anniversary

As an energy conservation rule, I only acknowledge the others who also enduring the trauma of attempting to exercise in a steam bath.  Today during my morning run, a guy running in a two piece windsuit responded to my wave with an energetic point and snap.  I found myself unusually buoyed by this gesture and thought to myself “yep, go me, what a great way to start the day”.  For it isn’t just any day.

It’s my anniversary.

With myself.

Twelve months ago I set out with a dream, because I had run out of excuses to not to follow it.  Unsurprisingly my dreams have built upon each other to create new dreams.   But what I hadn’t expected was that I would finish this year living out a dream completely different than the one I started with.  From the land of my dreams I traveled to the land of my ancestors.

Those of you who know me (or have read this blog) know that it hasn’t all been magical.  Creepy people have followed me, constantly having to figure things out has overwhelmed me and loneliness has overcome me at times.  But wouldn’t that all have happened to me anyway? YES!

But had I never packed all my things into my parents’ basement (still sorry, dad), I certainly would not have stood at the base of Mt. Everest, developed an addiction to Bourbon biscuits, become an East African frequent flyer or had the shores of the Indian Ocean as a refuge. 

So this morning, I seconded the point and snap… because this journey has been challenging – and I’m still on it! Whoever reaches a milestone without disappointment and elation?

I would like to say that this year has left me with some profound wisdom.  In a way it has – I am now convinced of the strength, creativity and bravery of the woman I see in the mirror each morning.  If I could share one piece of unsolicited advice it would be this: your life is now.  This is your big adventure.  Do something, anything that you’ve always wanted to - the most important thing I’ve learned is that you won’t regret it.

crush my heart down

Spurred into action by the visit of an old friend, this past weekend I embarked on my first Tanzanian road trip with yours truly at the helm.  Destination: Bagamoyo.

Seventy kilometers north of Dar, it's a town with a rich and, sadly, dark history.  Bagamoyo, according to Rough Guides, translates to "lay your heart down".  According to the guide we picked up outside of one of the crumbling edifices in Bagomoyo's Stone Town, it means "crush your heart down".  

Arriving at the indiscriminate rubble that comprises this part of the town, I felt vaguely depressed.  Of course, it is fitting that arriving at a former slave port should be a sobering experience.  Along the shores of the Indian Ocean, thousands of Africans, many who had spent up to 9 months traversing the continent, arrived at their last stop before the massive slave trading markets of of Zanzibar.  As the capital of German East Africa, Bagamoyo was one of these such places.

The East African slave trade saw thousands of people captured and sold against their will.  Our enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide traced the last steps of this journey.  From the prison cells in a slave owner's basement that eventually would become the headquarters for the colonizing Germans and later the British after the first World War, to the unrecognizable slave market which now houses the local bounty of generic souvenirs, women hovering over pots of simmering beans and gatherings of unoccupied young men.  Even less recognizable (but easier to guess about) are the ruins along the shore.  Crumbling walls stand over a beach crowded with fisherman dividing the spoils of the day's catch.  The ocean is encroaching upon these ruins steadily at a rate of 60m a year.  Now just metres away, thoughts have turned to ways to relocate the remnants of the building to higher ground.

Standing on the steps that now lead to a tangle of fishing boats and their anchor ropes, I tried to imagine what that last couple of kilometers would have been like.  Starving and shackled by my neck and ankles to my neighbour, would I care about the fate that awaited me beyond these shores? Would I lament not having perished along with countless others? Would I even be capable of thinking? Bagamoyo may very well be the place where these slaves left their hearts, for those who still had them to give.  However, regardless of the translation or the true origins of the name Bagamoyo, hearts were not laid there.  No, that is too benign a descriptor.  This was a dissociation that was violently imposed.  Their hearts were crushed down.