewn far and wide. Not surprisingly, gastroenteritis was running rampant with many suffering from severe abdominal pain, vomiting and diarrhea. There was serious concern about a possible cholera outbreak. I was also taking care of injuries sustained a few weeks ago during the hurricane. My work was cut out for me.

Kiki could easily have indulged in a week from school relaxing, lying unnoticed in one of the few quiet rooms on the large compound. Instead he was busier than I was. His love for soccer, made him carry several deflated balls and a hand pump. He formed leagues, dividing the children by age and size. Since there was no possibility of conducting school, given much more pressing concerns, the children welcomed this attention and the activity served as a much needed distraction from the misery of their surroundings. They were especially thrilled that Kiki himself played soccer with them and that he was generous enough to grace each team with his time and talent.

Kiki went above and beyond this. He organized activities to engage the children in learning some things that he thought should be of importance. One of these activities was cleaning up their environment. The place was a horrific mess of styrofoam containers, bottles and every imaginable waste known to man. Nature had wreaked havoc yet again on what was already havocked. During my previous visit, Espwa was a spotlessly clean gem. But the hurricane had shuffled priorities and the children were now surrounded by filth.

Kiki was undaunted. He gathered the older children and organized them into competitive groups to see which group could collect the most garbage for a prize. When I asked him what the prize was going to be, since to my knowledge, we had nothing, he smiled as he produced a huge bag of Halloween candy that he and his brothers had collected from a few weeks before.

I continued attending to the task for which I was there. Lots of ear infections, hurricane wounds, and cases of scabies, in addition to the dozens of children with gastroenteritis that unfortunately had been uncared for, having fallen low on the list of hurricane priorities. But as I worked, ever so often, I would throw an eye out to the courtyard from my make-shift pediatric office. I smiled as hundreds of Kiki’s kids, excitedly embarked on the mission he assigned to them. In less than 2 hours, 125 acres of garbage was tidily packaged into over 50 huge black garbage bags. Kiki gently supervised and guided the children, all the time speaking in Creole. I looked on with a sense of profound admiration. There was indeed hope for the world’s future, if only because Kiki was a part of it.

I was impressed that he chose not to give the most candy to the team that collected the most trash. He gave everyone who worked on the project the same gift....one piece of candy. His reasoning was that just because someone was stronger and able to carry a heavier load, they should not receive more reward than the smaller weaker ones who couldn’t. What a concept for a teenager to grasp!!! Such a remarkably mature lesson in fairness. I had not thought about life that way. How interesting that a 16 year-old would teach me such a profound lesson. And what would it take for the rest of the world to embrace such a concept?

But at the end of the project, we had an interesting and devastating surprise. As the children unwrapped their treats, something unexpected happened. Hundreds of brightly colored pieces of wrapping paper from the candy were dancing in the wind, all around all 125 acres of the orphanage. The glistening pieces of paper had found their way up to the highest branches of the few remaining trees. Others drifted into the nearby shallow creek. There was paper on the roof tops and in the kitchen garden. It had blown into every open window. The bunk beds in the dormitories were not spared. It was going to take way more than 2 hours just to find and clean up each of those tiny pieces of paper.

Again undaunted, Kiki’s response was “I made a big mistake. I only showed them what they had to gain from cleaning up their surroundings. I did not show them what they had to lose from not doing so”.

One day he just didn't show up. I waited and waited, with the occasional and increasingly more anxious glance at my watch.

Maybe I was mistaken. Did I forget an arrangement to meet another day? Hmmm. But we always met on Tuesdays and Fridays at 10:00am. Every Tuesday and Friday for the last 10 months. Always. We would finish just in time for me to get to my hatha yoga class at 11:30 and for him to get to one of his other jobs.

Maybe a message was inadvertently erased. Frantically I checked, but there were no missed phone calls, not even from Francisco, the only person we knew in common.
I called three, maybe four times. No response. To my chagrin, I finally realized that the message in Spanish was trying to alert me that his number was no longer in service.

Marco, who had become well-acquainted with our usual orders, one cappuccino and a croissant, and one black coffee with a chicken empanada, reluctantly canceled Paolo’s usual. I paid my bill adding a small tip. He sensed my disappointment and concern, hugged me for a brief moment and continued attending to customers.

Dejected, perturbed and fearing the worst, I left our little cafe at 10:45 a.m. with a heavy heart, stopping to glance over my shoulder a few times as I walked back to my car.

I never saw or heard from Paolo again.

Panama was my choice for retirement.... Boquete to be exact. Lushly pristine, with its rolling mountains and cool climes, Boquete was indeed a rare hidden gem.

A nature-lover and bird-watcher's paradise, a veritable treasure lying at the base of the impressive Volcan Baru. Life was also well spent there, with folks who knew how to live it…to the last drop. I chose to call Boquete, home.

But I found myself at this crossroad in my life. A predicament if you will. A major decision needed to be made. Did I really need to learn Spanish to fully appreciate this new phase of life? For sure, one could get by, and very easily so, with just English. But deep in my being, I sensed that if I truly wanted to experience the intimacy that I craved, I would need to make a significant commitment.

Just from daily life, which included reading signs in Panama and other countries where English was not the primary language, I realized that there was more to learning a language, than merely the basics. So as not to make the interesting blunders that I saw so many non-English speakers make when they spoke my language, I thought it best to make sure I learned the fundamentals and more, of theirs. Sadly, this would require dedication, more than mere memorization of grammar and a few superficial, casual greetings.

To be perfectly honest, there were some non-altruistic motivations to my desire. I, too wanted to enjoy the humor of witty Spanish comedy. I longed to enjoy the experience of jocular interactions and not be constantly avoided because my command of their language was so poor.

This self-imposed challenge would demand time, effort, commitment, perseverance, determination and unfortunately a significant chunk of change. It was the only way forward in minimizing the occurrence of that proverbial deer in the headlight. What's that word in Spanish again? Why did I keep forgetting? It was time to un-master the phrase "Mas despacio, por favor". Why should someone have to speak slower because I chose to move to their country?

And so I somehow convinced myself, beyond a shadow of a doubt, or so I thought, that I was up to the task. I was ready to open the doors to this new chapter of my life. And fluency in Spanish was my goal.

Some people waltz in to your life and just like that, waltz back out without giving you a chance to realize they had even attended the dance. Others take up residence and before you know it, you're holding them close and very dear.

Paolo was in the latter category. I don't even remember how I met him, when I met him, or even why I met him. My first recollection of this young man was the two of us sitting in that very same cafe for my inaugural Spanish lesson. I would never have imagined someone in his mid-twenties could find the keys to my mind and and to my heart, opening them both to a new and amazing world. Paolo was that someone.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about Paolo. Nothing striking about his appearance. He stood several centimeters shorter than I did, but that fit the profile of so many other Panamanians that it was not at all striking. With no obviously outstanding features, Paolo would struggle to stand out even in the smallest of crowds. He was (initially) fairly well- groomed, soft-spoken, very professional and reserved. He carried himself with almost an air of aloofness.

Paolo hailed from the Ngäbe-Buglé Comarca, Panama's largest indigenous community. These indigenous people also live in Southwestern Costa Rica. Most of his people lived on a remote reservation in what was to me, mysteriously known as "The Comarca". I learned that his twice-yearly trips back home involved rugged, potholed, deserted roads and a 12-hour round trip by bus. Sadly, I am yet to visit.

The Ngabe-Bugle Comarca in Veraguas Province, Panama

I had had many opportunities for interaction with Boquete's indigenous people, having served as a volunteer in numerous and varied capacities. To me, they all appeared to have similar traits. Each one was pensive, quiet, very soft-spoken, reserved and… yes, distant. “Thank you” was not a phrase that they appeared to have learned, because few, if any, ever said those two words that seemed so simple to me. They frequently turned, and walked away when something was gifted them. I was left to wonder if there was just a vast cultural difference, if they genuinely felt entitled, with therefore no need to show gratitude, or if they were just too shy, with such low self-esteem, to express any sentiments whatsoever. No matter how hard I tried to understand them, these people did not cease to befuddle me.

The Ngabe had deep roots in The Comarca. Many left the confines of the community, oft-times for extended periods, to find work, education or family in the far away valley of Boquete. They came to till the soil and tend to Boquete's numerous coffee plantations. They provided manual or domestic labor for her homes, fields and gardens. The fortunate few, came to receive an education.

For many of the indigenous, their living conditions were nothing short of abominable. The subsidized housing provided for them was in desperately short supply and was substandard at best. To qualify for this housing, some member of the household had to be employed by plantations that frequently paid poorly. If one was ambitious enough to seek a better paying job, they risked becoming unhoused.

Boquete’s world-renowned Geisha coffee bean
Reliable and consistent access to electricity, (an incomprehensible bane of Panama and especially of Boquete) was not part of their daily vocabulary. Their children attended schools which were severely lacking in terms of supplies and dedicated teachers. Many did not have the benefit of nutritious, balanced meals.

Children of The Comarca

The Ngäbe-Buglé people were a reclusive group, making it difficult to address their many problems, not the least of which were teen pregnancy, alcoholism, and incest. Young fathers frequently moved on to a less stressful way of life, while teenaged mothers were saddled with the task of child-rearing on limited budgets. They were often assisted by grandmothers, just shy of 40 years of age.

15-year old mother with physical and mental disabilities breast feeding her premature infant

La Nagua The traditional attire of Ngabe-Bugle women with a Chacara, the crossbody woven bag used by men
This tragically vicious cycle perpetuated itself. And regrettably, the Panamanian government and its many thriving businesses appeared to have relegated this large swath of its population to the proverbial back-burner. Try as I might, I had great difficulty bridging the gap, no.... the gorge, of communication with any of the Ngäbe people with whom I had interacted with thus far. They avoided eye contact at all costs. Soft-spoken and reticent, it was not for want of a common language. There was something deeper. Much deeper.

Interestingly, I had experienced a similar phenomenon with the Alaskan native community and with other indigenous North and South American tribes with which I had the privilege of interaction. I attributed my instinct to the hundreds of years of abuse, neglect, displacement, and attempts at being made to feel inferior and unworthy, that their people had suffered. I surmised that all of these, understandably, had resulted in a profound mistrust of anyone who was foreign to their tribe.

Paolo was no different. His personality appeared distant, cold and I dare say, troubled.
I wavered, wanting to call it quits after the first 2 classes. To be fair, these first two sessions were challenging and dull, since they were primarily aimed at assessing my limited command of the language. I was ready to give up . Not only was learning the language a challenge in itself, but I found myself having to come to terms with a person representing a culture that I didn't understand, and to which I couldn't relate.

Who was I fooling? Was it really worth it? Most of the world doesn't speak Spanish anyway. I resolved to tell him in person that I was no longer interested in learning this language.

But what I had failed to realize, was that in those 2 classes, not only was I assessing Paolo, but that this 20-something year-old young man, was astute enough to understand the importance of spending quality time, assessing me. While paying close attention to my limitations with the language, he studied carefully the person who I was, and without realizing it, I had told him of my goals, dreams, my hobbies, my interests and my past, all in my pitifully broken Spanish.

My love for poetry had struck a chord with him. At the beginning of the next class, Paolo wasted no time introducing me to a phrase from a Spanish poem that would forever change my view on life, and strangely, of him. The famous Spanish poet, Antonio Machado's words, "Caminante, no hay camino" (Traveler, there is no road), that morning, left such an impression on me that there was no turning back.

