All posts tagged: lalmba

This is Part 4 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

If strength is measured by one’s ability to persevere, Helena Sarcone had to be one of our strongest walkers. She was usually the last to lace her boots in the morning; bandaging her numerous blisters required time. Often she debated wearing sandals or boots; both caused new sores.  It was simply a deliberation on blister distribution.  Mapping out future blisters requires a fatalistic sense of humor, which Helena possessed in abundance.

Photo by Helena Sarcone

By day 3 our blister competition was in full swell. Helena had the most, but mine were the largest. We compared our wounds around the fire at night, arguing over the best way to apply moleskin — plaster it right on top of the hot spot, or cut a hole in the middle so it lay around the sore? I used the plaster-over technique and I could say it worked just fine, but I had the biggest blisters. Helena used the hole technique,  and she could say it worked better, but she had the most. Who knows? All I know is that blisters are a scourge; they hurt to walk on, each step a new sensation of pain.

So why would we do this trek, with full knowledge it will hurt?  The “Pleasure and Pain Principle” states that all human behavior is motivated by two things – seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. But with these walks, pain’s a given; there’s no avoiding it. The futile efforts of good socks and shoes and the endless crap-parade of moleskin count as attempts to avoid pain, I suppose, but they don’t work.

Each day we awoke knowing that the morning light would be radiant,  long and ancient savanna shadows would drape the cool air, and the camels would groan and gnash in contempt for their burdened backs. Those were givens. And so too was the knowledge that the day’s first steps would hurt like hell.

After an hour or so of walking, however, the individuality of each blister morphed into a single, throbbing, vibrant burn. Our steps felt more like bare feet over hot coals — a right of passage best endured without complaint. And really, what would be the point of complaining?  We had a mission to complete and a cause greater than ourselves driving us forward.

As a steady reminder of why we walk, a beautiful stream of children meandered through our caravan.  Barefoot kids effortlessly scurried around us and over broken, rocky ground. Some had babies holstered to their hips, others carried buckets or bags on their heads. One boy ran by gripping hand-hewn crutches, dragging polio-ravaged legs behind him. This land is not easy to navigate, even for the able-bodied.  Every step seems to have an element of peril, in every face a story of hard-earned survival.

Helena saw it too, and so in silent agreement and mutual respect for the path we both must walk, we eased into our stride and into a state of mind, numb to personal pain, and awakened to those who walk with us.  As walkers for a cause, we were like mystics who self-flagellate, inviting a bit of pain to bring us closer to the divine.

I’ve heard it said that all art comes from a place of pain. To create something beautiful is to recognize that pain exists.  Beauty is a salve for fresh and old wounds. In that sense, Helena is an artist, creating beauty from pain, and finding strength from a point of weakness.  Every masterpiece holds a paradoxical twist of those extremes.

The below stanzas are excerpts of a spoken work poem Helena Sarcone wrote, post-walk, in Nairobi.  These are lines that paint the beauty of pain and poverty. 

“Every time, it’s something

Something different

Jealousy, want, wonder

We all stare

Their malnourished bellies escaping under their shirts

Dirt houses held up by love

Wide eyes follow us

As they stare

On both sides, each stare is met

Some held, others forgotten

But all true”

Post walk foot portrait.

Singing “Ooo Le La Lo” to some curious locals. Helena always initiated a song as a way to make friends.

Sunset on the Migori air strip.

A dirt house held up by love.

Foot repair around the evening fire.

Riding high and giving the camel a try.

This is Part 3 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

 

“Silence is the mystery of the world to come. Speech is the organ of this present world. More than all things love silence: it brings you a fruit that the tongue cannot describe. In the beginning we have to force ourselves to be silent. But then from our very silence is born something that draws us into deeper silence. May God give you an experience of this ‘something’ that is born of silence. If you practice this, inexpressible light will dawn upon you.” —Issac of Ninive

Like an effigy backlit against the horizon, a totem of great power, Joe walked alone. He was a solitary figure, a classic introvert, and before arrival in Nairobi, he was a great mystery. We represented him as a silhouette in our newsletter and the stories I imagined about him were legendary.

I had his application, I knew he was Joe the engineer from Arizona. But in my imagination he was Joe the mercenary, or Joe the CIA spy using the cover of humanitarian adventurer to wage a secret war against Al Shabaab.  I expected to meet gun smugglers sitting under an acacia tree as we crested a hilltop in the middle of the bush.

Sadly, that never happened; Joe is an engineer from Arizona.  He is a humanitarian and an adventurer.  He is a solitary man, quiet and gentle. A triathlete, tall and strong.  He is a proud husband and father.

And he is more than a silhouette.  He is Joe Synk, a multi-dimensional person, who liked to walk alone.

With his head down, hat pulled low over his eyes and every inch of skin sheltered from the sun, Joe set the pace.  He led the group not out of a competitive desire to be first, but because his legs needed to move at that pace.

His steps were rhythmic, like tapping out a walking meditation, as if he were aware that silence is precious and each step is sacred. 

The Lakota Sioux believed similarly about smoking tobacco, that it is a sacred ritual and the exhaled smoke is the vehicle that carries the prayer into the universe.  

Joe’s vehicle was his feet coupled with an unbreakable stride — each step fully grounded, each carrying purpose and hope.

In distance walking, I’ve always referred to that mental space where the mind fully controls body and breath as the “zone.”

The zone exists somewhere between “damn, this hurts” and “oh, what a beautiful sunset.”  In the zone, you lose awareness of your body in motion, breathing is regulated and feelings of fatigue slip away. You are a windup soldier with an ever-coiled spring.  And in that perpetual motion, your thoughts are free to debate and solve humanity’s greatest problems or simply contemplate the existence of being.  As one’s body moves through space and time, so do thoughts dance in the head.

I remember thinking in one particular zone, that in America, we joke about lawsuits for tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.  But are we joking?  Born into opportunity and relative wealth, we expect our paths in life to be clear of all obstacles. I struggled to walk at times because of bad blisters on the balls of my soft feet, painfully aware that the culture I was born into created this softness. First world living is the source of my weakness, I silently grumbled. Step, step, step . . .

Then I began thinking about life’s blessings, each step ticking them off, countless advantages, birth rights of an American, etc. Opportunities to earn and learn have always been present in my life.  But not so for most of our brethren whom we walked with and for . . . and so the thoughts flowed, and we walked on with Joe leading the group, in a zone where his purest intentions were healing the world.

I really do believe that those silent intentions, prayers if you will, have great power to heal and change the world.  The world needs more people like Joe, who quietly and firmly lead us to walk with purpose.  He is not your average Joe.  He is Joe Synk, husband, father, engineer . . . and friend from Arizona.

Joe and David lead us away from the Mara river where we bathed the night before in front of a crowd of curious onlookers.

Joe greets an elder from the community who came to see our spectacle.

Sunrise, facing east toward the Rift Valley, Joe readies for the day.

Sunset Lake Victoria, Matoso, Kenya. Jane and Joe share a private conversation at the See Lodge.