We all need to shower. Even if you choose to disbelieve that
statement, all those around you will begin to heartily agree within a matter of
days, so, for the sake of argument, let’s agree that showering is a given
necessity. Despite its essential nature, there’s a funny kind of psychology
that goes along with showering. Sometimes before stepping in, I spend a few
minutes letting the water run and think, “I don’t really want to get in. I
don’t want to get wet. I’m comfortable out here, and I’m not really interested
in changing that.” Yet, inevitably, I succumb to my desires to maintain
personal hygiene, have friends, etc. and step behind the plastic sliding
shrine. A few moments might be spent doing a touch-and-go tango with the
streams of water as my skin adjusts to whatever temperature difference there
might be, but after a short time, I find myself turning round and round like a
contented rotisserie chicken beneath the showerhead (when the water heater is
working, mind you). Even after all the washing and cleaning are done, I usually
find myself thinking, “I don’t really want to get out. I don’t want to dry off.
I’m comfortable in here, and I’m not really interested in changing that.” Yet,
inevitably, I succumb to my desire to function as a human being in society, eat
food, etc. and leave my watery happy place.
As much as
you might be hoping this final blog post will consist entirely of my thoughts
on showering, I’m actually attempting to convey how I feel about transitions. I
recognize the necessary nature of transitions in life, yet I cannot help but
feel a certain resistance or general “I don’t wanna,” when they come around.
From stepping into a shower to changing which continent I’m living on,
transitions tend to come with an intrinsic level of unpleasantness. That’s not
to say all transitions are unpleasant, of course. Sticking with the shower
analogy, I remember taking a shower after hiking Kilimanjaro (the first after a solid week of hiking) and actually laughing out loud because it felt so good. If I
were to point out something unpleasant about that experience, it wouldn’t be
the transition itself but rather the recognition that something great was
coming to an end. Unfortunately enough, our current state of existence demands
that time always move forward, so endings and beginnings appear to be unavoidable
until further notice. I can recognize this truth, but it doesn’t mean I have to
like it.
My final
month in Kenya brought with it many great things. Construction on the clinic
has progressed very well, the logistical projects I had been working on have
reached a point of sustainable practical benefit (hopefully), and the final
steps are being taken to be officially recognized by the Kenyan government.
The clinic has walls!
As
gratifying as it is to feel like I have done something that will make a
tangible difference in the development of the clinic, I can’t help but feel the
weight of the work yet to be done. It would be nice to feel like everything has
been wrapped up in a neat little package, but the reality is, work against
poverty and sickness will never be finished. If I leave with nothing else, it
will be an appreciation that such efforts are not aimed at “completion,” in the
absolute sense of the word but continued, meaningful progress in the
improvement of people’s lives. Of course, I will leave with much more than
that, but this is an understanding that has significantly changed the way I understand
humanitarianism.
Ten days
ago, my best friend since the 1st grade came to visit me. Since
then, we have traveled to several places all over Kenya, enjoying the main
tourist sites and reliving many of the experiences I had when I first arrived in
December. From hiking in the Rift Valley to taking a 3-day safari on the Maasai
Mara, I felt a certain sense of poetry in having almost mirroring events take
place on either end of my time here.
Hiking Mt. Longonot once again
The Maasai Mara, beautiful as always
Not only did I have a blast revisiting some of the most beautiful places in the country, but I had the opportunity to
see how my perception of these experiences have changed after living here for
almost 6 months. While much of my enjoyment and marveling remained unchanged, the
marginal sense of familiarity I now have contrasted with the sense of
foreignness I had before. While I have yet to shed my American skin and become
a Kenyan national, my inward sense of being an outsider has diminished in a
noticeable way. Apply the shower analogy here.
I have a
lot to look forward to when returning to the States. With preparations for
medical school to be made and friends and family to reconnect with, I will have
no shortage of incredibly exciting things to anticipate. Like I said,
transitions aren’t necessarily unpleasant in and of themselves; it just sucks
that something great is coming to an end. The degree to which my time in East
Africa has changed me is difficult to articulate, but its incredible value on
so many levels is impossible to deny. Put simply, I am not leaving as the same
person that walked off a plane in Nairobi 168 days ago. Some lessons are easy
to encapsulate into a sentence or two, yet others may elude the powers of
language for the rest of my life. While it might be nice to have a final
sweeping thought that could sum my experiences into a compact
life-lessons-to-go doggy bag, I won’t be able to do that. What I can do,
however, is express my renewed appreciation for simplicity by saying it has
been nothing short of an absolute privilege to be here. I may not be able to
separate the sadness and reluctance that comes with a transition like this one,
but I can be grateful that I will have the opportunity to miss this place, the
relationships I have made here, and the experiences that will forever mark this
period of my life’s history. As with so many pivotal times in my life, I find
myself taking solace in the words of one of my favorite philosophers, Dr.
Seuss:
“Don’t cry
because it’s over, smile because it happened.”
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