Tuuli's Blog
Saturday, November 19, 2005
From Kano, Nigeria: "Everything we deny, denigrate, or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. What seems nasty, painful, evil, can become a source of beauty, joy, and strength, if faced with an open mind." —Henry Miller
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Bilma, Niger
As one of the only aid workers in Bilma described it: "This place really is like the end of the earth." And I thought I came from Finland.
Perhaps it was the imagery of finality that first shaped my affinity to this place in the middle of the Sahara desert. In the end, it is at the extremities of the earth, the edges of civilization that you find pure being. Everywhere else, there is too much white noise. Gazing down to the oasis of Bilma from the Kawar escarpment at sunset is mystical. My senses had heightened from the intensity of the climb until I felt the grey colors of the sand dunes in the distance, the jade green haze of the oasis trees, and the orange and pink hues of the descending sun melting into me. A peace descended on me as I descended the mountain.
The miraculous waters of the oasis had over flown, creating a garden of eden among groves of date palms. A grazing white horse drank from a pool of water. Dozens of children jumped into the water to play, shrieking with happiness. They coaxed us in to play games and toss them about in the water. Instead of asking us for minties, they thanked us for the fun they had.
Caravans arrived from all over Niger to the salt mines outside the oasis. The smoke coiled from the traders' campfires at dusk, embers glowed in the darkness. The smell of roasted meat and livestock lingered in the quiet, still air. The camels rested in star-shaped formations, gathering their strength for the long road back through endless sand dunes. The moon exposed their massive silhouettes resting on the ground, their moans echoed through the valley.
Silence and emptiness create an uncanny ability to recognize life. The sound of the wind against the sand dunes is silent, until the wind caresses a rock and the rock sighs. The blackness of the night sky expands your vision. When you light a match, your eyes see each individual spark.
The desert is fiercely intense. You can see it in the people's eyes. Those eyes see life in the blankness of the desert, they find movement on the horizon, they can discern between mirage and truth. These eyes were never exposed to excess stimulation, they have the capacity to look straight at your soul. At times, I feel too empty, inexperienced, unaware to meet their eyes. I am perplexed and compelled to look away. Sometimes, when I can muster up the nerve, I return their gaze.
Welcome, these eyes say. Let us show you hospitality. Let us feed you. Let us look after you. The people of the desert are warm. Their welcome is chaleureuse. They will bring you three bowls of food and not feed themselves. They will put you on the back of their truck and ride you across 600 kilometers of desert and not expect anything in return. They will enjoy sitting quietly in your presence, until you break the silence. They will speak to you candidly. They will offer you what is theirs, even if they have less than you. They will fall in love with you, as you fall in love with them. And they will profess their love to you over and over.
As one of the only aid workers in Bilma described it: "This place really is like the end of the earth." And I thought I came from Finland.
Perhaps it was the imagery of finality that first shaped my affinity to this place in the middle of the Sahara desert. In the end, it is at the extremities of the earth, the edges of civilization that you find pure being. Everywhere else, there is too much white noise. Gazing down to the oasis of Bilma from the Kawar escarpment at sunset is mystical. My senses had heightened from the intensity of the climb until I felt the grey colors of the sand dunes in the distance, the jade green haze of the oasis trees, and the orange and pink hues of the descending sun melting into me. A peace descended on me as I descended the mountain.
The miraculous waters of the oasis had over flown, creating a garden of eden among groves of date palms. A grazing white horse drank from a pool of water. Dozens of children jumped into the water to play, shrieking with happiness. They coaxed us in to play games and toss them about in the water. Instead of asking us for minties, they thanked us for the fun they had.
Caravans arrived from all over Niger to the salt mines outside the oasis. The smoke coiled from the traders' campfires at dusk, embers glowed in the darkness. The smell of roasted meat and livestock lingered in the quiet, still air. The camels rested in star-shaped formations, gathering their strength for the long road back through endless sand dunes. The moon exposed their massive silhouettes resting on the ground, their moans echoed through the valley.
Silence and emptiness create an uncanny ability to recognize life. The sound of the wind against the sand dunes is silent, until the wind caresses a rock and the rock sighs. The blackness of the night sky expands your vision. When you light a match, your eyes see each individual spark.
The desert is fiercely intense. You can see it in the people's eyes. Those eyes see life in the blankness of the desert, they find movement on the horizon, they can discern between mirage and truth. These eyes were never exposed to excess stimulation, they have the capacity to look straight at your soul. At times, I feel too empty, inexperienced, unaware to meet their eyes. I am perplexed and compelled to look away. Sometimes, when I can muster up the nerve, I return their gaze.