The poem was profound and a perfect choice for this exact moment in my life. Its message was clear. As we walk the trails of life, we make our own path. Nothing is predetermined. The path we choose will determine our life's reflection. There is no trail. We must each blaze our own. I could take the easier route of walking away, never learning this language….or I could plod along.

Paolo's choice of a such a deep, thought-proving poem, gave me pause. It reflected a level of maturity far beyond his age. I looked at him through a totally different lens, and decided against the odds, to have him accompany me on my trail through this new chapter of life. It was a decision I was not to regret.

So we walked along the figurative trail of life twice a week, with the hope that eventually, I might look back at an exciting journey to fluency. The classes frequently went over time by 15 or even 20 minutes, and always at no extra charge. Each one was so intriguing, so fascinating. Paolo proved himself a underestimated genius.

Who would have thought that someone born in Panama would not learn Spanish until he was 5 years old? Much of Paolo's childhood, was spent in one of Panama's six Comarcas. These large swaths of land were recognized by independent laws and ruled by the indigenous peoples. Paolo was fluent in two of the many indigenous languages, even before he learned Spanish. His English was serviceable, but we always spoke in Spanish.

It is embarrassing how shocked I was to learn that he had already completed a 4-year degree in Biochemistry at university and had been pursuing postgraduate studies but sadly ran out of funding. There were no compatible jobs in his field, and so he resorted to teaching Spanish. How wrong of me to assume simplicity, and dare I say ignorance!!! I had seen it fit to place this unassuming young man, neatly in the tightly wrapped box of my limited imagination and prejudice.

As he became more comfortable, Paolo shared drips and tidbits of his story. There was an intimacy to each conversation with many frequent pauses for reflection. I reckoned that he had not been inclined to divulge this information to too many other people.

He lived with his grandparents here in Boquete. I never bothered to ask where. Something I continue to regret. In hindsight, I'm not sure if he would have told me. He described a fraught relationship with his biological family. His abusive father disappeared when he was just a toddler, just a few days after severely beating his mother. At the time, they were both approaching their twenties. As with similar scenarios, his young mother, desperate for assistance with a little baby, moved on to another partner, who would father two more children.

Wash, rinse and repeat. Paolo was unsure how many siblings his father had blessed him with, but his mother gave him three. With two other men. He alluded to continued abuse within the household. Suffice it to say, he had precious little to do with any of them. He wiped away a tear.

We continued forging our trail. He walked me through the rudiments of basic Spanish. We spoke no English in any class, which was initially a very daunting task, but the bar seemed to lower itself with each passing class. And in spite of myself, conversation began to spew.

The dreaded homework, when I chose to do it, involved an unimaginable and mind-boggling variety of fascinating discussions. Paolo did not play. Through casual conversation we managed to touch on the innuendos of grammar, vocabulary and of great importance, on the various tenses, not the least of which was the infamous subjunctive, every Spanish student's nightmare. In a strangely, peculiar way, Paolo made the process interesting and fun.

One of the most challenging assignments, was when he insisted I write a synopsis of my visit to the Prada Museum in Spain. I was to expound on the painting that left the deepest impression on me. Using the preterite tense, the imperfect, and others that I am sure I fabricated, I saw Hieronymus Bosch’s, The Garden of Earthly Delights, in an entirely new light. This time, from a Spanish perspective.

Paolo came alive during discussions of the diverse flora and fauna of the Amazon and of his Native Panama. He had done his graduation thesis in Leticia on the Colombian side of the Amazon. We discussed native plants like the versatile bijao. I learned that it was probably the most equivalent thing to ecological Tupperware as it was almost impenetrable and very durable. He would frequently bring his morning snack wrapped in a large, beautiful oval-shaped bijao leaf.

The versatile and beautiful Bijao

He was no cook, but he knew that the leaf imparted a unique flavor to whatever dish was prepared in it. There was occasionally enough to share and I savored every bite. Thanks to Paolo, many a Sunday meal has since been prepared using the leaves of my very own bijao plant. I planted it myself, that same day after that class.

El Mono, a traditional Panamanian meal served in Bijao

Paolo was ardently studying German. He was currently at an intermediate level and conversed regularly with German acquaintances he had met online. His hope was eventually to attain fluency in a fourth language. Why? Just because.

He knew the name and tweet of every bird that graced the bushes of our little cafe. Panama's Bin Bin, the Yellow-crowned Euphonia, was particularly unique. We made sure to scatter tiny crumbs of bread to attract this highly-energetic gift of nature, with its heavenly voice and brilliant yellow plumage. Several of Panama's almost 1,000 bird species, including the resplendent quetzal and its national bird, the Harpy Eagle provided additional fodder for my dreaded homework.

How embarrassed I am to say that I had pigeon-holed this brilliant young man into a box labeled "Not worth the interaction".

The Harpy Eagle, Panama’s National Bird

Our trail led us to the comparison of cultures....Asian, Western, Spanish and Indigenous cultures. My eyes were constantly being opened to stupid prejudices and the inherent brainwashing, I had succumbed to living in the western world. I now had to reflect on my own value systems during our profound discussions. So, who really would be an ideal lifelong partner? Why should a partner be for life? Why not change to something easier if relationships became difficult?

He assured me that few, if any, indigenous women, had aspirations of acquiring a tall, handsome, well-educated man. And it was fascinating to consider that they were not inclined to be attracted to English-speaking men. Height, good looks, straight noses, fairer skin, jewelry, ambition, and even wealth, all played such a miniscule part in his life, that he struggled to find words for them in the two indigenous languages that he knew.

We dissected love songs from famous Spanish artists like Juan Luis Guerra and Maná. I was intrigued by the frequent use of elaborate metaphors in Spanish music. Small wonder that Juan Luis Guerra's Burbujas de Amor, was censored shortly after its release in 1990. I want to be a fish forever swimming in your aquarium and being constantly wet with your love. What profound imagery!!!!

We mused on the many ironies of the Spanish culture and its people. Salsa and merengue dancers, who, with excitement and vigor, add grace and poise to life and death scenarios. A culture that so effortlessly made light of the tragedy of “Pedro Navaja”. Panama's renowned 12-time Grammy Award winner Rubén Blades wrote this masterpiece and hid in it, a most profound message. “La Vida Te Da Sorpresa”. The words of a lucky, drunkard who came upon Pedro Navaja's lifeless body, lying next to that of a prostitute on the streets of New York. The drunk happily pocketed the knife, a firearm and their money and stepped over the lifeless bodies. Life indeed has a tendency to surprise, and one of those surprises might even be death. In spite of the gravity of the lyrics, Latinos swirled light-heartedly on the dance floor.

El Gran Varón by Willie Colon was particularly heart-rending. Paolo brushed back tears, and became visibly emotional, as we talked about the protagonist of this song Simon Simon, El Gran Varón who was shunned by his proud and unaccepting father and eventually died in the same hospital in which he was born, alone, and un-mourned…of HIV. And to Simon’s father, Colon’s message was the importance of forgiveness. “El que nunca perdona, tiene destino cierto de vivir amargos recuerdos en su propio infierno”. He who cannot forgive is certain to live a life of bitter memories in his own hell. Paolo could not hold back his tears.

That day, it dawned on me that there was indeed something remarkable about Paolo's appearance. I had not given thought to him being rather effeminate. In hindsight he only seemed to have male friends. How strange that I had not noticed this before.

But, there was one homework assignment that was by far the most challenging. Having to write it entirely in Spanish was surprisingly not the concern. But having to be honest was.

I was asked to write about a situation in life that I sincerely wished I could change. Climate change, poverty, hatred, among so many others sprung to mind. But there was one burning desire, whose time I thought had come. It was becoming far too frequent, and as a consequence, extremely uncomfortable.

Paolo came to class unusually late, around 10:15, one day. There was a sizeable bruise on the left side of his face. He had donned a poorly-fitting baseball cap that made his head look way too small. And, despite the day being overcast, he sported ridiculously large, dark shades. He did not remove either for the rest of the class.

What was sadly more telling, was that this elephant in the room, was supposed to go unnoticed. That fateful day, my eyes were opened to a different language. The language of compassion. But once again, the deer in the headlight, reared its ugly Spanish head. I couldn’t find the words.

It was a Tuesday morning. Almost noon. Did he fall? Had he been in a fight? Was he drunk? I was left to wonder, because he began and ended the class without any explanation.

Sadly the answers became apparent in short order. Paolo, always one to be prompt and prepared, kept showing up late. A few weeks after the initial revelation, he came to class, clearly intoxicated. He was still functional, and to his credit, brilliantly so. But it was now clear, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had a serious problem.

For several classes I endured the smell of stale alcohol, and became accustomed to the dark sunglasses and an intermittently puffy, distorted face. So when I was asked to write on a topic that I desperately would love to change, I chose to write how much I wished that an unidentified Spanish teacher, whom I had grown to love and cherish, would get help for what was obviously a debilitating addiction.

It was undoubtedly the steepest and most treacherous of Machado's winding trail.

Paolo appeared gracious, and read the two-paged essay in the spirit in which it was intended. Ever the professor, and through tears, he corrected grammar and spelling as he went along. We hugged for a long time and we both cried....in Spanish. Honestly my command of the language at that time did not allow me to understand what Paolo was currently going through, what he tried to say. But sometimes words are unnecessary, and spoken language no longer becomes a barrier.

We had several other normal and uneventful classes after that. I don't remember how many there were. But Paolo appeared to have managed to get it together enough to present himself as the brilliantly intelligent, resourceful, font of knowledge that I had grown to know and love over the past 10 months.

And then that day, he just didn't show up for class.

So I enthusiastically, but stupidly, joined the Happy Hiker’s group of retirees in Alaska once I said goodbye to the working world. At age 60, I did not give a minute of consideration to what was involved in going hiking with this dedicated group of adventurers. After all, most of the 40 or so people in the group, were in their 70s and 80s. They were aged, old and possibly decrepit. But I had heard so much about them during my almost 4 years in Alaska that I was eager to become part of their tribe.

Hiking was not new to me. Whether alone or in a group, it had become one of my many pastimes, indeed one of my greatest pleasures, living in this strange Land of the Midnight Sun. I consider myself so very fortunate to have been challenged to this sport by a remarkable group of elderly women, Judith, Maggie, Jeanie, and Mindy. These 4 Alaskan transplants were determined to show me their version of what is undoubtedly, America’s most unbelievable state. And so every weekend, they made it a point to introduce me to a different mountain. And there were hundreds of summits from which to choose in the awe-inspiring Chugach and Alaska Mountain ranges which were nearby. The Great One, Denali, formally known as Mt McKinley, was part of the latter group of mountains, and at over 20,000 feet, Denali dwarfed every other summit on the continent.

So we trekked The Coastal Trail at sunrise, being constantly in awe of its stunning views, especially that of the snow-capped Sleeping Lady, Mount Susitna. We hiked Mt. Baldy, the punishingly challenging 11-mile excursion that topped us out at 10,000 feet and demanded 6 hours of our day. I got home at 1:30pm and went straight to sleep until the next morning. Flattop Mountain, Alaska’s most climbed peak, was one of our favorite, but then again, so was the Matanuska Glacier Trail where we literally walked on the ice of a glacier.

