In Kisii

A long drive in Kisii County at night reminds you things can always be worse. As the car rumbles along winding dirt roads ripped to shreds by the rain, up and down the hills and mountains, past coffee farms and villages made of dust, people walk who knows how many miles in the dark. They clutch kerosene lamps if anything at all, guided by the little path they have etched many times before. Like too many parts of Africa, people live not so differently than they did 500 or 1000 years ago, their houses thatched together with grass and the night real night without any electricity grid. You think everyone - the little Carnegies and the Rockefellers of each generation - can forge their own way in life, until you see those condemned to the bleakest of circumstances with no hope of going anywhere at all. They don't teach you that in American schools, because it's not the American way. 

I have sat a bit defeated on the floor of my shower, letting hot water rush over my head, too many times over the last few months trying to flush out noise and volatility. It's hard to write or talk or do much at all under such circumstances, the basic foundations of self whipped around and turned to mush. But the beauty and the tragedy of the third world is that you don't look far for perspective; human life is always harder and a bit more real around every corner and back alley, and in places you once thought safe. The paradoxes don't make things easier, but provide a framework to compare and assess and work through your personal trivialities. 

A volcano just went off in Guatemala - one I sat and looked up at on many peaceful nights alone - and seeing the photos for whatever reason took me back to many places and many times, and they felt very near to me. On the cusp of my quarter century, Picaya is a reminder that things just keep moving and evolving and time doesn't give a damn how slow or fast.