Welcome, these eyes say. Let us show you hospitality. Let us feed you. Let us look after you. The people of the desert are warm. Their welcome is chaleureuse. They will bring you three bowls of food and not feed themselves. They will put you on the back of their truck and ride you across 600 kilometers of desert and not expect anything in return. They will enjoy sitting quietly in your presence, until you break the silence. They will speak to you candidly. They will offer you what is theirs, even if they have less than you. They will fall in love with you, as you fall in love with them. And they will profess their love to you over and over.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
The middle of the Sahara desert, Niger
The late afternoon sun filtered down into the bed of the Mercedes truck where I was sitting, exposing the magnitude of dust, sand and animal feces particles that floated quietly in the air. The sun beat down on the passengers, as only the Sahara sun can, leaving my mouth dry. My sullen mood was interrupted only by the baying of goats. This was day two of our long journey into the heart of the Sahara desert.
The long day that we had spent on the truck had begun to take its toll. My face was caked with a thick layer of what I discerned could only be feces, despite being wrapped in a head scarf and a hat. Every now and then we would hit a bump in the road and one of the seventy heads of goat that the truck was transporting would plunge into me. Sometimes they would urinate or defecate on my feet before I had the chance to push them away. My protestations were kind-heartedly laughed at by the fifty immigrants that sat perched on the bed, on the sides and on top of the truck. It seems that laughing is all you can do at this point. To myself, I thought that this kind of reaction was a little psychotic. How little did I know...
The truck was transporting goats, three crazy tourists and immigrants from all over West Africa. Most of the immigrants were en route to Europe, where they hoped to make a life for themselves. They would reach Libya and board one of the illegal pirate boats headed for Italy. Many of them were younger than me. Conversations exposed the fabrications they had come to believe about Europe as the land of milk and honey, the land of white women who would marry you for citizenship, the land of infinite opportunities. Despite my compassion for their fates and their stories as part of our research, in my exhaustion, the only words of encouragement that I was able to mutter were: "You will see."
At sunset, we stopped for a break at the only well in 200 kilometers. We realized that a goat had urinated on our food bag, but we cooked some of the food anyway. As the drivers began to get ready to move out, I could not bring myself to accept the thought of riding another kilometer with those devilish goats, so I changed places with Nate. He had been sitting on the top of the truck and warned me of the elbows, unbalance and dangers of being thrown off. I responded that anything is better than those damn goats.
As the sun set into the West, exposing a rainbow of the color red to the evening sky, the beauty of the scenery relaxed me a little. There was more of a breeze up top and I noticed that if I kept my head up, I would not be in the line of the feces trail from the goats. The beauty of the scene faded quickly as darkness fell and the desert was illuminated only by a sliver of the moon. How we got here and where we were going began to feel like insignificant details of a sinister plan. What was left for my mind to concentrate on was only the relentless bounce of the truck, swaying my body back and forth, jerking me alert at times, lulling me to sleep at others.
My mind began to wobble, like my body. Night fell and there was only darkness now. I lost my grip on time. I could not distinguish whether we were hours or minutes closer to our destination. The moon set. The constellations were indiscernible, they were swaying illogically with the movement of the truck. My body doubled over in fatigue. I was scared. I decided to pray. My mother had once taught me that in times of distress, I should create an imaginary pyramid of protection around myself. I imagined a soft yellow light emanating around the truck, connected to the heavens.
Hours later, I had lost my will to live. By the time I realized that I did not care whether we were protected or not, I had already deemed my life insignificant. All I cared about was stopping the truck. I knew that the driver would not respond kindly to my pleas, so after some time of reflection, I abandoned the idea of throwing my body against the windshield, shrieking with terror.
Instead, I looked for signs of civilization on the horizon. There was nothing. After some time, I saw a blinking light. It blinked in yellows and reds. I was sure it was a radio tower. No star could look like that. This must mean that we were close to Dirkou, the final stop. After minutes of intense concentration and hope, I looked up at the night sky. With disappointment, I noticed that all of the stars were blinking in that fashion. I realized that delusion had set in.
What do you do when you realize that you are delusional? I hoped to grip onto anything that seemed familiar. So, I looked down at the goats. After a while, I began to hallucinate. At one moment the goats were standing, at another, they were flung around the truck haphazardly. The goat herder began to look like a maniac, flinging goats back and forth by their tails. The goats were at their breaking point. They were going crazy with fear. They began to scream and scream. This wasn't helping me to regain my sanity.
Finally, the truck slowed to a stop. People began to jump off the sides into the desert below in pure abandon. For a while, I thought that the truck driver was just toying with us. I had made him into a maniacal devil. After a few minutes, I realized that the passengers had began to make fires. I moved myself off the truck. When the three of us had set up camp, we were too tired to cook. Instead, I got a hug from the boys, fought back tears and fell onto my yoga mat to sleep.
This is the hell that immigrants to Europe go through for an opportunity to succeed in life. But they do it for 30 days or more. I could only handle two. I resolved to never get on another truck like this again. For the others, this was not a choice. They were already far too deep in their journey. To turn back now would be a giant waste of money.