Winners Creek in Girdwood took us through a gorgeous northern rain forest, meandering along the edge of a river gorge and ending at the thrill-seekers dream…..the famous Hand Tram. This huge green metal cage was undoubtedly the highlight of the hike. The large swinging basket held 4 people who were required to manually pull themselves using a horizontal cable across the Glacier Creek, all the while being suspended 100 feet above the rushing water. The ride was nothing short of exhilarating. It would take about 5 minutes depending on how hard each person pulled. Unfortunately the Hand Tram was permanently decommissioned after a hiker slipped, missed the safety net and fell to his death.

We learned about each other along the way. What fascinating lives they each led. From a Ph.D in Sociology, to a professor of Russian studies, to a high school history teacher, to a self-made business hand-made cosmetics entrepeneur, my ladies, as I lovingly called them, taught me everything I thought I needed to know about hiking. I learned survival gems along the way. Who knew that moose lack facial expression, but that their ears were a give-away? If a moose’s ears were straight up or forward, it was merely being calm and curious. Just walk on by….. as swiftly as you could. Ears back was a serious warning sign. A mother moose or bear with her off-spring was a force to be reckoned with and to be avoided at all costs. I learned to quickly hide behind a tree if we ever encountered danger…which we did on many an occasion.

Fecal matter, otherwise known as animal poop was the topic of several hikes and many lessons to be learned. Moose poop in the winter was firm, compact, brown oval pellets resembling chocolate-covered almonds. In the summer, it was loose and moist. Bear poop varied greatly based on the diet of the bear. It ranged from dark brown to black and if it was steaming hot, you knew you were up shit’s creek.

It was not unusual to come upon the dead carcass of a moose, rabbit or caribou which had been killed the night before. So I quickly learned to identify lynx footprints from bear ones, or from those of wolves. Every hike was an adventure, an education of sorts, on nature, on life and yes, even on death. One morning, we had the amazingly indescribable experience of watching a bald eagle scoop down from mile high to capture an artic hare. I am still not sure how I had the presence of mind to take a photograph. So many of those experiences are etched permanently in my memory, but unfortunately were not able to be captured on film.

Like the postal service of old, neither sub-zero temperatures, blizzard, sleet, snow, nor rain would stop my ladies from teaching me everything they knew of The Last Frontier. They led very active lives, and so much to my chagrin, preferred “to get their hiking out of the way” very early in the mornings. And since, I was the focus of each hike, on a Sunday morning at 7:00am, I had no choice but to be up and out the door. With not a moment of regret.

So joining the Happy Hikers was a natural extension of this new-found passion. Recently retired I would have more time to hike, and now, not just on weekends. I felt extremely prepared. I was so confident that I did absolutely no research on the mountain for my first adventure. What could be worse than Baldy? In hindsight, I did think it strange, and thought the group overly dramatic, when they sent out written and very detailed information about the hike a few days prior. Oh old people, with nothing to do, was my immediate reaction. To be fair, my ladies had coddled me for 3+ years and since I knew they had my back, I never really had to consider whatever challenges lay ahead.

I arrived at the trailhead at Powerline Pass bubbling with excitement at the appointed time. My backpack was loaded with bear spray, a toasty warm hat made from wolverine fur lined with beaver underfur, extra silk clothing, a balaclava, hand and toe warmers, 2 scarves, home-made granola bars, a tuna sandwich, and lots of water. With my penchant for Raynaud’s Syndrome, I made sure to insert toe warmers in my hiking boots prior to leaving the house. I also packed a pair of silk gloves to serve as liners for the extra warm seal skin ones lined with polar bear fur, that my brother had graciously gifted me when I began this new and exciting chapter of my life in Alaska.

At the trailhead was a large group of about 40 excited hikers all way over 65 years. We scuttled around, chatted and took group pictures as we were getting organized. They wore their title of “Happy Hikers” to perfection. Ralph was assigned the first-aid kit, Sam, holding the triangular flag high, was to be our guide, Maribel and Russel had the walkie talkies. They were so extremely organized. Everybody else knew each other. I was the only newbie. I quickly realized that this experience was going to be a fascinating one, if only because of the diversity of the motley crowd I was in.

We were to climb Ptarmigan Peak, with its reputation as one of the most beautiful treks in all of Alaska. I had never hiked it before and could not hide my excitement. The first leg was a breeze. It was a ramble through very dense, but flat, thick, bushy land. Out came the machetes from the unusually large backpacks of both men and women. The ones up front, whacked a path for those behind to move along. My ladies never carried machetes!!! We always traveled on well-trodden trails. How very odd!!

As we plodded along, I chatted for a while with two petite East-Indian female twins. They were both retired physicians, so we had a lot in common to discuss as they wielded their machetes skillfully and gracefully, helping to clear a path. They were probably in their 70’s and were obviously extremely experienced hikers. As we walked they casually shared stories of their recent previous summits which included tiny mountains like Everest, Aconcagua, and Denali!!!. Somehow, it was slowly dawning on me, that I was seriously out of my league.

Upon starting our journey, I was among the first 10 or so, and was plodding along famously. But for some very strange reason, I found myself chatting with folks who were further and further and further back. An hour later. I was at the very rear of the group. We had finally come to the bottom of Ptarmigan Peak when someone cheerfully pointed out the infamous and imposing, Suicide Mountain which rose across the valley on the other side. I looked up towards the now-apparent Ptarmigan Peak, a pyramid-like, massive monstrosity of a mountain, and quickly became aware that a small puddle had collected in my trousers.

But there was no turning back. More than half the hikers, including my tiny twins, were already on their way up, and since I did not have a gun, a machete, or any way to defend myself from a moose or bear, my only option was to follow them. Straight up. Vertically.

“Rosalie you’re the sweeper”. The last few trekkers who arrived at the base of the mountain with us, reminded Rosalie of this seemingly important phrase before they hurried on, anxious to get to the top. A phrase that was yet of no significance to me….whatsoever. I found myself alone with a 5ft 10in, gentle giant of a lady named Rosalie, who reassured me that we were taking the less steep slope of the mountain. Since it was just me and her left, and she seemed to have no intention of turning back, I mumbled a few prayers and followed her blindly, straight up that mountain.

As is done so often when hiking, we quickly fell a-talking. Rosalie was eager to chat, and I was all ears. I learned that she was 75 years old and had been a Physics professor at The University of Alaska, Anchorage. With my first degree in Pure and Applied Physics, at least we had one thing in common. She had had her left hip replaced 2 months prior. I therefore considered it a great honor that I would be there to help her, should she need me. And I told her just that.

She was so engaging, that I did not even realize the landscape was changing from dense green vegetation to the barren low-growing moss and shrubs of the Alaskan Artic tundra. There was not a tree in sight and the patches of snow grew larger and larger as we ascended rapidly. I started adding layers of clothing as the temperature plummeted. The hand warmers came in very handy, as did the double gloves. The air was getting very rare, and on more than several occasions, I had to pause because I was so short of breath. Rosalie, however, was unfazed.

Reality set in quickly. We were climbing this now almost 90-degree mountain, scrambling amidst loose rocks. Why was I so unable to keep up?? Rosalie who had just had her hip replaced, would scale a huge boulder first and reach a hand out to pull me up after. I spent the greater part of the 6-hour journey at the back of this rather large group, the eldest of whom was 89!!!

So while I struggled to keep my breath and footing, Rosalie happily and effortlessly told me of her weekend caribou hunt, 4 days ago. She had ventured out, alone, and garnered a 200 lb catch. Her excitement as she related the story was palpable. She described to me how she packed the caribou into her knapsack after “preparing” it on the field. Why did I feel the need to ask what preparing meant? She looked at me as if I had 2 heads, and carefully explained how she cut the caribou into quarters and wrapped it with cheese cloth. Why cheese cloth Rosalie? Was my obvious question...... To keep the flies away of course.

So “naturally” she was limping a bit today out of exhaustion, because the catch was about 5 km from the highway and she had to haul it all the way back to the car by making 3 trips. I was unsure if altitude sickness was the reason I was hearing what I was hearing. So on to stupid question number 3. Why didn’t she use something like an ATV? Rosalie was calm and composed, but I could tell that she was finding my questions, a bit pedantic. Didn’t everybody know that the use of ATVs or other motorized devices were illegal when hunting in Alaska? Rosalie made me to understand that one has to physically carry one’s catch, back to one’s vehicle, no matter how far away one’s vehicle was.

I couldn’t help myself but ask. Weren’t you afraid that a bear or another animal might come and attack you for your catch? I am sure I heard a loud sigh. Why do you think I carry a rifle and 2 handguns? She called the names of the individual weapons, but possibly because of lack of oxygen, complete exhaustion or a combination of both, they fell on deaf ears.

Eye roll, as I asked yet another dumb question “Why didn’t you carry a wagon?” You’re in the bush and having to whack a path just to get to and from the animal. How will you have room for any wagon? I was silent for a few, but if only to distract myself from the vertical mountain above and below, I continued the conversation.

Stupid question number 10 finally came when she mentioned she had extremely poor vision because of macular degeneration in her right eye. “And you went hunting with a rifle? How are you able to see your target?”

I swear she was going to smack me straight down the bottom of the mountain. “ I have another eye you know”.

Rosalie earned her sainthood that day. She stayed patiently with me all the way up to the peak. Me and my ridiculously obvious questions. She was so very helpful whenever we got to difficult places along the way, helping me and pulling me, and cheering me along when I wanted to give up. The last 100 feet up required a considerable amount of scrambling with lots of loose rock. It was definitely not for the faint of heart.

We finally arrived at the peak, more than 5,000 foot above sea level. So what if we got there at least an hour after the rest of the team. We had climbed an elevation gain of over 3000 feet in 4 hours. I vaguely remembered an aquamarine, very large and stunningly beautiful body of water at the peak. It may have been a mirage from my severe lack of oxygen. The sweeping 360-degree views of the Anchorage Bowl, including Flattop Mountain and the imposing surrounding Chugach Mountains were all but lost on me from sheer exhaustion. But to be honest, I can only imagine it was thrillingly dizzying.

Coming back down was less intense but no less dangerous. It was after all a vertical slope. We did it in 2 hours with Rosalie at my side all the way back to the car park. Bless her. My own teddy bear of a guardian angel with her brand new hip. She gave me a big hug and surprisingly said she wished to see me on their next hike.

It was then and only then, that I learned the meaning of the term “sweeper”….. a word which I had been hearing all day. As Rosalie drove off in her F-450 Super Duty pickup truck, which had a prominent sticker labeled “Your Horizons Are Limitless”, someone shouted to her “Thanks for being the sweeper”.

Rosalie was the person elected for this particular hike to stay with the stragglers (me) and make sure everyone is accounted for.

Never in my 60 years of life could I imagine needing to be babysat for 6 hours by a half blind, 75-year-old lady, 2 months status post hip replacement, who was able to haul 200 lb of caribou over 6 km, drove an F-450 and could climb to the top of a mountain faster than me.

It was a quiet night in the pediatric emergency room that December 22nd 2005. We were kept busy by the usual suspects. A 5 year-old walked in proudly and bravely with her dad. In an effort to look as pretty as her mom, our little tike had successfully inserted a Christmas tree ornament into her right earlobe. With minimal sedation, she was in and out, to continue spreading her Christmas cheer.

EMS brought in a 17 year-old male, who was an unrestrained back-seat passenger in a minor motor vehicular collision. He suffered a mild concussion after he flew from the rear of the car and hit his head on the console. He wore a large bloody gash on his forehead. We cleaned up the wound, applied 4 sutures, prescribed 3 days of antibiotics, cautioned him and his parents about the importance of seatbelts, even in the rear of a car, and sent him on his way.

