Teta would tell the story. Three men had asked for her hand. When my Grandfather made his proposal she’d told him, “but I don’t love you.” To which he courageously replied, “I love you enough for the both of us.”

Growing up I heard this story and always thought it was a testament to my Grandmother’s beauty and vivacity. You see, she naturally took center stage.

Happy Van Life!

If I’m honest, this story starts back in 2009. That was the year that I rode 12,500 miles on my BMW F800GS from Cape Cod, Massachusetts to Alaska and back. That was when I first learned about the Pan American Highway. Somewhere north of the Arctic Circle we ran in to a wiry German fellow on a bicycle, who was making the last push north and finishing his year-long journey on bicycle from Tierra del Fuego, Argentina all the way up. That was it. It didn’t take long for my wanderlust dreaming to set in. Sure, I’ve been on a lot of adventures since then. But I’ve kept dreaming that one day I’d finish the Pan American Highway and head south this time.

Then comes Steven. Little did he know what he was getting himself in to! When I met Steven he was ready. He was dreaming. Perhaps not of South America, but he was looking for an adventure. And he just needed that little push. He just needed someone to tell him it’s okay to think outside the box, to dream big. I learned a while ago that I don’t have to be the person that thinks, “dang, I wish I could do that.” I can be the person that does it. And so, I was happy to share my wanderlust with him.

So we started dreaming together. It started with thinking about things that we could do together on the road to make it possible to support ourselves while traveling long term. I’m blessed that I can work remotely as long as internet is available. But he couldn’t necessarily help me with that stuff along the way. And he had a full time job. And then it happened. I discovered 360 video production. And I knew it was going to be big. So I pitched one of my clients with the idea to start building a 360 video library. Long story short, we are currently en route to Santa Barbara, CA to start filming on Friday.

This isn’t something I could do all by myself and so Steven, seeing the potential in this, jumped aboard. Now we are partnering on this project. It starts with California’s Central Coast but we are hoping that we’ll be able to pick up some additional gigs.

A TON of work followed that decision. Both from a production standpoint, getting equipment ready and up to speed, but also in terms of getting us ready to hit the road. Because if we were going to do this, we were going to do it. And so we’ve set off. We’ve rented the house out, packed up everything we’ll need indefinitely and hit the road in a 1991 Ford Econoline E350 Club Wagon that we’ve affectionately named “Chetty”. As in Chester. Or Chester P. Storch – my grandfather. Because, well, it fit. It just came to me within 5 minutes of handing over a wad of cash for the purchase. And I knew it would be right and that he’d take good care of us. We’ve made some modifications to Chetty. He was once a church van. Then an antique shopping rig and now, he’s a awesome camper van.We’ll share more about his transformation via video very soon!

Also, we’ve launched WanderBird Productions. It’s the evolution of my SN Creative company and we are looking to focus on more of the video production and 360 content. So how does this all tie in to South America? Well, there’s no official plan. We are going to make the most of the 360 gig and look for other opportunities while in California. We’ll go where the wind takes us. And at the right moment we’ll head south and finish that dang highway!

We are full time van vagabonds with our 3 rescue dogs, Aasa (German Shepherd), Peanut (Chihuahua) and Jug (Chocolate Lab) in tow! I’m so excited to share a bit of the journey with you!

Summer in East Texas.

Summer in East Texas. The cacophony of locusts suspended in thick, hot air. Facebook reminds me that it’s been a year since I boarded the ferry leaving Juneau. Jeep, dogs and motorcycle in tow. A refugee from my life. My sister, thank God for her. The strength I did not have to make the journey. Three thousand, five hundred miles, she recalls, of mourning as she’s never heard before.

I was lost. East Texas was not for me. Too flat, too far from the ocean. Too small, too big. Too, too, too. But family was here. And when you find yourself “cast adrift in a universe without meaning”, when the life you’ve built for 13 years is instantly blown apart, you pull the covers up around your head and go where it is safe.

For weeks I’d awake each morning and in the haze of sleep, almost forget that my worst nightmare had come true, until the light made it’s way to my brain and the pain was fresh again. Every day I wished that what had happened had not happened. If ever wishing hard enough for something could have changed it I would have accomplished miracles. A book reminds me “it is what it is” and I realize that I cannot move forward while suspended in a wishful purgatory.

