One summer I worked in a small town near the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. Those were long days of going back and forth between smaller villages, listening to strong Maasai women and writing everything down. After visiting the villages, I would return to the office and sit on my floor cushion and respond to tourist’s inquiries about visiting and discovering the ‘life of the Maasai’ through tours. I was there assisting in a concept called sustainable tourism. We aimed at making traveling a more appreciative experience that returns the profit directly to communities and limits the environment’s expense. It was an interesting dilemma, confronting exploitation and discovery. These seemingly innocuous tourists wanted to expand their worldview, how could I judge them for that when I was doing the same? With time, there comes a feeling of being territorial. It sneaks up on you, this urge to protect a place and its people. You may have been transplanted there, but with time it seeps into your bones. Most days were harder than not.
I met a friend in this small town. He spoke only through metaphors, discussed the stars at great lengths, and was adamant that every moment of life held meaning. We met through his taxi business and he would take me where I needed to go. Some days his youngest daughter would ride along, watching movies in the back. My friend was wise but had a youthful exuberance. Above all, he was in tune with people’s feelings. As he sped through the streets, dodging the occasional dog or person, he would give me advice. When he was younger, he was a race car driver. During one race out in the empty dirt spaces between clusters of homes, his car crashed, and he lost a hand. Afterwards, Allah opened his eyes; he had found his purpose. He would tell me that I was put on his path to learn from him. I find this happens to me, that I encounter people who determine that I was beamed down to them, so they could push me forward. Just a few years prior, I had a stint in a foreign hospital that ended with my doctor telling me he had cured me so that I could go forth to do something meaningful. So, I sat in my friend’s taxi and I let him teach me the rhythm of life. I question a lot; how things unfold, what knowledge is, why opportunities are withheld from certain people, the speed of progress, globalized ideas, opinions that conflict, and how I should react to it all. My friend would look at me as I would stick my head out of the window and feel the wind on my face. He would tell me stories about how the world was formed and the journeys people have undergone. He would look at me, knowing I was worried, and tell me to remember the trees. The trees represent the small, precious moments of life. The trees remind you of why you are working towards the bigger picture, which is to save the forest. My entire life, comprised of all the experiences that have deftly shaped me, has taught me why one small but victorious battle matters. I have learned that when a battle leaves me broken, I always come back stronger. Confronting myself, my thoughts, and urging my mind to overcome the obstacles and plant a new tree is something important. At the end of the day, I can feel conflicted and doubtful, but I am steady and will reach out to those around me and know that the forests will thrive.
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Author's note:Hi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives
June 2021
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