Things were moving along swimmingly. A 12-hour shift tends to go faster when there is steady, but not over-whelming volume. I had already had a full day’s work at my office earlier, so I welcomed a slow and manageable pace. Ironically, we all preferred a little bit of constant action to boredom. But in an emergency room, as in life, we are not privy to calling the shots.

A febrile 12 year-old, with severe abdominal pain radiating to the right lower quadrant, hobbled in with anxious parents. She had been unwell for several days and started vomiting earlier that day. There was no blood in the vomitus. She was pale and dehydrated and her vital signs were concerning. Selena was prompt in obtaining blood work, while starting an intravenous drip with normal saline. We anxiously awaited her lab results. Isabelle, our competent charge nurse, alerted the on-call general surgeon of the suspected emergency and accompanied the child to get an ultrasound. Acute appendicitis was her ticket for a stat visit to the operating theater. We moved on, ready for who was next in the waiting room.

There probably were two or three cases of gastroenteritis from a persistent virus that was wreaking havoc in the schools. Harry, our cute little efficient, mobile robot, transported the samples of urine, blood, nasal swabs and stool to the laboratory as programmed, while IV hydration dutifully ensued over a few hours. Thankfully, there was no need for spinal taps that night since no one presented with the dreaded neck stiffness or severe headache indicating the possibility of meningitis. And in due time, pale, moribund faces were brought back to life, and limp, languid offspring, became their feisty selves again. Once adequately rehydrated, given their justly-deserved stickers, each left with grateful parents.

Then there was that stench! A never-to-be-forgotten, disgustingly putrid smell that wafted through the double doors even before the 14 year-old to whom it belonged, could present herself. The poor little thing had stolen one of her mother’s tampons, to use for the first time….four days ago. She was unhappy with the string that dangled “unnecessarily” out of her vagina and with the careful use of a mirror she was successful in cutting it off. She and her mother had made futile attempts all day to remove the firmly lodged tampon, after a rancid smell persisted in permeating the entire house.

Dr. Kaplan and yours truly, were the only two pediatricians in house that evening and him, being a male, kindly and ever so graciously, consented to my undertaking the job of its removal. I donned surgical attire, complete with cap, fully transparent face mask, double gloves and blue floor-length gown, and with speculum and forceps in hand, held my breath for as long as I possibly could. The little virgin screamed and writhed in pain as I tore her hymen inserting the speculum. Her mother held her hand, and Selena and Isabelle assisted by gently keeping her restrained. After what seemed like hours, a golf ball-sized, coffee colored, disgusting object expelled itself, and was followed by a explosion of the most foul-smelling, thick dark red effluent, which somehow found the most unusual places to land.

Isabelle with her cheeks puffed up, bolted to the bathroom to throw up. Every member of the housekeeping staff, including the ones on break, were summoned to our little section of the ER that most memorable night. It took 5 people more than an hour to get the stench and blood off and out of everywhere.

Once we were all able to breath normally again, and considered our work done for the night, Miss Icie, our front desk clerk, reminded us that she had brought her classic and irresistible, Jamaican Christmas cake. Selena’s grandmother’s tamales, with a tantalizing chimichurri sauce and my freshly-squeezed home-made orange-mango juice, completed the almost-midnight feast. We loved this time together. It was not something at all to be guaranteed, and so we did not take it for granted. Some nights there was not even enough time for a run to the loo, grabbing a bite for dinner, or even, as it was too often necessary, to cry. And therefore, whenever it became available, we cherished a few minutes of down-time together.

We were a team of six. Working 12-hour shifts every three nights, meant that we were frequently in-house together. We were extremely close. We knew each others’ strengths and worked around weaknesses. Isabelle, our nurse-in-charge had 11 years of experience and was extremely knowledgeable. I had seen her rise through the ranks of nursing and had even mentored her at my own office while she was in training. She took all the information she learned and ran with it. She was childless, having lost her husband to the Gulf War, and she admirably assumed the maternal role to every child who graced our doors. Isabelle captained the tight ship that was our team, and steered us through many a stormy night.

Dr Kaplan was in his mid 40’s, trained in Pediatric Emergency medicine, had a Master’s degree in Public Health, volunteered as a soccer coach at his synagogue, and somehow still managed to have 7 children. Unlike me. he did not have his own private practice to tend to, but we both agreed that his brood at home was the more challenging of options. Rebecca, his wife, was an exceptional stay-at-home mom. The two of them juggled karate, swimming, piano and Hebrew lessons, family vacations and, just life, together. The kids were adorable and ranged in age from 19 year-old Noah, to a newborn named Sarah. Mitchell, his 3 year old son, was not at all happy when Sarah replaced him as the baby 4 months ago.

Miss Icie was our trusted unit secretary. She had been on staff for over 30 years and knew the ropes well. Nobody messed with Miss Icie. Patient information was gathered accurately, orders entered promptly into the computer and discharges were timely. Miss Icie performed her tasks with a diligence and zeal that was lacking in so many other hospital employees. She was approaching retirement and we treasured every moment with her.

Naima, our medical assistant, and undoubtedly the shyest of our group, was still being trained, having recently completed her probationary period. Her quietness was however not to be underestimated. Naima took and even retook vital signs without prompting when necessary. Her intuition was that good. She restrained patients, and started IVs as if her life depended on it. Whether the challenge was a screaming baby, an intoxicated teen, or an uncontrollable 7 year old, we could depend on her to get the job done, with firmness and a gentle kindness we all admired and loved. She was excitedly preparing for her upcoming wedding, to which we were all invited.

Selena was our registered nurse. Exceptionally gifted in her field, she had dreams of becoming a Nurse Practitioner. Like me, she also had arduous 8-hour days, prior to clocking in at 7pm for our 12 hour stints. I tried to maintain as cheerful a spirit as she always did. At 24 years of age, she dedicated her salary to her studies, and so was happy to live rent-free with her grandparents. We were happy for her too, especially since her grandma Giovanna, a most traditional Latina, delighted in feeding the five thousand.

We knew everybody’s family members by name and had been to each others’ homes on many an occasion. Dr. Kaplan was to have us over for a pool party for Hannukah celebrations on Dec 27th. And as she did every year, Miss Icie was preparing her Christmas spread on Dec 26th. She called it “Boxing Day.”

Around 11pm, when we were sufficiently satiated, Selena and Naima began calling my pediatric office’s number repeatedly, just to hear my husband’s voice on the recording. I did not give thought to how soothing his voice was until, they drew my attention to it. Who knew!! Those were the days before TikTok and the pervasive use of cellphones. They happily whiled away the night with such triviality whenever possible.

Dr. Kaplan had brought his photo album and excitedly showed me a bunch of family pictures of his kids and him on a ski trip to Vail last December. Rebecca, being in her first trimester of pregnancy, and wanting to spend some quality time with Mitchell, chose to stay at home with him. We discussed a few of the patients that challenged us recently and checked on some lab results that had been pending from our previous shift. He closed the photo album and dozed off on the chair beside me. I called 2 patients who gave me some concern during the day at the office, and once I was assured that they were well, settled down to read a relaxing book. Isabelle and Miss Icie chatted in a corner about Christmas chores still needing their attention.

At 11:32 pm, the operator alerted us of an impending emergency. Icie rushed to her computer, and she an Isabelle began recording details…..Code Blue in progress, unresponsive toddler, approximate weight 13kg, found at bottom of pool by family member, CPR ongoing x 6 minutes, vomited frothy liquid x 2, intraosseous needle in place in right tibia, successfully intubated and receiving 3 L oxygen, in full cardiac arrest, no rhythm, asystole, status post epinephrine via airway x 1 and via IO needle x 1, shocked x 1 with 25 Joules, about to increase to 50 Joules, requesting permission to administer Amiodarone. Advising of arrival in 75 seconds.

We were prepared. Dr. Kaplan jumped to attention. I readied the team. Sadly, we had been through similar scenarios on multiple occasions. We knew we each had a role to play. Selene secured the Code Cart, meticulously checking dosages of medications for the given weight. Naima rushed out to greet and direct the ambulance with the tiny gurney. Isabelle ensured that oxygen and IV fluids were ready. Dr. Connor, the pediatric intensivist was summoned from the PICU. She too, was attending to a critical child, but mercifully said, she would rush down as soon as she was able.

The stretcher with a lifeless, ghostly-white, 3 year-old rolled in. Mitchell had wandered into the family pool. He had transitioned from a crib to a real big-boy bed in preparation for Sarah’s birth 6 months ago. The paramedic reported his mother had last seen him when she tucked him into bed one hour before. We all knew he was dead on arrival, but we continued attempts at resuscitation for an inordinate amount of time. Honestly, I am not sure what role he was even able to play during that time, but at 12:41 am, I watched as Dr. Kaplan fell unconscious to the floor, when I pronounced his child dead. Dr. Connor arrived at the door shortly after and promptly kneeled at his side to revive him.

Naima nudged me gently and called my attention urgently to a wheezing 5 year-old with a reputation for the severity of his asthma attacks. He had been waiting for 40 minutes in Room #5 next door. Miss Icie had highlighted in bold, the history of 2 recent, pediatric intensive care admissions for asthma. I left Dr. Kaplan in Dr. Connor’s capable hands with Isabelle sapping his forehead.

Through the corner of my eye, I took note of the now full waiting room outside and also glimpsed a security guard and a police officer both hurriedly accompanying Rebecca and Noah through the ambulance entrance. I carefully averted my gaze and slipped into Room #5.

Hiding my tears, I attempted to offer my undivided attention to the critically-ill child and her desperate parents now presenting in front of me. There was no time or desire to share the details of what was happening next door. Selena and I now threw our efforts into saving this little, fragile life that was demanding every bit of our attention. All the while, we kept trying to unhear and distance our thoughts from the commotion, the wailing, the bawling, the pain of next door.

I was thrilled to have tickets to go see the “Importance of Being Earnest” at the Cyrano Theatre in East Anchorage one bitterly cold Friday night in February 2022. East Anchorage, hands down, took the prize as the least desirable part of the city and was not the ideal place for a lady to be driving alone, especially at night. But the hospital had generously offered complementary tickets for any employee who wanted to attend the show, so I was excited to sample a bit of the arts scene with a night out on the town.

Dr. Regal and I agreed to meet at the theater at 6:00 pm. Since there had been a blizzard the night before, we both were braving the one meter of snow on the sidewalks and the possibility of icy streets. To its credit, the City of Anchorage did an exceptional job when it came to snow mitigation, so much so, that usually there was very little effect on car, or even pedestrian traffic, after a huge snow storm. But still, caution was always advisable.

I avoided East Anchorage like the proverbial plague. Costco was in that neighborhood so on occasion, I did indeed have to go. When I did, I always tried to take at least one meal for one of the many destitute people living on its streets. So that evening, I left work at 5:00 pm to make a dash home to warm up some left-over dinner from the night before. I stupidly did not drive into the garage, but instead left the car in the driveway. To my dismay, I realized that the roof was kind enough to dump a heap of melting snow onto the car by the time I was ready to leave. Out came the shovel.

Shivering, and much later than I had planned, I finally headed to the show, with the intention of finding someone along the way who could benefit from a meal. I knew if I drove around long enough, a poor soul would become evident. Sadly, it is that bad of a crisis on the frozen streets of this major city. On many occasions, ambulances would bring rigid, lifeless bodies from the streets of East Anchorage to the emergency room. One terrible morning, an entire family of four was pronounced dead.