The trouble with feeling things so deeply is that you feel things so deeply. I curse myself, the curse of the creative. Fear tells me to inject my heart with lead. I forget what it is like to smile at strangers. To look people in the eye.

I wrestle with God. Have I not been a good enough person? Slowly, quietly, peace comes. “It rains on the just and unjust alike.” Karma does not work on a credit/debit system according to our timeline. There are no guarantees. Life, does not *owe us anything. You do what is right *because it is right. Without expectation. I realize fear will not protect me from sadness. That the saddest possible outcome of this would be to live in fear. I get angry, at him, at God, at me. Anger gives me strength and resolution. I won’t become less of me because of this. I won’t. I scream and curse the enemy and banish fear from my heart.

So I make plans. I start an application for a Spanish visa, dreaming of life overseas. Sometimes you must pick a direction – any direction. I meet an East Texas man. A kind, gentle man. I am surprised by this. I struggle with this. Fear is always knocking – but he holds the line with me.

The heat I found so suffocating a year ago feels less threatening. The sweat drips down my back and I embrace it. Happiness does not have a zip code. Gratitude for family, friends near and far, the past, the pain, the present, the future, love – this is happiness. I rejoice in where my path has taken me. I find joy watching cousins have summer fun, in making salad with my sister, sharing dinner with my Mom, remodeling a kitchen with a wonderful man. I rejoice that I find myself no less of myself.

The subtitle of my blog is “life, travel and other such adventures.” So I suppose this is the “other such adventures” part. Seize the journey.

The decision to go to India was not one I made easily. I had all these questions: What’s my motivation? What will I REALLY be doing there? Does it even make a difference? Am I really wanting to go for selfish reasons? Am I contributing to the controversy about white people and “voluntourism”? But mostly, what could I possibly hope to accomplish? After closely inspecting my motives I honestly concluded that they were not entirely altruistic. Indeed, whether volunteering locally or half way around the world, I get something out of it. It relieves a bit of the burden I feel. And so, concluding that my motives could even be deemed selfish, I almost decided NOT to go to India. But then it occurred to me: If the people that have a burden don’t do something, then who will?

In terms of life views, I think I fall somewhere in between realism and optimism. You won’t find me cheerfully singing “Always look at the bright side of life” while bleeding out, but I do believe that attitude and outlook make a huge difference. While it might not necessarily change the circumstances, it will most certainly change your experience of them and the kind of person you become through them.

I truly believe that every life you touch matters, no matter how small the way. That living generously through your actions and deeds, no matter where you are or what the circumstance, matters. But I have to say, when you are in places in the world where the need is so great, and everywhere you look there are people in desperation, it’s really hard to see how anything can help. It’s hard to fight the creeping blackness that sneaks up behind you and tells you, “None of this matters. You can’t possibly make a difference. The problems here are too big. What ARE the issues here? You don’t even understand….. how could you possibly help.”

If you look at these matters at a macro level, that dialogue would be correct. Taking a suitcase of water filters to India isn’t going to fix any of the issues there. But if you look at the situation through the lens that every life matters, then the story is very different. The story then becomes about changing one life. Or the life of one family. Or even just providing relief for someone’s suffering.

One water filter may not fix anything. But it may allow some children to make it to age five. And it may allow a child to go to school because he’s not sick all the time. And if that child goes to school and gets educated, then perhaps he can advocate for his community and work toward long-term solutions for them. But if that child is sick and dying because he doesn’t have access to clean drinking water, there’s no way any of the other stuff might follow. And just what if?

Let’s put it this way and look at it from a local perspective. If you decide to volunteer to cook food at the homeless shelter, are you under the illusion that feeding those people is going to solve homelessness? I think not. But does that mean that you shouldn’t volunteer to help feed them a warm meal? Doesn’t that warm meal matter? Even if it doesn’t solve the larger problem?

I’ve received positive feedback from people about going to India. Even praise, for which I’m sure I’m not worthy of because having seen the people there doing the real work, I fall very short. But I have a sneaky suspicion there are some out there, even friends, that might be thinking, “Oh look at Miss Bleeding Heart…. thinking she’s going to change the world…..” And you have every right to be skeptical. But let me be clear – I’m under no illusion that I’ve done any such thing.