The late afternoon sun filtered down into the bed of the Mercedes truck where I was sitting, exposing the magnitude of dust, sand and animal feces particles that floated quietly in the air. The sun beat down on the passengers, as only the Sahara sun can, leaving my mouth dry. My sullen mood was interrupted only by the baying of goats. This was day two of our long journey into the heart of the Sahara desert.
The long day that we had spent on the truck had begun to take its toll. My face was caked with a thick layer of what I discerned could only be feces, despite being wrapped in a head scarf and a hat. Every now and then we would hit a bump in the road and one of the seventy heads of goat that the truck was transporting would plunge into me. Sometimes they would urinate or defecate on my feet before I had the chance to push them away. My protestations were kind-heartedly laughed at by the fifty immigrants that sat perched on the bed, on the sides and on top of the truck. It seems that laughing is all you can do at this point. To myself, I thought that this kind of reaction was a little psychotic. How little did I know...
The truck was transporting goats, three crazy tourists and immigrants from all over West Africa. Most of the immigrants were en route to Europe, where they hoped to make a life for themselves. They would reach Libya and board one of the illegal pirate boats headed for Italy. Many of them were younger than me. Conversations exposed the fabrications they had come to believe about Europe as the land of milk and honey, the land of white women who would marry you for citizenship, the land of infinite opportunities. Despite my compassion for their fates and their stories as part of our research, in my exhaustion, the only words of encouragement that I was able to mutter were: "You will see."
At sunset, we stopped for a break at the only well in 200 kilometers. We realized that a goat had urinated on our food bag, but we cooked some of the food anyway. As the drivers began to get ready to move out, I could not bring myself to accept the thought of riding another kilometer with those devilish goats, so I changed places with Nate. He had been sitting on the top of the truck and warned me of the elbows, unbalance and dangers of being thrown off. I responded that anything is better than those damn goats.
As the sun set into the West, exposing a rainbow of the color red to the evening sky, the beauty of the scenery relaxed me a little. There was more of a breeze up top and I noticed that if I kept my head up, I would not be in the line of the feces trail from the goats. The beauty of the scene faded quickly as darkness fell and the desert was illuminated only by a sliver of the moon. How we got here and where we were going began to feel like insignificant details of a sinister plan. What was left for my mind to concentrate on was only the relentless bounce of the truck, swaying my body back and forth, jerking me alert at times, lulling me to sleep at others.
My mind began to wobble, like my body. Night fell and there was only darkness now. I lost my grip on time. I could not distinguish whether we were hours or minutes closer to our destination. The moon set. The constellations were indiscernible, they were swaying illogically with the movement of the truck. My body doubled over in fatigue. I was scared. I decided to pray. My mother had once taught me that in times of distress, I should create an imaginary pyramid of protection around myself. I imagined a soft yellow light emanating around the truck, connected to the heavens.
Hours later, I had lost my will to live. By the time I realized that I did not care whether we were protected or not, I had already deemed my life insignificant. All I cared about was stopping the truck. I knew that the driver would not respond kindly to my pleas, so after some time of reflection, I abandoned the idea of throwing my body against the windshield, shrieking with terror.
Instead, I looked for signs of civilization on the horizon. There was nothing. After some time, I saw a blinking light. It blinked in yellows and reds. I was sure it was a radio tower. No star could look like that. This must mean that we were close to Dirkou, the final stop. After minutes of intense concentration and hope, I looked up at the night sky. With disappointment, I noticed that all of the stars were blinking in that fashion. I realized that delusion had set in.
What do you do when you realize that you are delusional? I hoped to grip onto anything that seemed familiar. So, I looked down at the goats. After a while, I began to hallucinate. At one moment the goats were standing, at another, they were flung around the truck haphazardly. The goat herder began to look like a maniac, flinging goats back and forth by their tails. The goats were at their breaking point. They were going crazy with fear. They began to scream and scream. This wasn't helping me to regain my sanity.
Finally, the truck slowed to a stop. People began to jump off the sides into the desert below in pure abandon. For a while, I thought that the truck driver was just toying with us. I had made him into a maniacal devil. After a few minutes, I realized that the passengers had began to make fires. I moved myself off the truck. When the three of us had set up camp, we were too tired to cook. Instead, I got a hug from the boys, fought back tears and fell onto my yoga mat to sleep.
This is the hell that immigrants to Europe go through for an opportunity to succeed in life. But they do it for 30 days or more. I could only handle two. I resolved to never get on another truck like this again. For the others, this was not a choice. They were already far too deep in their journey. To turn back now would be a giant waste of money.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Agadez, Niger
It is Friday, we are about to jump on a truck which will take us to the middle of the Sahara to an oasis named Bilma. There is no internet in this part of the world. You won't hear from us for one week, so to everyone's family: please do not worry. We will be in contact as soon as it is possible.
It is Friday, we are about to jump on a truck which will take us to the middle of the Sahara to an oasis named Bilma. There is no internet in this part of the world. You won't hear from us for one week, so to everyone's family: please do not worry. We will be in contact as soon as it is possible.
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