Anchorage had an inordinate number of unhoused men, women and sadly even children. Shelters like Covenant House and Brother Francis, struggled to do their best to provide emergency services and even short term stay. The Pathway Home and a few other facilities offered desperately needed mental health services. But the care was too often short-lived and, just as hope was on the horizon, the time and money for the much-needed services for that particular person, ran out. There never seemed to be enough help in terms of food, finances, or man-power to fill the vast need.

My time spent serving as a volunteer, opened my eyes to a sad reality. I became privy to the innumerable issues that not only caused the problem of homelessness, but perpetuated it. Mental health, drug abuse, addiction, broken families, domestic violence, unemployment and poverty were just the tip of the ice-berg. Sex and human trafficking, especially of young girls, lay low under the surface, along with so many other menaces of society.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the Sullivan Arena was temporarily converted into a mass homeless shelter to reduce the strain on emergency services. For a brief few years, the problem was alleviated, if only just slightly. But the city eventually phased out the program and returned the arena to its former function. Many residents of the community in the vicinity around the arena held to their stance “Not in my bad yard”. So the destitute returned to sleeping in cardboard boxes in sub-zero temperatures. Alcohol, sex, and heroin dulled their pain.

Such a shame to say, I was relieved when I saw an old Native-American man panhandling in the distance at the corner of Bragaw Street and DeBarr Road. I carefully surveyed the neighborhood as I parked the car, realizing that I would have to cross to the other side of the street to get to him. It was not a neighborhood I would even want to sit for any time in a car, far more, leave it parked and alone. And this being the dead of winter, the sun had long since set around 4:00pm, so I was relying on the unbelievably beautiful and radiant glow from the snow, reflecting the street lights for vision.

I was determined to make a go for it. Time was of the essence. The food was getting cold, Marcia was waiting for me since I had the tickets, and I was not sure I would find another needy person in short order. I scurried across the street towards him, balancing the styrofoam box with chicken, potato salad, and mixed vegetables and a small slice of carrot cake in a bag in one hand and a plastic bottle of iced tea in the other. The car keys were safely pocketed deep in my thick winter coat because for sure they would not be found until the spring, if I dropped them in that snow. I was careful to avoid any patches of ice, and tried desperately not to fall.

I know he did not see me, because his back was turned to me as I got out of the car. But for some odd reason, he started walking away from me. I kept hurrying towards him, as carefully, but as swiftly as I could. But he kept walking faster and faster away from me. Why was he making things so difficult? He appeared to be heading towards the back of an empty building. I was getting desperate because I know that the parked car was in a vulnerable place, and so was I. But I was gaining ground, and so I persisted.

He turned a corner and I hurriedly turned it behind him. Luck was with me, but unfortunately, not with him. I narrowly escaped a stream of urine from his dangling penis, as he was trying desperately to relieve himself against the wall at the back of the building. The urine froze in mid-air; as did the two of us.

We both looked at each other, and the tears started to flow. There were no words. What could either of us say? We were both so embarrassed. I did not even ask him his name. I gave him the bags and watched as he hurriedly walked away.

I can honestly say, I now have the dubiously unenviable position of almost being peed on by a homeless man in Alaska

Last Sunday morning, we decided to brunch after church at the nearby Jewish bakery. It’s one of our most frequented hideaways but the busyness of life had kept us away for several weeks. Its oversized backyard should really be renamed the Garden of Eden. Dozens of trees, laden with all varieties of fruits, bananas, guavas, papayas, guanábana, and so many other tropical delights, were all there for the picking.

The trees offered their shade for Sunday morning outdoor yoga classes, couples lying on blankets, anyone lounging with a good book and for rambunctious children who just had to climb.

What a pleasant surprise to see it being jazzed up a bit. Live violin music had recently been added to the all-Kosher menu of fresh bagels, knishes, sweet and savory pastries and excellent mountain coffee. We settled in for a treat.

A young waiter who was unfamiliar to us, came to accept our order. Charming, attentive and very personable, he attempted conversation in very broken English. This being Panama, I thought it best to help him out by ordering in Spanish. He persisted in English, which I thought very commendable. There was some difficulty in getting our large order exactly correct. I suspected that language was the hurdle. But he remained polite, focused and extremely conscientious. I kept thinking it would have been so much easier if we had just completed the order in Spanish. Could there possibly be something of a hearing impairment that was yet to be discovered or addressed? Nevertheless, I admired his tenacity, knowing that, in an effort to become bilingual, many young Panamanians were eager to master English.

The meal was excellent and as we were getting ready to leave, I felt I should let the manager know how contented we were with the music, the service and the food. But then it dawned on me that I didn’t know our waiter’s name. So I asked him in Spanish “Cómo te llamas joven?” He looked at me with a blank stare. I asked again and was surprised that I received the same response. Maybe he really needed his hearing checked! I scrolled through my mental directory trying to recall if there were any audiologists in the area. I remembered seeing a sign at the corner of…..

He interrupted my thoughts with his response, “I don’t speak Spanish”

Flabbergasted, I took a second, and much longer look at him. What was I missing? He fit the perfect picture of a native Panamanian person....petite in stature and frame, beautiful hazel brown skin, thick black shiny hair, soft-spoken, oozing humility and anxious to serve. What does he mean he doesn’t speak Spanish?

And then came the question I should have asked in the first place. What language did he speak? A feather almost blew me over.

Tagalog.

His name was Umberto. I got Tamar’s attention to let her know what a treasure of an employee she had in Umberto. As the rest of my party went for a short stroll, I asked Tamar if it would be okay if I chatted with him a little. We sat at a coffee table under the shade of a towering rainbow eucalyptus tree.

The questions came fast and furiously. He was so eager to respond. I got the sense that he had a story to share, but somehow no one had ever bothered to ask. There is always so much to learn from another person, if only we just take a little time. Naturally, the most interesting question to me was, what would bring a young person from the Philippines, halfway across the world to an obscure mountain village in Panama?

As he sipped a cappuccino and munched hungrily on a knish, Umberto poured out his life story, slowly and intentionally and in a language that was foreign to him. He was 31 years old and grew up in Batad in the Philippines. He described it as very similar in climate and ambience to the mountains of Panama. In his mind, Batad’s amphitheater-like rice paddies which terraced its mountain sides, were the mirror images of Panama’s lush coffee plantations on the foothills of Volcan Barú. He felt very much at home here and he joked that many people even look Filipino. I had never given this, now blatantly obvious observation, any thought.

As he had done in Batad, he would spend much of his free time here, hiking, picnicking, and basking in the nature of the cloud-covered mountains of Cerro Punta. As the highest town in Panama’s most mountainous province, Cerro Punta’s considerably cooler climate, welcomed him home. Finca Dracula, a botanical paradise deep in its rain forest, showcased over 2000 species of rare, exotic orchids and was his ultimate retreat.

He had come alone, leaving a girlfriend and his parents back home. He had no children. He was sending money back to his family and hoping to be able to visit them before the end of the year. Umberto acknowledged how painful it was for him to leave his family, his country of birth and indeed the only way of life he knew. He didn’t want the added shock of city living, so he sought somewhere reminiscent of his childhood. Somewhere where people were still kind, respectful, honorable, and placed the highest value on family values. He thinks he made the right choice.

In the Philippines he had been employed for 4 years as a university professor. He taught chemistry and did research involving the conversion of organic waste into renewable energy. His face fell when he added, “In the last 8 months here in Panama, I have made more money working as a waiter, than I did in a year as a professor in Manila”.

I didn’t know how to respond, and truthfully said the first thing that came to my mind. I blurted out, before I could help myself, “That’s such a shame”.

And to my surprise, in his very broken English, Umberto taught me one of the many nuances of my own mother tongue….and a very important one at that.

No ma’am. It is not at all a shame. There is nothing shameful about honest work for a good wage. It may be a pity, but it is definitely not a shame.

Adorah

Adiós to The Great Rift Valley. Kwaheri to your dramatic mountain ranges, your gorgeous rolling hills, with their rich volcanic soil. Bai bai Lakes Kivu, Muhazi, Rwanyakazinga and all your other vast, crystal clear mirror-like expanses of water.

So long Virunga National Park. We’ll trek for gorillas again someday. Your delicious mountain coffee will linger on our taste buds.

Fare thee well Kigali, the eco-friendly capital city that truly looks like a postcard. A master-planned, African gem whose breath is innovation. With its sustainably designed, futuristic, iconic landmarks, Kigali shines forth as the persistent and glowing heartbeat of a country once condemned to death.

Kigali’s dome-shaped Convention Center comes alive at night with a kaleidoscope of electronic lights. We enthusiastically await The Kigali Green Complex that is currently under construction. Its tower promises to not only redefine Kigali’s skyline, but in keeping with the ambitions of your Vision 2050, it will position you, Rwanda, to become one of the most imposing business, financial, and medical hubs in East Africa. Truly the Rwanda we want…..your president’s dream.

Au revoir street sweepers, toiling away at already spotlessly tree-lined sidewalks, while thousands of boda bodas, like buzzing insects, ply their trade in and out of traffic. Sayõnara to your many safe, verdant, meticulously-maintained parks and outdoor spaces. What a pleasure to have strolled your undulating hills and to feel safe doing so, even long after dusk.

Zàijiàn to your complimentary community health checks on Sunday mornings. It was so invigorating to join the free open air dance, yoga and exercise classes in your many, many parks. Mae alsalama to our grueling Bikram yoga teacher in Nyarutarama who kept encouraging us to “Make eeeefort, make eeeeefort”. So very clever of you to institute car-free Sundays, allowing families with small children, joggers, and group classes to reclaim some of your city streets.

Rwanda, you have a problem. Your artists and artisans cannot suppress their creativity. And the problem appears to be contagious. They all dare to choose these bold, vibrant palettes that bring life to the most mundane of objects. They deserve commendation for their utilization of all-natural and sustainable materials to ply their trade.

Such ingenuity. Imagine using cow dung, ashes and naturally-occurring pigments to create your Imigongo art forms. These one-of-a-kind relief art creations, were limited editions before the phrase “limited editions” ever existed. Imigongo art has decorated your palace walls for centuries. Then, as they are doing now, your talented artists, fashioned cow dung mixed with ashes into these three-dimensional masterpieces. Why ashes you might ask? Because ashes inhibit growth of bacteria and mask the odor of the cow excrement, of course.

Once the sculpture is dried, they apply red, white and black pigments sustainably obtained from your rich soil and many varied plants to bring the art back to life. Each piece is unique and striking, with its combinations of geometric, spirals and zigzag shapes.

Like many of your traditions, Rwanda, Imigongo appeared destined to be buried alive, along with hundreds of thousands of your people in 1994. Thankfully, your women resuscitated the art, making it now synonymous with your rebirth. Today, Imigongo plays a vital role in ensuring sustainable income and employment for your many talented artisans. How ironic that animal waste and ashes should become symbols of your resilience and resistance!!! Indeed Rwanda, you rise from nothing.

I say bye bye to your women who tirelessly weave. Your baskets are exquisitely intricate and very elaborate, especially the iconic Agaseke Peace Basket. Each crafted from sustainable fibers like sisal, grass, and banana leaves, Agaseke baskets are lidded and tightly-woven. They were an invaluable tool for healing after that genocide. Those dark days, united groups of women from all over your land to come together to weave as they grieved.