So you’re right. A water filter won’t change the world. But it might just change the world for one person. At worst, seeking to relieve someone’s suffering, encouraging a child, or giving of yourself and sharing in their human experience, is worth something. If to no one else, you and that person. And no, you don’t have to go half way across the world to do it. Matter of fact, there’s a lot you can do and never go anywhere.

So I say all that to say, THAT is the story I keep telling myself, in spite of the overwhelming inadequacy of anything I could possibly do. And that’s where the realist and the optimist in me meet. And since I shared part of the journey, I thought I’d share some of what goes on in my head about it.

So which story to you believe?

Mr. Devidas and an arrival committee of several collected us upon our arrival by bus from Mumbai. At the orphanage, the fanfare of drums and cymbals and 30 boys greeted us all at once. A beautifully intricate welcome sign of various colored sands decorated the floor. Strands of marigolds around our necks and red powder on our foreheads added to the honored welcome. This I was not expecting.

We were promptly invited to sit and be introduced to the group, piping hot cups of chai tea quickly served. The rest of the evening consisted of a tour of the orphanage, more introductions and show and tell. Our accommodations were in the computer lab room, Brent, Marie and I sharing a palette on the floor – modest to be sure, but their very best at the same time. We’d be sharing the bathroom with the boys and the staff.

“Didi, photo! Didi, photo!” the boys entreat again and again in chorus. “Didi” I’m told means “big sister” (or there about) and that’s what I’m called here. I know it’s a common enough thing, but to me it feels like a term of endearment. The boys are eager for everything. Eager to have their photo taken, eager to see it. Eager to take photos themselves and eager to show their unique talents. Eager for attention and someone to listen. They ask all sorts of questions. Is this pen from the America? Have you seen the statue of liberty? They crowd around my phone and devour pictures of America. Is this your house? Your dog? Do you swim in that water? No, see the ice… it’s too cold. Do you have a car? Can you sing an American song?

It’s overwhelming, the constant calls for your attention and not knowing who to respond to first, or even how to respond. After a while I start to get a headache but the little ones of the group entreat me to sing the cup song again and again. Every interaction is physically draining, but my heart is full.

I watched them this morning as they prepared for the day with their yoga practice. I listened to their earnest Ohms and Rahms and watched as they worked out their sun namaste, trying to figure out where to put which limb in the mass of little feet and hands, thirty pairs of each all squeezed into one small room.

They introduced me to their orphanage dog, Sonoh, a well fed but ragamuffin looking fellow that sees to security around these parts.

They saw us off to bed last night and seemed to love the phrase “see you tomorrow” and repeated it back me in their best American accents.

They are eager to see to our needs, but privacy is surely a foreign concept to thirty boys sharing two rooms and they overstep in the most innocent of ways. Last night Marie and I were waiting for them to go to bed to use the restroom so that we could do so without notice. We waited as long as we could, and thinking it had quieted down enough tried to sneak down. No sooner had we entered the bathroom there was a party of three at the entrance, one asking, “Everything okay here?” We shooed them away with promises that all was well and once I’d entered the latrine and closed the door, slight annoyance gave way to humor and I had a good chuckle at the comedy of it.

The next day the boys gathered in the main room. They beamed as those that were top of their class stood to be recognized. They all went around the room sharing what they want to be when they grow up. Army men (a much revered profession and somewhat competitive to get in to here), software engineer, artist, doctor, police, and the list went on. Each one was given a turn to show off their talents. Several group dance routines and songs were performed and one of the older boys rapped for us. Some of them that were artists and ran to their rooms to grab pictures they’d drawn and proudly shared them. It’s somewhat magical to see these young boys that were brought from the streets be encouraged to have dreams and hopes and given the means to achieve them.

After three days with them it was time to go. “We will miss you when you leave Didi.” And there stays a little bit of my heart.

I was 6 or 7 and my father had taken me fishing. It was one of his visits when he drove up from San Diego to see us on the weekend. I couldn’t tell you where he took me, but I remember the place perfectly. I’ve seen “it” a hundred times in my adult life exploring the Sierras. It was an alpine stream making its way down into the foothills and probably, ultimately, to the American River. Crystal clear water lined by granite boulders. I was armed with a cheap kiddie fishing rod and a jar of red salmon eggs. I remember seeing those  bright red pearls spilled from the bellies of ripe female salmon as they were caught from below the dam in a last ditch effort to spawn the future generation.

