explanation attempt 2:
a little narrative account in an effort to wrap my head around this hadj:
During our second-to-last interview (#99), our mechanic and guard had gone to buy diesel for the vehicle, in preparation for our final interview, out in the nomadic village of Galdeilan on the other side of Korr. My translator and I met them on the road as we were walking back to the guesthouse. “Bad news,” our mechanic said, with his omnipresent grin (even when delivering news that makes you want to punch him) “no diesel in town. Anywhere.” We were SO CLOSE, four pages of questions away from 100 businesses in 19 days. Deflated, we crawled back to camp. My translator found a promise of a 20-liter jerican from Marsabit, a town about three hours away, theoretically arriving sometime in the evening, but we wondered how much we would have to pay for the only 20 liters in town. I finally got through to our Director of Operations on the satellite phone, after a long angry walk across the hot rocks of Korr, attempting to find network that would stay more than a moment. He said to send our guard to Loglogo on a pikipiki (a motorbike) with an empty container to buy diesel there; “Don’t wait for something from Marsabit that might never come.” Within minutes, our guard was ready, money in hand, to make the dusty and frantic two hour ride to Loglogo. The rest of us waited. And waited…for what seemed like days. The afternoons in Korr are still and hot. If you walk through town, every house has a mattress out on the shady side with its resident asleep on top of it…nothing else worth doing. Finally, I caught the faint buzz of a motorcycle in the distance. I can’t think of another time I listened so intently to the slow progression of a vehicle along the rocky road. Our guard emerged from among the houses, both arms raised triumphantly. He practically fell off the motorbike and exclaimed he was dead. Our mechanic poured the petrol into the vehicle and at 6:15 we drove off into the dusk to collect our translator and our final interview. We stopped at several manyattas before we found Bilayo Ukuro, just as darkness was falling. We sat outside her house, listening to the sounds of evening in Galdeilan; dogs barking, the low hum of conversation, bubbling pots and the delighted screams of children. Slowly, on-lookers headed off into the night until it was just my translator and I, craning to catch the last bit of sun. It was completely dark as we asked our last questions, and I realized I hadn’t even really noticed what Bilayo looked like. I was so intent on getting our survey done in the light that I had barely glanced at her when we sat down. She sounded young and she laughed a lot, but other than that I had no idea. “What are some things that have changed in your life since you started your business?,” I asked, it finally hitting me that it would be for the last time. “My kids used to stay without food, without clothes,” my translator repeated, adding “They used to stay naked but now they have clothes. My business is making me have hope.” I thanked Bilayo for answering our questions and asked if I could take a photo, explaining that it would be a really bright and annoying flash of light but then she could see what the darkness had hidden. She agreed and my camera illuminated her thin frame, her shining beads, her shy smile. She laughed with delight at the image, and I found myself wanting to hang on to her hand as I shook it to say thank you. I had been welcomed to the doorstep of so many houses and kitchens, had people honestly answer my questions and share stories. Sometimes it was in the blaring mid-day sun and a few times it was beneath a brilliant night sky, like tonight. As ready as I was to go home, I found myself taking my time on the walk back to the car, shuffling slowly through the still-warm sand.