Today, the tradition continues. Agaseke baskets draw communities together as a source of income, and of pride. And they serve a myriad of purposes not the least of which is pest-free storage for grain and dried food. Gifted at weddings. they are inherently symbols of goodwill, trust, and unity. Not surprisingly, these peace baskets are now of immense cultural, and social significance. So much so, that you chose to place one with its striking zigzag design, at the very center of your coat of arms.

Creativity, intertwined with a deep ecological consciousness, are the engines for your revolutionary cultural innovation Rwanda. And so, tree bark is fashioned into elegant evening wear. Repurposed electrical wire becomes ornate jewelry. And mud and dried leaves are transformed into fashionable women’s purses and reusable shopping bags. Strikingly bold, larger-than-life murals adorn many a building.

Handbag made of tree bark

Rwanda, my dear Rwanda, your cities and your country sides simply ooze with your vitality, your talent, your culture, your blood. Sadly, we must say adieu to the relentlessly diligent, stick-figure-like men, pushing bicycles with loads that weigh more than they do, up and down those daunting hills. Loads of bananas, yams, scrap metal, furniture, chickens, hand woven baskets, loads of life. No longer Tutsis or Hutus but 100% Banyarwanda. 100% Rwandan.

Arrivederci to your black beautiful queens and princesses. Elegant, contemplative, proud, each with her own retrospective weight to bear. Many widowed or unattached, not by choice, but because of the evil that man inflicts upon his fellow man. Kudos to you Rwanda, the undisputed global leader in gender equality. You chose not to leave your women behind as you rose from the infernos of hell. You rewrote your constitution mandating their participation. And they have not disappointed you.

Now Rwanda, you can boast of the many women who hold firm your reins. Your chief justice - a female. You can take pride in your women who comprise the majority of your Supreme Court. Mothers and daughters who account for 55% of your judiciary and an overwhelming majority of your government ministers. Take a bow Rwanda. Many of your young female business owners and professionals have willingly and eagerly returned from post-graduate studies abroad to continue to make you whole. In your own president’s words “If there was any doubt on the part of our male colleagues about women’s ability during the early part of our struggle, it proved baseless.”

Women mobilize your cooperatives and community action projects, promoting financial independence, not just for themselves, but for their family members and for you. These women, whose grandmothers, aunts and mothers, were themselves victims of rape and plunder, are now instrumental in spreading your message of forgiveness and peace. A peace that is palpable throughout your country. As they rise through your ranks, they pull you up by the bootstrings. They will not let you down.

Ooooh your many younguns!! Your future!!! Your strikingly gorgeous children with their graceful, slender frames,, glowing black skin and wall to wall smiles of gleaming teeth. What a challenge ahead for you with more than half of your population being less than 20 years of age! How will you educate them? Their young bodies can only thrive if they are adequately nourished, sufficiently nurtured. But most importantly, their minds must be molded by strong family units. By parents and grandparents whose post-traumatic stress has been appropriately and carefully managed. Your tender offspring must not relive your past. What a task you have ahead my friend.

Rwanda, my sweet Rwanda. You and I both shed tears as we walked through time in your Genocide Memorial. 250,000 victims now call this place home. How many more were buried in mass graves, pit latrines or simply tossed into your rivers to be washed “back” to Ethiopia? The shores of Lake Victoria in your neighboring Uganda, amassed more than 11,000 bodies. Maimed and decapitated. they floated down Lake Tanganyika to what was then Zaire.

Oh the evil that men do. The genocidaires had been more successful in their evil aims than anyone would have dared to believe. Rwanda was dead as the entire world turned a blind eye.

But Rwanda, how comforting it was, how reassuring to find in this memorial, not just a place of remembrance and acknowledgment of your ugly and unfortunate history, but a space for reflection. And through this reflection, healing, education, forgiveness, conflict mitigation and a trail that continues to blaze forward to peace.

You, my friend, must be commended for this foresight: choosing peace over retribution, fostering forgiveness as a path to nation building - a slow and painful process that has made you the beacon of Africa and indeed of the world.

I must say farewell to the passenger of that 16-wheeler truck moving at great speed up Huye-Kigali road. I will never know his name, but he is forever etched in my memory. Said passenger, skillfully climbed out of this heavy-duty commercial vehicle in order to adjust its misbehaving treacherous load. All this done, while the truck was negotiating your beautifully undulating hills, at might I say, some considerable speed. Then, like the magician he was, with minimal effort, from atop the truck, he opened the cabin door and climbed back in to comfort.

Oh Rwanda, the stories we shared together.

Your royal palace, a 2-hour drive from Kigali, was worth every bit of the long and winding journey to get there. What a privilege to have been in the presence of, and to caress your regal Inyambo cows. One of your many wise herdsmen guided us through this once-in-a-lifetime experience, his chanting, soft and sweet. His gentle demeanor, so typical of every single one of your citizens, soothed these majestic creatures. He sufficiently pacified them to allow for our safe and enjoyable encounter.

The Inyambo, with their spectacularly long horns and graceful, calm disposition are forever memorialized in Gushayaya, the Dance of the Cow. Your iconic cattle, revered for generations as a symbol of gratitude and prosperity, are deservedly celebrated through dance. With graceful, curved outstretched arms, writhing to the rhythms of Gakondo, your traditional music, with its lilting drums and harmonious chanting, your dancers mimic the sweeping horns and the majestic gait of these Inyambo cattle. They stomp and hand glide their way into our hearts.

Your palace’s poised, polite, pensive tour guide certainly did you proud. Statuesque and stunning, like so many of your women, she just simply commanded a presence. With absolutely no effort.

She appeared as if gliding on air, her ceremonial silky Umushanana, just barely grazing the floor as she strolled. This traditional attire, proudly sported by your women, is indeed the ultimate in elegance and style. Fashioned out of copious amounts of delicate silk or satin, it consists of three pieces - a gracefully billowing skirt gathered high at the hips, a modest tank top, and a long trailing stole, sensuously dangling over a shoulder. She wore it only too well. Barely out of her teens, she had been coached to perfection. She was brimming with knowledge, grace, humility and was just so perfectly suited for her task. She guided us through your palace which now serves as an outstanding museum, explaining with each intentional step its gut-wrenching history.

Your people pitted against each other by self-centered, racist colonizers bent on aggrandizing their European bank accounts. A people, systematically inveigled, and taught to despise their neighbor, their fellow countrymen, even into the abyss of genocide.

Many walls of your palace stood bare, many rooms starkly empty. The silence was resounding. A testament to the white supremacists who chose to flee with their precious spoils, your gems, your artwork, your talent, as they watched you spiral into turmoil. Our tiny, innocent tour guide was yet to be born, but the trauma, the pain, the torture of her people, lives within her, as it does every one of your citizens.

How I wish I could have personally thanked President Kagame when I caught a brief glimpse of him during that parade. Thank you dear President for your vision, your perseverance, and your determination against all odds. Let them call you what they may - dictator, rebel, autocrat. I choose to call you the ultimate visionary, a true peacemaker, the epitome of patriotism. The world needs more Paul Kagames. Thank you for the courage to breathe new life into a country left for dead.

Adeus to our female pilot Captain Ester Mbabazi, who sounded just out of college. As Rwanda’s first female pilot, you are an not just an inspiration to your country, but to young women all around the world. See you later.. Chiao to the Gen-X female CEO of RwandAir, Yvonne Manzi Makolo, and to all the other impressive citizens of what is now my favorite African country.

The Rwanda we want is clearly visible on the horizon. My parting prayer for you, dear friend, is for courage and tenacity to persevere, as you continue blazing the trail to get there. Love you Rwanda. Tuzongera kubonana.

Adorah

Zainab came into my office her normal cheery self, complete with her long, black, floor-length burqa. As usual, a dark veil obscured her entire face. We hugged each other for an extended period and exchanged our customary greetings.

"As-salamu alaikum"

To which she responded,

"Wa-alaikumu s-salam".

It had been months since she last brought in one of her many foster children. I noticed a little, pale teen behind her. She introduced him as Sean and said he had been placed in her foster care just 2 weeks prior. Then she left the room and told me he was going to talk to me about his bleeding problem.

Sean was a petite, wiry thing of 14 years with a cropped haircut and bronze-colored bangs draped over his left eyelid. He sported a shiny silver ring in his left nostril in a show of faint defiance.

His voice was feeble and frightened. It cracked as he spoke, measuring every word. I could tell he was trying his best to be brave and speak up...almost forcing a manly presence. We talked for quite a while before addressing the reason for his visit. Initially there was reluctance to even enter into conversation about the topic. His eyes never left the floor.

Being very familiar with the foster community from which he came and also with the very kind and devoutly religious family in whose care he was entrusted, I inquired as to whether he felt safe and protected. He did not hesitate to tell me how much love was being poured on him in this new foster home. It was the first time in his life that he felt an urge to share in household tasks without feeling pressured or guilty to do so. He sincerely wanted to be a part of this family.

He boasted that he had even tried on a shalwar kameez that his new foster father, Hamza had offered him. He had dared him to put it on. Sean giggled when he said he wasn't sure if he was man enough to wear it. I assured him that I wasn't woman enough to wear one either. We both burst out laughing.

There was a soft, but persistent, knock at the door.... my secretary. Just a gentle reminder of the strict time allowance for each patient..

Not sure why Sean eventually opened up but when he did the floodgates opened with him. He shared in gory detail, his life of abuse. He spoke at length about his biological father who was killed by his mother with a kitchen knife in his presence 3 months earlier. The same father who he said, had pierced every orifice of his body in attempts to punish him……sometimes, even for crimes he did not commit.

He spoke of the many days in his life when he had had nothing to eat. He seemed surprised at my amazement when he told me there were months when he went without a drink of water. There wasn't even enough water to brush his teeth. He unfortunately lived in that part of town where soda and other sweetened drinks like Fanta were much cheaper than buying water. So he had to do without. Zainab had recently gifted him a toothbrush. The first he had had for several years. He had never been to a dentist to address his many cavities. 

The winter prior, his family had been evicted and the five of them slept in a cold, abandoned car in a dark cul-de-sac every night. He cried as he told me about being shunned at school because he gave off an offensive odor. "There was nowhere to have a shower and I didn't have a toothbrush or deodorant. What did they want me to do?" He asked rhetorically.

He had been placed in three other foster homes since his father's death and his mother's arrest. By court order, he was to have no contact with his other two siblings. The latter was the nail in the coffin for him, causing him to attempt suicide on at least one occasion. He's not quite sure if the second time when he drank some bleach was an accident or not.

My secretary knocked again. I was obviously spending more than the allotted insurance limit of eight minutes. I ignored her, preferring to devote every ounce of my attention to the problem presenting itself to me. It would have been unconscionable to abandon this young man during what was obviously a very rare and cathartic moment in his life. And I feared that if he caught wind of a time crunch, he might shut down.

So after about 20 minutes, we finally got around to the reason for his visit. As the chart had highlighted in bold, Zainab noticed large blood clots on his boxer shorts earlier that morning. She immediately brought him to the office without posing any questions to him. Hamza, her husband, was at work and this was not an issue for a Muslim woman to discuss with an unrelated young man.

Sean acknowledged the blood but insisted that it was nothing more than a few drops. He denied being recently physically or sexually molested. He was adamant that he had not been in any fights at school. He had seen other delinquents being expelled from school for bad behavior. In spite of the many adversities he faced, he maintained excellent grades and didn't want anything to affect his attendance. His academic progress was the only thing that truly gave him hope.

He denied tummy cramps or pain in any other part of his body. He kept insisting he was fine. Now he stared straight ahead and somehow I knew he was trying not to be dishonest.

Then I approached the topic of a physical exam. For the first time during the visit, Sean raised his voice. He even became belligerent. He began screaming and bordered on becoming combative. I tried desperately to calm him down.

He appeared only slightly reassured when I told him I was going to be very gentle and would not hurt him. I also emphasized that there was no way he would leave the office without being examined. And I made it very clear, that if I needed to, I would call security to help me perform the exam. He realized that that there was no hope of escape and finally gave his reluctant consent.

I worked my way methodically through a routine physical exam.... ears, mouth, eyes. I took note of numerous cavities. Those will need to be addressed. On to the chest, abdomen and extremities....all the time trying my best, not to appear hurried. Despite significant push back, I was finally able to remove his boxer shorts and visualize his private area.

There was no penis... just a huge wad of blood-soaked toilet paper packed into the crevices of a vagina. Through tears, Sean finally confided in me that his birth name was Cheyenne.

 55 minutes into the visit with three frustrated patients in the waiting room and equally angry staff, I asked Zainab to return to the examination room. I wasn't privy to her eyes or the expression on her face for sake of the harabah. But from the silence in the room, I knew she was processing the information just like I was. A combination of horror, numbness, bewilderment and sheer disbelief.

When she finally found words, she asked Sean very quietly, calmly but most importantly, lovingly to leave the room....please. Then she posed a question to me that none of my years of medical training and practice had prepared me for.

"Doctor," she paused to collect herself, "is honor killing legal in this state?" There began one of the most intense evenings of my career.

 My first instinct and priority was of course to separate this child from the gentle, kind, generous woman I had grown to know and love over the past few years.

 I had been to Zainab's tidy, tiny, three bedroom home in the not-so-good part of town. I benefited from so much of the produce from her prolific garden. I was probably one of the few people who saw her completely disrobed. We were comfortable with each other's spirits. I personally witnessed the love she spilled on all the children lucky enough to be entrusted into her care. Whether they were there for two nights, or for a year, this was their home until another equally suitable one was found.

Ever the home-maker, Zainab was either baking, sewing, cleaning, praying or gardening. And all the children were encouraged to learn from her as she went along. Encouraged but not coerced. Zainab treated all her foster children, and she had had over 12 of them, just as she did her five biological children. Chores were distributed based on ability, age, love and sprinkled with her experience and wisdom.

 There was no other way of putting it. That home was founded on love, charity and a religion, which though initially, was very foreign to me, made me feel a strange, warm and very genuine welcome.

Sean wanted to hear nothing about going to a different foster home. He started throwing a terrible tantrum, needing to be restrained . The social worker and police in attendance in the waiting room had to be briefed on the matter. Zainab kept chiming in and insisted on taking "her" child back home to "his" house. Mercifully, the patients who were waiting, were gracious enough to accept appointments for the next day.

The Sabbath was approaching and Mrs Schneider, one of the other mothers, was anxious to leave. She had been waiting for at least an hour. Her husband, Rabbi Schneider, kept anxiously calling from the synagogue. She approached and hugged Zainab in a moment of maternal empathy never to be forgotten. Her 12 year-old son Ezra's yarmulke fell off his head as he tried to hug and reassure Sean that everything would be okay.

 How I wish amidst all this confusion, I had had the presence of mind or would even have be authorized to photograph the heart-wrenching bond between these two seemingly disparate families.

I lost touch with Zainab for several months. Sadly, I had enough experience, having been through far too many similar scenarios. I had learned it best to keep my distance from those who may justly have felt violated. The relevant authorities would do their due diligence as professionals and I simply had to blindly place my trust in them.

Truth be told, in a very non-altruistic way, there is an element of self-preservation, an attempt at guarding of one's sanity, to be gained from keeping that distance. Once a commitment is made to do one's moral and ethical duty, it should not be jaded by the findings, whatever they may be, of the protective services. Previous such predicaments had taught me the painful lesson. Far too many people prefer to avoid truth, than to face it head on. And therefore, if a child is taken away from perceived abuse or danger, the family frequently tends to place blame instead of searching internally.

 So I let the case rest.

 Two years later Zainab and Sean returned for his 16-year-old well child visit. He had emerged an A- student rising to the 10th grade. His newly adoptive dad Hamza, a Civil Engineer by profession, had painstakingly worked with him to help him become his high school's Math champion.

Sean beamed as he showed me pictures of the gleaming white shalwar kameez he wore to the awards ceremony the night before. He still had the ring in his nostril, and the long, straggly bronze bangs, much to Zainab's chagrin.

The constraints of time, unfortunately did not allow for much reflection but it was clear that the authorities had found the home to be a safe space. It was also abundantly clear, that Zainab and her family had searched the depths of their hearts and their religion, to come to an acceptance of Sean for who he was, and who he aspired to be.

She was laughing throughout this 12- minute visit. She didn't pose another question, but this time, it was her very considered statement that again gave me pause.

"Doc there are some things in life that you can change. And then there are some that you shouldn't even try to. You just have to let them be."

Adorah

Out of the mouth of babes and the newer generation.

I felt so smug early this morning. We had gone to some street fairs in Copacabana over the weekend and secured a few beautiful and unusual pieces of art to decorate my daughter's blank walls. I was here in Rio de Janeiro helping her move in to her new apartment. With a demanding and stressful job, she could ill-afford time spent on moving in. To say she could not be bothered, was putting it mildly. But as us parents know, we all function at our best when our surroundings are clean, organized and, yes, even inviting. So I was excited about the prospect of busying myself making everything just perfect for her in her new home…..the week before Rio opened its doors for yet another performance of the world’s largest Carnival, the greatest show on earth. How naive can someone be?

3-D works of art from Street Vendor

The apartment had been vacant for months, something that was immediately obvious, even to the untrained eye. Counter tops were grimy, as was almost every corner of every room. The kitchen sink was misbehaving and water was backing up from its plumbing. Covers for electrical outlets were missing in action and ominous wires dangled precariously and mysteriously from several unsightly openings in many a wall. The land-lord seemed to have conveniently disconnected his cellphone. After a 7-hour flight, I stared in horror at the task ahead.

A cleaning company was the first of many contractors to be urgently summoned. Thankfully, they showed up as promised and the task that my daughter assumed would take 4 hours, diligently ensued and was finally completed after 3 days.

There was so much to be done, including buying new furniture. The apartment owned two beds, a standing fan, her desk and just one chair. The latter three, she understandably needed for her work at the computer. So I had no choice but to attend to each task while standing, or sitting on the tiled floor, sweating profusely in the Brazilian summer. The cats shared a litter box, a feeding bowl and there was an electric, yes, an electric watering fountain at their disposal. Who knew that cats preferred running water?

Having recently moved to the city, she had no idea of locations of anything of importance except a supermarket and the many restaurants nearby. So I searched online…. in Portuguese….. for stores that sold hardware, household goods, furniture, paint and appliances. I was out in left field, on my own, in a city that was completely foreign to me, where few people spoke more than a few words of English. My fledging Spanish became a close friend.

On my second day there, I was so excited to encounter a painter at the paint shop down the street. I had asked the cashier if by any chance, she might know of a painter. Like magic, the door opened and a tall, elegant, handsome, extremely toned and tanned, Brazilian man sporting a beret, waltzed in. She introduced him to me as Emilio, and said he was indeed a painter. Anxious to seize the moment, I called and disturbed my sweet daughter from an important office meeting, to speak to him in Portuguese. I had hoped that we could engage his services to paint the bedroom and living room in the colors we had chosen. He handed me back the phone in short order. To my dismay, he painted portraits, not walls. She was not amused and made sure to remind me of something called Google Translate so that I would not need to trouble her again.

Serendipity brings smiles, wonder and a sense of mystery to our lives. I had had a long, frantic day of purchasing and was exhausted. Also knowing fully well, that I was going home to a sound scolding about this painter fiasco, I decided to treat myself to dinner at Fogo de Chao, one of Rio’s many upscale all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouses. While in the mouth-watering buffet line, who should come up to give me a huge hug but….Emilio!! Words were not necessary, or even possible, given the language barrier, but we were both shocked, that out of the almost 7 million people in Rio, we should see each other twice in one day, in another part of the city that was 10 km away.

It was pouring rain when I left the restaurant with 5 large shopping bags and a boxed set of dishes, that night. Getting a taxi was almost as much of a feat as getting into one. I was drenched. The young driver was understandably flustered, and upon driving off, accidentally crashed into a small poorly-lit guard rail. He started praying what I assumed was The Hail Mary, or it could have been religious sounding four-letter Portuguese words. He stepped out of the car in the downpour to survey the damage, which thankfully was minor. A car pulled up behind us, and the kind driver came out to offer any assistance. Would you know it…it was Emilio!!!!

Rio’s traffic, especially the week before Carnival, is relentless. I got home an hour later and took my scolding chin up. Trying not to be disheartened, the next day I made haste equipping an empty kitchen…not that she was inclined to make much use of it. The tee shirt that said “Born to Microwave” fitted her perfectly. To be fair, the kitchen was not empty. There were indeed 2 thrift store mugs that did not even need to say “Made in China”, 2 clear glass plates, an equally mismatched selection of Tupperware and the odd, loose utensils usually found at flea markets. AND, let us not forget, an Espresso machine that would be the envy of any barista.

Meal preparation in this kitchen was a challenge to say the least, even for an experienced cook like myself. To his credit, her husband had thought it in her best interest (and ours) to hide the sharp knives before he left on a business trip. Her proclivity for mishaps in the kitchen, and dare I say, in many other places, was a well-known secret. Since he was traveling, and out of contact, I rose to the task of julienning carrots, chopping broccoli and dicing potatoes with the one butter knife. Each meal was arduously prepared in one of the 2 very small plastic bowls.

Finally got a set of dishes

But we had to eat, and dining out was not always an option given the stressors of her schedule and the formidable task I had ahead of me. Where to begin? I thought on many occasions that it was indeed a blessing in disguise that their relationship had not gifted us a grandchild. As my dear daughter so rightfully said, “I can’t have a baby. I’ll forget where I put it”.

It was the height of Brazil’s summer and not the ideal time of year to learn that air-conditioning units were not standard fare when renting an apartment. The two cats lay lazily, almost lifeless around the sweltering, hot apartment. I am sure they wished not to be cats who disliked water, because the electric water fountain would have been quite inviting for a dip. One fan was to suffice until the air-conditioning units could be installed. And since it was the week before Carnival, and this was Brazil, arranging for their installation, required not just a dentist, but an orthodontist, for the proverbial pulling of teeth.

The men who promised to bring the units, did indeed do just that. They brought 5 large boxes, each clearly labeled “Ar Condicionado” and placed them stolidly in the empty living room. The guys who were to do the actual installation would be there next week… AFTER Carnival. My Portuguese blossomed after hearing those words repeatedly over the next week “ Depois do Carnaval”. So much so, that I preempted many a salesperson by saying these profound words when ordering anything.

Dinner and Live music for Carnaval

There is a God. I discovered that the large boxes could not only be used for sitting, but I no longer needed to hold the glass plate in one hand while balancing a strong drink in the other. We were now blessed with, not one, but four boxes that doubled as tables. Still, I persisted in my efforts to make this space into a fully functional home. Scheduling a handy man, installing WiFi and an alarm system and securing a painter were added to the list of almost impossible tasks to be accomplished that hectic week.

So during her lunch breaks, she would come, with some reluctance, to the store that I was shopping at, to help make final decisions about items to be purchased and delivered. The latter, sadly and invariably, involved the only 3 words I came to know so well in Portuguese.

I wanted to surprise my darling son-in -law, who had expressed his love for gardening, with his own, fully fruitful, and beautiful vegetable, herb and flower piece of paradise. Full disclosure, plant shopping in Brazil should be high on any plant lover’s list of must-dos. Restraint was seriously required. So I bought a pomegranate tree, a miniature jaboticaba, an acai palm, but (thankfully) only one of the 1-1/2 m tall, gorgeous Amazonian orchids. Shopping carts were overflowing with hanging baskets of flowers and dozens of smaller exotic shrubs all for his outdoor retreat. I helped line every taxi seat and trunk with newspaper to minimize the dirt. And off we would go into the traffic, a taxi driver delicately balancing a potted hydrangea on his lap and greenery sticking out of every aperture of the car, looking like moving rain forests.

The unusual Jaboticaba tree

Sadly, at the time of this writing, the $40 Sobralia orchid with its impressive, reed-like stem and stunning, lime green blossoms, has since gone to its rest. God bless a daughter who did not realize that a live plant can not exist without water for 3 weeks. I, however, will not stand accused. It was upon her insistence, that I returned every one of the 15 artificial plants I had lugged into the elevator. She cited their cost and her desire to care for something live and more vibrant. I bit my tongue so hard and carefully swallowed the tiny drop of blood.

Twenty plant pots of various sizes and 40 five-kg bags of potting soil, completed the hundreds of dollars of household purchases at Tok and Stok and Leroy Merlin. The employees there knew me by name by the end of the 2 weeks. When Camilla, the manager of Leroy Merlin, realized that there was a method to my madness, she assigned me my own personal concierge shopper, Elena, who sadly spoke no English. We managed. I was there on 5 consecutive days when the store opened. Elena stored copies of everything I bought on her personal phone in order to facilitate my return of an inordinate number of items purchased. We had 3 taxi drivers on speed dial and I am not surprised that on many occasions, not just because of the Carnival traffic, but because they knew what was in store (no pun intended), one or the other did not respond.

Elena would summon every available male in the store to help load each of the over 10 taxis with all manner of purchases…..standing and table lamps, pots, outdoor furniture, night stands, floor mats, flatware, mirrors, an inexpensive chandelier and the list went on and on and on. The receipts trailed behind me as I walked through the door and the loss prevention employees gave up even trying to check them.

And this being “antes do Carnaval”, with no persons being readily available for a day’s work, I hauled most of these purchases out of taxis, into the elevator and to the apartment alone. A security guard from Tok and Stok who saw my predicament, promised to come to the apartment after his shift was done at 5 pm on Domingo Gordo (Fat Sunday). He never showed. And the next time I saw him, 3 days later, he gave a fleeting apology, from which I gathered, that he had inadvertently become intoxicated. I gave up trying to get any help. Marcelo, our petite, aged, ever-smiling doorman, graciously assisted whenever he was in attendance, but I am sure he hid on occasions, when he saw my Uber pull up.

One night, my ever-clueless daughter came home from her weekly girls’ night out. How lovely, and typical of her to find a group of bright, young women, each of whom had recently moved to Rio and was wanting to improve her Portuguese. She glanced around the apartment replete with new purchases, including the 40 bags of soil, remarked “How did all of this get here?”, and promptly went off to bed.

Tomas’ Garden before and after

It was during one of many Uber rides, in Rio’s God-awful traffic, that it finally dawned on me, that an innocent sounding phone call, at 730 am on a Sunday morning, sweetly asking if I could come from Panama to Rio that Friday at 945am, for an all-expense paid trip, was of course to good to be true. In her defense, she had not a clue of what was required to make a house, home-worthy. And I let exuberance get the better of me. Guilty as charged, I would complete this task, as only a mother would. I saw very little of The Greatest Show on Earth over the week of Carnival, but the mission needed to be accomplished.

I was bubbling inside with the surprise that I had planned for her. She had made her father and me so proud. So before leaving for Rio, I searched and searched and eventually, dug up her graduation certificates from the basement where she had left, forgotten, or in hind-sight, dumped them several years prior. They were already securely protected in hard leather folders just as they were when she first crossed the stage. I made the choice therefore, to purchase an upgraded airline seat to accommodate the much bigger suitcase that was required to carry them. With this larger suitcase, I excitedly threw in 2 striped rugs, a luxurious grey comforter set and a few other choice articles, hoping to add some spiff to a dull apartment. I secretly planned to frame the certificates while in Rio, and have the handyman casually position them above the desk in her office. My glad bag was bursting.

But, one of the certificates was missing. Her master's diploma in Data Analytics from the University of Hong Kong Science and Technology. She had spent an entire year prior to starting the course, need I say at our expense, learning Cantonese. All done, in order to complete this incredible milestone in the required 18 months. She was indeed the first person I ever heard use the now infamous words, Artificial Intelligence. She could speak at length about something called, Machine Learning, a concept extremely foreign to me. She was on to her fifth language. But for reasons known only to the Almighty, boiling a pot of water required having a fire extinguisher in close proximity.

I remember that day in Hong Kong as if it were yesterday. What a beautiful campus this elite world-class institution offered. With its cascading hillsides and contemporary architecture, it was no wonder that she found happiness there. Her proud father and I, sat among thousands, and I do mean thousands, of excited parents, as we waited eagerly to hear her name being called. There were lots of Lees, Lings, Langs, and Longs but just one Lawrence. She stood out like our own little precious, sore thumb.

Try as I might, I could not put my hand on this diploma. She was deep in thought at her desk, working on her computer. So, trying hard not to disturb her train of thought, and also not to divulge too much of my surprise, I asked her the stupid question. Where could this certificate be? To which she responded, not only that she didn't know, but she didn't care 😏

I waited until my tongue came securely back into my mouth, desperately trying to be as matter of fact as I could, before I said, “But you worked so hard to get those degrees cupcake.” I carefully made no mention of the sacrifices, financially, emotionally or otherwise, that her father and I also made for these three, extremely expensive pieces of paper.

She glared at me over the computer with the resignation of someone looking at an old rag.

“Mom, I think you sorely misunderstood the point. I did not work hard to get three pieces of paper. I studied for all those years to acquire knowledge and skills to make myself productive in society. Those pieces of paper tell other people who I am, but I already know who I am. If they don't know, then that's their problem. I don't need the certificates.”

And with a casual glance at an overflowing garbage bag she added, “You can do whatever you want with them.”

A hole opened up and swallowed me whole.

Worth all the effort

Adorah

So four cows decided that there should be a traffic jam on the road to my yin yoga class this morning. One in particular was extremely pigheaded, resulting in my being behind this crated truck for several minutes. 😖😖😖

Thankfully I recalled Stephen Covey's 90/10 rule. 90% of the things that occur in your life you will have no control over. Get over it. The other 10%, i.e. how you deal with these things, is entirely your decision. 🤔 This 10% makes all the difference….if only you would allow it.

So I chose not to get mad at an obstinate cow, and decided instead to savor every bit of that now memorable moment.

A few monarch butterflies fluttered by and one landed on a tiny bobbing red head sticking out of one of the crates on the truck ahead. Why did I not notice those heads before????

Dozens of cute clucking chickens gave me pause. And this was not an understatement.

My mind wandered. Was that little chicken upset that a butterfly landed on his or her head? Did he or she scream at the butterfly because of the stress caused by the traffic? Why did the butterfly choose this particular chicken and none of the others?

Were any of these chickens on their way to a yoga class? Did they know, or furthermore even care, where they were going? Did they realize that they were completely at the mercy of the truck driver? At whose mercy is the truck driver?

Were there any right-leaning chickens or maybe most chickens lean to the left? Do chickens even vote? Were any of them not on good terms with another chicken because of how he voted? Were they divided into factions?

Were there any retired chickens? Or do all chickens work until they die? What do they consider work?

What did they think of the changing world order? Might they have any views on geopolitical conflicts, climate change or the rapid evolution of disruptive technology? Were they personally affected by any of these problems or perhaps knew of any chickens who were? Did any of these even matter to them? Should they matter to anybody?

Were these adorable clucking creatures, each trying to get their heads through to see the beautiful, cloudless, baby blue sky above? Was there any appreciation of the amazing mountain views ahead? Were they jostling with each other to catch a glimpse? If so, were they angry at the chickens who had a window seat? Or did they just take all that beauty for granted, like so many of us with supposedly larger brains do?

Do they care if they're on their way to the slaughterhouse? Do they even know that they may be? Are they happy to know that they can be of service in being slaughtered?

Shucks, my lovely daydream was shattered by a bullheaded cow (no pun intended) who finally decided, it was time to behave.

Got to class 2 minutes late and would you know it... there were no chickens there!!!! I wonder where they went. 🤔 I wonder if they are even still alive.

So I will remain forever indebted to a stubborn cow who allowed me a chance encounter with some traveling chickens. A cow, unbeknownst to whom, was able to give perspective, strange though it may be, on what might really be important in life.

Or maybe he did know 🤔

Adorah

There is something quietly powerful about a moment that makes you pause.

Not the loud, life-altering kind that demands attention, but the small, almost unnoticeable ones. The ones that slip gently into your day and, if you are willing to sit with them for just a little longer, begin to reveal something deeper. Those are the moments I have come to cherish. Those are the moments that have shaped me.

My name is Adorah Lawrence.

I am, at heart, an observer of life. Not in a distant or detached way, but in a way that leans in, listens, and wonders. Over the years, through work, travel, and the many unexpected turns that life has a way of offering, I have found myself collecting moments. Some beautiful, some difficult, some quietly absurd, and others so profound that they stayed with me long after they had passed.

For a long time, I carried these moments privately. They would appear in conversations, in passing reflections, or in the quiet spaces of my own thoughts. But more and more, I began to realise that these were not just fleeting experiences. They were stories. And not just stories to be told, but stories that ask questions. Stories that invite reflection. Stories that, perhaps, might resonate with someone else who has paused in a similar way.

This space is where I will begin to share them.

I will not claim to have answers. In truth, I find myself far more comfortable with questions. Why do certain moments stay with us while others fade? What do we learn from the people we meet, even briefly? How do the smallest experiences sometimes leave the deepest impressions?

Much of what I write will come from a life that has been rich in contrast. I have seen places of abundance and places of deep need. I have witnessed resilience in its rawest form and tenderness in the most unexpected corners. I have worked in environments where life feels fragile and precious, and I have stood in moments where perspective shifts in an instant.

And yet, alongside all of that, there is also humour. There is curiosity. There are the small, almost whimsical observations that remind us not to take everything so seriously. Life, in all its complexity, has a way of offering both weight and lightness, often at the same time.

You will find both here.

Some stories may feel like a quiet conversation. Others may leave you with a question that lingers longer than expected. There will be moments of honesty, moments of reflection, and perhaps moments that feel familiar in a way you cannot quite explain.

This is not a place for perfection. It is a place for noticing.

So if you are someone who has ever found yourself pausing in the middle of an ordinary moment, wondering what it might mean, you are in the right place.

Thank you for being here.

Adorah