He sat me up on a big granite rock and I remember him showing me how to cast. I’m reminded of it when I watch my brother patiently instruct his son. He helped me cast and left me perched on that rock, the warm California sun sifting through the trees and sparkling on the water below. He didn’t hover, but rather took a position on a neighboring rock. I could have cast in the same spot a million times and not had such luck. But perfectly, as if that moment was meant to be, and become a part of me, I felt that little tug.

(Can’t say why, but I was feeling this memory so I had to write it down last night.)

The need is great

It was Monday and the first day of our work in the field. We’d be traveling out of the town of Kotido and deeper into the Karamojo region. We drive, 10 of us packed like sardines across two bench seats in the back of the Land Cruiser, down the rough, red snake “road” through green bush country. The Karamojo region sits atop a plateau, and at 4,100 feet green bush stretches as far as you can see, interrupted occasionally with dramatic rock outcroppings.

The roads through this region are what adventure seekers and off-road enthusiasts in America would be proud to navigate. To say the roads are rough is an understatement. But they are a lifeline to the region and cut through river beds and unforgiving terrain with purpose. It’s surprising how many people are walking along these roads. To us, we see nothing within any sort of walking distance, so where are these people going? Where did they come from? Children herding goats and cows along the road call out to the passing vehicle “Dodo, dodo, dodo!” They are begging for our empty plastic water bottles and will use them to milk the goats and have something to drink while out during their long days grazing the family livestock.

Joseph our driver and the Land Cruiser are accustomed to this terrain and he flies down the road at a fast clip, hitting large holes in the road and sending us airborne, ramming our heads into the ceiling and returning back to the bench with a thud. I wonder that the axle doesn’t just split in half through this.

Today we would be meeting the people of Kogole West, the village that had been identified as the location for the much-needed sand dam. A sand dam, as I understand it, is a semi-permeable dam built from rock and concrete. The resulting reservoir is not of water, but instead of sand. The sand trapped behind the dam then acts as a water store, holding much more water and preventing more evaporation than a traditional borehole or well might in this region. This kind of project is being used with great success through parts of Kenya. With Karamojo being subject to harsh, dry weather conditions the need not only for clean water, but for water in general is critical. Kogole West, being in relative close proximity to a river is a prime candidate for this project. Sand dam engineers had visited the site long before we arrived and surveyed the river in great detail, determining the one and only location in the Kogole area that would be a successful location for the sand dam.

After about an hour travel down the rusty vein Joseph makes a right into a much narrower path lined with thick thorn bushes. We have to close the windows so that the three-inch thorns don’t reach in and tear at us. After a while we emerge into a clearing and make our way to a large tree. The village is expecting us and everyone is gathered under the meeting tree. We quickly pile out. Michael (the camera guy) and I are hustling to get cameras and audio equipment ready for the meeting which starts without delay.

The elders of the village are lined up along one side of the meeting area – some sitting on their hand carved stools and others logs. The rest of the group gathers in the dirt under the tree. MAP has met with this group before and discussed the sand dam project with them. This is a kick-off and introductory meeting for our team. We are introduced to curious faces. The project details are discussed. It will be a work program – thirty workers have been per-selected by the village to help with the project. Work will happen 4 days a week, from 7 am – 2 pm. and food will be provided at the work site for the workers. Each worker will earn additional rations of food to take home to their family.

After considerable discussion we make the trek to the determined sand dam site along the river. Here I should mention that what they call a river really is about a 15-foot wide sandy river bed with small creek weaving down the center. It’s hard to imagine how this is their sole water source. The water is stained a muddy red and as we climb down to the bed we have to avoid cow dung along the way – a sign that the livestock are also using this creek. This water source is used for bathing, watering livestock, watering crops, household use, and yes, drinking. It’s almost incomprehensible.

What ensues next is completely unexpected. I’m torn between regaling you with the details of what was a very interesting debate about the sand dam and keeping the details for the documentary. I’ll settle on telling that there was some concern and misunderstanding about the project that was in the end cleared up. I remember at one point of the interaction trying to get in a little closer with the boom mic and getting mean mugged by a very fierce looking young man who appeared to be of some prominence in the village. Having the affect I’m sure he intended I quickly backed off. However, all said we left the day on a positive note and determined that we’d be back in the morning to begin the labor on the sand dam. (A side note: Dennis of MAP did ask permission for us to film in the village and we received it.)

