saturdays

I used to dance at the Vera Zerkovitz School of Ballet - on Saturday mornings, from 10am - 12pm in a studio just above the conservatoire. It's the only time I ever saw dancers dress fully like ballerinas. Not in any of the modern dance wear but simple, classical, tights, leotards, hair in buns and blocks even at the bar.

Vera rarely spoke beyond reiterating instructions - instructions that weren't really necessary because for two hours, she had a programme for us: from the bar to the floor and from the floor to the corners. She commanded a quiet respect from all of us... Neither of us spoke to each other either. We just diligently followed the programme - to the tap of her heels and to the notes of her partner on the piano.

That was what I loved about it. It was so disciplined. It made me wonder whether this was what ballet was like in Russia. No recorded music, no choreography. Just every move in ballet in sequence and to the simple honesty of the piano.

I returned to the school recently. It's a studio now. For aerobics or something. The sign reads something else. They have put glass around what once was an open verandah. Where we used to bask in the sun.

India

I fell in love with India. Because before I met Rohan, she didn't have a face. She lived in the stereotypes of the diaspora, who try to be more Indian than the Indians themselves. She lived in the prejudices of a former colony that has never really known how to feel about the wahindi who stayed after the railway, speak kiswahili and invest in the country without marrying their daughters off or assuming seats of public office.

Enter Rohan. The first Indian from India I've ever really known. A proud Brahmin who lived on the thrill of what he liked to call 'calculated risk'. I met him at a time I wanted someone to accept me, fight for me, love life with me - and he did all three.

And it's because he was so proud and comfortable with his country and history that I learned to love her too. And all the prejudices slipped away as I reacquainted myself with India's social fabric, religion, history. And it is her age and her civilisation and her vastness that impress me. But it's also her hurts and dreams that now assume a human face instead of what had been a reason to continue to be prejudiced. 

He has since taken motorbike trips from Rajasthan to Madhay Pradesh (a-la-Che Guevara style in 'Motorcycle Diaries') and though I am no longer with him, I feel myself riding there too.

It's funny how you can live vicariously through looking at photographs. But when I see those temples and them looking out from those cliffs. I am there too. I have driven for 10 hours and I am perched on a rock, wind-whipped and satisfied. And I am happy that he gave her to me. That he allowed me to accept a place and a people and a culture without ever even going there.

And maybe one day I won't equate India with him. But for the moment, everything that I am open to knowing about her, is because of him.

it's that uncertainty that makes you feel alive - afraid - hopeful - dreamy. negotiating who you become when you make that decision, agreement, committment, losing a little bit of yourself in that process and decision. worrying about which way you'll go and how it'll change your life.

Kilimanjaro

I climbed Kilimanjaro two weeks ago and the memory of it is already slipping away. As if, every time I tell its story, it is cheapened somehow, diminished to an anecdote.

I wrote a story about it that'll be published in January. My first draft was probably my truest version. Every subsequent draft and the version that you will find in print will be much less of me and much more of an identity this new magazine is trying to build. Or whatever the editor's taste is.

So let me tell you the truth of it here; that it made me feel invincible, that it made me feel the proudest I've ever felt in a long time. But that it's like happiness, in the way that happiness is not an end-goal but a continuous journey. It is through the moments of pain and fatigue that I felt the most proud. It is the ability to continue when the body says no but the mind convinces it of just one step more, at the end of every last step.

I think it a blessing that we made the summit ascent in the dark. I think the ignorance of the climb ahead allowed us to trudge along like blinkered horses. Though even this blinkered horse needed chocolates, extra water (I realised I could function on a litre a day, whilst hiking for 6 or 7 hours), dance music and the self-conjured mantra of being a bad-ass.

Then of course there was the ex-military man who gave me the best tip I'd give to anyone who wants to climb a steep mountain; pace. Match the length of your strides and just keep on going. Keep a measured and steady pace and you will get a lot less tired a lot less soon and feel a lot more persevering. He was also very stingy with the amount of time he let me rest for. Which at first was difficult but after I learned how to pace myself, I didn't need to stop so much anyway. And I thanked him in the end for it.

The goal is to reach the crater rim if not the summit by sunrise. I made it to the rim. And though the summit was less than 300m away, I felt the fatigue of the climb and the thinness of the air tax my body as I leaned on my guide before speeding up to the wooden post that attests to Uhuru peak as being the highest peak in Africa and the highest free-standing mountain in the world :)

I cried there. Even as they dragged me back down because they said the altitude would tire me, I felt I needed to witness this achievement with more than a photograph. And so I cried! Tears of pure and honest joy not only because of surmounting the physical challenge but also because of the beauty of it, because I was able to see the ice-caps they say will be gone in a few years. Because of the desert crater within and the gentle slopes that you realise are so vast, you wonder how you even climbed them through the night.

This is what makes you happy; this little knowledge that you have done one thing more incredible than the next man. This is what makes you feel that you can do even more, high on the possibility of the possible.

Kilimanjaro - conquered.

mundan for my nephew

we shaved his head the other day, the poor thing squealing under hands that clamped him down and held him still until all his hair was gone. and then all of a sudden he was less of a baby. like the anguish and the loss of his locks made him that little bit older. or that little bit free from traits of his past lives, as one might have interpreted.

and this is what i wanted to hear about whilst they chanted their mantras and threw herbs into the fire. what were their reasons beyond what they professed them to be (ie. being good for hair growth)?

i like the idea - of shedding worldly attachment, renouncing vanity for spirituality, hair for... growth/freedom/truth?

Josephat

I collected a lot of things. Stamps, money, stones, bones, different coloured toilet paper... One day my askari caught for me a bird. And I named him Josephat, just like the askari. And I was so fond of him I wouldn't let him alone. I kept him under the bread basket which I kept lifting so I could continue to hold him, feel his heart pump and pump in panicked frenzy until it pumped no more.

And so I collected him too. I wrapped him tight in cling film and preserved him for posterity. Or at least until medical science advanced enough to bring him back to life.

And then my mother came home and screamed when she found him in the freezer. At once yelling and throwing him out as I entreated her to have more faith in science.

Leaving Loita

We stay a day extra in Loita because the rains threaten the viability of the roads. We are only too happy however to keep Dr. Maria company.

We meet the Chief and the DC in the hope that their influence will promote the rights of women. But both seem rather removed or indifferent about it. Some staff at the hospital however are even bigger hypocrites. They participate in the women's rights campaigns and yet circumcise their girls at home.

One of the men in the workshop, trained in health care and a key personnel in our work will (a few months later) get a fifteen year old pregnant and run away both from the girl and from work...

I guess that's the benefit of writing in hindsight. Things can be put in greater perspective.

The women are sad to see us go. They shower us with hugs and beaded jewellery. And I am emotional myself; emotional about their situation, emotional that we allowed them to talk, if even just to each other. About what women mean in their societies...

Mannfred had left two days earlier so Dr. Maria drives us to Narok and from Narok we take a mat back.

[one of the women whose necklaces I now wear and Sylvester, one of our health care workers/translators]