The next day we arrived at the scene of the sand dam where rocks where being chipped off a nearby rock outcropping and carried down to the river. We joined in. It’s so amazing to see this. In America, if you need stones and gravel, you go to Home Depot or call someone. Here they head to the hills and start chipping stones off the rocks with large mallets. Smaller stones are then further broken down with little hammers and women sit amongst a pile of rocks cracking each one smaller and smaller into gravel. We spent the morning walking the now worn path to the river carrying rocks. The villagers where amused at our obvious lack of skill and awkwardness trying to carry the rocks in our arms. Mercifully, the women intervened and provided us with straw donuts (for lack of a better description) to put on our head to help distribute the weight of the rocks and carry them on our heads. The women do this effortlessly, carrying quite heavy rocks balancing on their heads, arms free about their sides. This habit of carrying things on their heads has produced women who walk with pride and grace. The women are amazing and a story unto themselves.

At the end of day one at the sand dam it was evident that we had earned a bit of respect from the villagers. When we were departing to visit the next village our vehicle got stuck in mud. The village rushed to lend a hand, and after much digging, pushing and some cow dung thrown in prayer we were out and on our way to the first village that would be receiving the water filters.

Over the next week and a half we’d be back several times. Sometimes to help with work and sometimes to drop off the engineer Livingstone and check on progress. The relationship with the people at Kogole started off a little tense but on the last day of our visit it had grown to mutual respect and friendship. By the end, they were singing and asking us to dance with them. I was fighting back tears at how amazing the experience was to be there sharing that with them.

On the last day the pouring of concrete began and we had to leave the construction of the dam to the supervision of Map and Livingstone. It’s in good hands.

Carrie Beth hard at work

On our way into Kotido

Our accommodations were a guest house complex at the Church of Uganda – or owned by them anyway – and so it was simply called “Church of Uganda”. They were simple accommodations, but admittedly better than what I had expected. They were clean, we each had our own bathroom and they were cute round huts with thatched roofs. We didn’t have running water for over half the time we stayed there, but hey, it was an experience.

Thankfully, the day following our arrival in Kotido was Sunday. The MAP offices do not work on Sunday and so it was a day of rest and exploring. Well, more exploring than rest.

Dennis from MAP was kind enough to accompany us into the town of Kotido. We stepped out of the complex and started making our way to the town center collecting tiny observers whispering “mzungu” (white person) along the way.

A collection of red brick dwellings, traditional huts, open storefronts, goats, cows, chickens and people lined the rough dirt roads through town. We ducked under hanging rows of brightly colored fabric wraps and into the market. Recycled tire sandals, colorful beaded jewelry, saucepans, open sacks of beans and spices and curious faces greeted us.

When we emerged at the other end, we found ourselves in the middle of a tribal gathering. All seven clans of this tribe had come from miles away to town today. The purpose for this colorful gathering, as explained to us, was that there had been a couple of deaths by lightening in the last month. The leaders, concerned that perhaps the gods had been aggravated, decided the best way to appease them was for each of the seven clans to sacrifice a cow. And so, that is how we came upon the scene – seven cows laid out in a field being butchered in the middle of a swarm of clans people. Mercifully we missed the slaughter. The people were friendly and we were invited to return in the evening when the beef was to be roasted.

At the end of our town expedition we had amassed quite a following of local children and they seemed undeterred as we started to make our way back to our accommodations. We popped into a shop and bought a handful of candy drops to dole out with entreaties for the children to return home.

The folks from MAP wanted to share with us their Sunday afternoon entertainment – the sliding rock. Which was quite literally that – a large rock outcropping with a shiny, bluish vein running down the slope. Whether the “slide” was originally a natural occurrence or if years of fun-seeking rear ends wore it into the rock we may never know. If the rock itself wasn’t entertainment enough, the locals gathered there were and a few young men decided to enact what appeared to be part traditional dance performance and part boyish improve. It proved entertaining and wrapped up our Sunday evening. We headed home to rest up and prepare for the start of what would be a long week of work in the field.

More beautiful faces from Kotido: