London
“It all feels so hopeless, and I feel so empty.”
—London Berkeley
After a quick flight to DC with Loïc where I leave him to spend the weekend with Dixon, Sarah, Evan, and baby Emma, who is already three months old, I board a flight for London. I have a fourteen-hour delay in this gorgeous city, so I get out of the airport to take it in. I send Loïc a selfie of me in front of Big Ben. There’s a similar selfie—with Loïc in it as well during our first trip here—framed and sitting on our mantel at home.
God, that was an eternity ago.
My layover in London flies by, and before I know it, I’m back on the plane. I have a four-hour layover in Rwanda before boarding my final flight to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
I step off the plane at my final destination, feeling both excited and nervous. After going through customs, I make my way to baggage claim. I immediately spot an African man holding up a piece of paper with London Berkeley written on it.
I make my way over to him. “Hi, I’m London.” I hold out my hand to shake his.
“Oh, Miss Berkeley, welcome. I’m Abdu. I will be your guide and translator.”
I love Abdu immediately. His voice is kind, and his smile is bright.
“Please, call me London.”
“London, miss.” He nods with a wide grin. “Shall we retrieve your bag?”
We find my luggage, and I don’t fail to notice the small chuckle when Abdu sees that I brought three suitcases. I know it’s silly, and I look foolish. But I’ve never been to Africa, and I didn’t know what I’d need. Loïc urged me to consolidate before we left home, but I refused.
“Your partner is waiting outside, Miss London.”
“My partner?” I inquire.
“Yes, the photographer, miss.”
“Oh, right. Great.”
I follow Abdu outside. The temperature is similar to what it was at home when I left. I’m guessing eighty degrees, maybe a little more. But the humidity is suffocating.
“It’s so humid here,” I say to Abdu. “So much moisture in the air, it’s sticky.”
“Oh, yes.” He looks to me as he pulls two of my suitcases. “Every day this week, there’s rain. And there’s always moisture from the ocean.”
Yuck.
Abdu stops at a vehicle that I’m assuming is his. “Mr. Oliver, this is Miss London,” he says by way of introduction.
A tall, blond, and very tan man leans against the car, smoking. He stands to meet me. “Hello there. You must be the writer. I’m the one who’ll be taking the pictures.”
“Wonderful. London.” I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oliver.” He takes my hand in his and blows out a plume of smoke. “The pleasure’s all mine, love.”
His hand is hot and sticky. As soon as he releases my hand, I wipe off the wetness against my skirt as casually as I can.
“Do I hear an Australian accent?” I ask.
“Yep. Born and raised Aussie. Nowadays though, I spend most of my time elsewhere.”
I can’t help but smile. “I know another Australian guy named Oliver. We’re actually quite close.”
“Oh, yeah?” Oliver drops his cigarette butt on the ground.
“Yes, he’s my male Siri.” I smile, thinking of my love-hate relationship with the voice that comes from my phone.
Oliver nods, as if he understands, but I’m positive he has no idea what I’m talking about and doesn’t want to be rude.
We’ll be spending the night in Dar. I quickly call Loïc as Abdu checks into the hotel. We’re seven hours ahead here, so it’s almost eleven in the morning for Loïc. I had my cell provider turn on my international calling, and I’ve been told that it’s actually relatively easy to get a cell signal in many parts of this country. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t be. I guess I had this childhood notion that Africa consisted solely of safaris and wandering elephants, giraffes, and tribesmen. There are parts with local tribes and safari areas, but clearly, there’s so much more.
Dar is a huge metropolitan area with large buildings and lots of people. We drove through some of it on the way to the hotel, and just like any other big city, there are some nice parts and some more run-down areas.
Loïc is spending a few more hours with the Dixons before he flies back to Tennessee. He’s happy I made it safely, but I hear the nervousness in his voice. I assure him that Abdu is an excellent guide. We don’t talk long because Abdu waves me over, and I know we have a lot to go over tonight.
After I drop my stuff in my room, I head over to Abdu’s to go over the details of tomorrow.
We sit around the small table in his room. He offers Oliver and me a Safari, a local beer in a brown glass bottle. Oliver gladly takes one. I stick to my bottled water.
“I know you both have been briefed about the story. Though I thought it would be wise to go over the basics to ensure that we all have the same information.”
I start recording with my recorder while I pull out my phone and start typing in my Notes app.
“As you know, we are going to be traveling for a few weeks. There might be a series of stories that result from our trip. So, Miss London, you will write all the stories you feel are important, and, Mr. Oliver, you will take many pictures with the final goal being to bring awareness to the horrible persecution of people with albinism in Africa.
“One in every one thousand four hundred babies is born with albinism in Tanzania. The world average is one in every twenty thousand, so albinos are more prevalent here. In fact, Tanzania and Malawi have the highest albino populations in the world. Many Africans believe that albinos are ghosts that cannot die, not human. Some witch doctors have said that the bones of albinos contain magical powers that can make one rich, cure any disease, and bring good fortune. Witch doctors will use the bones of albinos in potions.”
I raise my hand to my mouth. I was given some of these details prior to coming here, but hearing them again makes my stomach turn.
Abdu looks to me. “Yes, it is very horrible. You have to understand that the average yearly income of someone in this country is just over four hundred of your dollars. An albino limb is sold on the black market for two thousand of your dollars, and an entire corpse will go for seventy-five thousand dollars. The temptation for some in extreme poverty is too great. That is why albinos are hunted here.”
I stand under the pretense of needing to stretch. I’ve read all these facts, but it’s different, being here and hearing these vile words spoken aloud. My thoughts are already going to the people I will meet over the coming weeks. My heart races with apprehension.
Oliver nods at something Abdu said and takes a sip of beer.
“There are over six thousand registered persons with albinism in Tanzania. The actual number though is somewhere around seventeen thousand, as most are undocumented. There are dozens of known murders of albinos every year in this country, but many more take place in rural areas where secret rituals are performed that we do not know about,” Abdu continues to cite facts with no hesitation.
“Tougher laws have been put in place here, in East Africa, to help those with albinism. Killing an albino in all countries, except Rwanda, is punishable with the death penalty. However, these laws have done little to help this community. People need to be educated, so they understand what it means to be albino.
“On our trip, you will meet some people who are trying to educate others. You will see some of the boarding schools and camps where albinos live. You will hear stories from those who’ve been attacked or witnessed an attack.”
Abdu pauses to let us take in his words. “Any questions?”
I’ve yet to fully process everything he just said. I’ll have to listen to the recording later to hear it again. Some of it is so unreal that I’m having a difficult time believing his words.
“What are our plans for tomorrow?” I ask.
“Well, tomorrow, we are going to drive to the oceanside village of Lindi. It’s about a four-hour drive south. There is a hospital that predominantly helps persons with albinism.”
“Okay.” I nod, feeling myself pale. “I’m going to head to bed, if you don’t mind.” After two days of travel, extreme jet leg, and the words I just heard, I need some sleep.
I say my good nights and head to my room. I pray I dream of Loïc and our life back home. I need a dream rich in first-world problems to coat me with happiness and give me strength for this trip. I have a sick feeling deep within my gut that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’m strong; I know that. Yet, the people here, they’re warriors, literally fighting for their lives.
Shortly after exiting the hustle of the big city, the paved roads turn to dirt ones, and modern buildings all but disappear. We drive long distances without seeing any buildings. The green grasses and shrubbery are the only things that line the road. This is more like the picture I had in my head of Africa. The windows of Abdu’s vehicle are rolled down. It’s hot and sticky, and it smells of soil. I can feel a coating of dirt on my skin, and two hours into our journey, I’m dying to shower.
Up ahead, I see white-and-black stripes, and I half-shriek as I tell Abdu to slow down. “Oh my goodness, Abdu! It’s a zebra!” I pull out my phone and snap pictures of the mother zebra and her baby eating grass a mere fifteen feet off the road. “This is amazing. Can you believe there are wild zebras here?” I say to the men in the front seats.
They both snicker.
“Yes, Miss London, we do have zebras,” Abdu says.
“But they’re wild, walking around.” I point to the two animals.
“Yes, they live in the wild,” Abdu says, a grin on his face.
“Wow. That’s so cool. I mean, I guess I knew that. It’s just neat to see them.”
Abdu drives past the zebras and speeds up.
“In my country, I see deer on the side of the road sometimes, if I’m in a rural area. I suppose it’s the same here but with zebra.”
“What’s a deer?” Abdu asks.
“It’s similar to an impala,” Oliver answers.
“Oh, we might see an impala or two as well,” Abdu says.
“That would be awesome. Hey, Abdu. Are there any rest stops coming up?” I ask. The coffee and water that I had this morning have gone right through me, and if we hit too many more potholes, I’m going to pee my pants.
“Rest stop, miss?”
“Yes, a bathroom?” I clarify.
Abdu pulls the vehicle over to the side of the road. “Here you are. I have to go as well.” He opens his door and starts to get out.
“Wait!” I look around. “There’s nothing here.”
“You go in the grass, love.” Oliver chuckles.
“What? Don’t you have buildings with bathrooms that travelers can use? Maybe at a gas station?”
“No, sorry, miss. You just go in the grass.” Abdu closes his car door.
“Seriously?” I say more to myself than anyone.
“Seriously,” Oliver answers with a satisfied grin as he exits the vehicle.
Sure enough, Oliver and Abdu both stand in the tall grass at the side of the road. I can’t see what they’re actually doing, but anyone driving by would know that they were peeing.
Oh my God. Are you freaking serious?
I sit in the car, contemplating my choices, and quickly realize that I don’t have many. If I wasn’t about to pee my pants, I’d power through, but I suppose peeing my pants would be worse than peeing in the grass. I look in my backpack to find a package of tissues. I grab it and get out of the car.
I try to ignore Oliver, who is clearly shaking the urine off his junk. Even the tall grass can’t hide that motion.
I walk a good six car lengths away before I decide to venture into the grass. “Please don’t let me see a snake. Please don’t let me see a snake,” I chant quietly. That’s all I need—for my butt to be bitten by a poisonous snake.
I squat down, do my business, and then leave my tissue on the ground. Sorry, Earth, but I’m not transporting that with me.
As I’m pulling up my pants, a bus full of people drives by. A cloud of dirt descends on me, getting into my mouth. I spit as much of it out as I can.
Oliver leans against the car, smoking, with a giant smirk on his face, watching me as I walk back.
“Everything good, love?”
“Wonderful.” I offer a fake smile and get in the car.
Several miles down the road, we pass the same bus that sprayed me with dirt. It’s pulled to the side of the road, and the passengers are lined up in the grass, clearly urinating.
“Need another rest stop, love?” Oliver asks with a chuckle.
“Nope, I’m good.”
We pass a few small communities consisting of mainly mud houses before we get to Lindi a couple of hours later.
“Lindi is a small ocean town,” Abdu says. “Most people here are fishermen, farmers, or shop owners, or they work in the sawmills. The hospital is right outside of town.”
As I listen to Abdu, I watch African women walking through town, carrying large baskets on their heads. I’m increasingly nervous as we near the hospital. This is so unlike anything I’ve ever done. I want to do these people justice with my retelling of their stories.
We park in front of the hospital.
“Abdu, why are there bars on the windows?” I ask.
“To protect the patients inside. Men like to break in at night to cut off limbs. The hospital is a target.”
We’re introduced to Dr. Gyasi, who runs the hospital, which could be more accurately described as a large room full of beds. I smile through our initial greetings, trying not to let the smell get to me. It reeks of rotten blood, dirt, and body odor. It makes me feel queasy.
A small movement catches my eye, and my attention is drawn to a little albino baby, sitting in a bed nearby. I excuse myself and walk over to her.
I crouch down next to her bed. “Hi, I’m London.”
I know she doesn’t understand me, but I talk to her just the same. She clutches an empty water bottle, as if it were a baby doll.
“I like your bottle,” I say with a smile, motioning toward the container.
She holds it tighter and peers at me with her large blue eyes and long white lashes. Her skin is porcelain white without any markings or blemishes. Her light lips are plump and puckered into a pout, as she’s clearly trying to figure me out.
“You can trust me. I won’t hurt you,” I say, hoping the tone of my voice will convey my meaning.
She reaches out one hand and touches a lock of my hair that has fallen over my shoulder.
“Hair,” I say. “Hair,” I repeat as I touch her hair, which is white with a hint of yellow. It stands on end with tiny curls in an Afro atop her head. “I think your hair is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.” I smile.
She pulls my hair through her fingers, and I repeat, “Hair,” even though I don’t know why I’m trying to teach her English. It doesn’t make sense, but it gives me something to say.
I vaguely register the clicking of Oliver’s camera, and I’m glad he’s getting some shots of this little girl. I want to always remember her.
Her attention goes to the bangle bracelets I wear on my wrist. She touches one of the charms.
“Those are bracelets. Do you like them?”
She continues to poke at the charms that hang from my wrist, so I take off the bracelets and place them on her hand. They’re way too big for her and slide down her arm when she lifts it.
“They’re a little big for you. But you can have them.”
I gently lower her arm, so the bangles slide back down to her wrist. She bounces her arm and starts to smile as the jewelry makes small clinking noises when they hit each other.
Her smile does something to my heart, making it flutter and fall in the space of a heartbeat. I want to smile big because she is the cutest little human I’ve ever seen. At the same time, I have this intense need to start crying because she lives here, in this place where people want to slice off her arms and legs.
How could anyone want to hurt her?
Her little grin is fleeting, and I want to see more of it.
I remove the bracelets from her wrists. “Watch this,” I say. I start to shake the bangles in my hand, like a rattle.
She intently watches me, and then I place the bracelets in her palm and close her chubby little baby fingers around them.
“Shake it.” I imitate the motion with my empty hand.
She copies me and giggles when the bracelets make noise.
My heart breaks at the sound of her innocent laughter.
I can’t do this story. I can’t.
I have no power to stop the tears that roll down my cheeks. I’m ten minutes into my job, and I’m falling apart.
Dr. Gyasi’s voice comes from behind me. “She’s a sweet one, yes?”
I wipe my tears on my shirt and attempt to compose myself as I stand. “She is,” I say. “What’s her story? Is she sick?”
“No, she is not sick. Her mother left her here after her older brother, who was also albino, was attacked and killed in their home one night. Her father said that she was a curse and wanted her gone. Many people here feel that albino children are a bad omen from the devil.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is, but albinos are greatly misunderstood here. It is a very big problem.”
“Where will she go?”
“We do not know yet. We are trying to find her a spot in an orphanage. When she is older, she can go to one of the albino camps.”
“Camps?” I question.
“Yes, they are like boarding schools for albino children. The government set them up, and they are protected by metal gates to keep the bad men out.”
“What is her name?”
“We call her mtoto wa kike, which means baby girl in Swahili. We do not know her given name.”
“How old is she?”
“I guess around one year,” the doctor replies. “Would you like to see some of the other patients?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I follow the doctor over to a teenage girl who is missing one arm.
“This is Efia. She is fifteen, and she has AIDS. She was raped two years ago by a man with the disease. Many believe that, by having relations of that nature with a person with albinism, it will cure your AIDS. But, of course, that is not so.”
Shock momentarily renders me mute, and my mouth goes dry.
“Fuck me dead,” Oliver says under his breath.
I whip my head toward him, shooting a huge glare his way.
What the hell is wrong with you? I want to scream.
“Sorry,” he says with a shake of his head. “Australian expression. I meant no disrespect.”
I turn my focus back to the doctor. Remembering the vile words he just told us, I try so hard not to let my horror resonate on my face. I will my expression to appear empathetic. I know this girl cannot understand what we are saying, but she doesn’t need to see my pity.
“The man who raped her cut off her arm, too?”
“No, that was a different attack, only a month ago. She was bringing water back for her family, and a group of men stopped their truck, got out, held her down, and cut off her arm. Her family found her and brought her here.”
I’m glad we didn’t stop and get lunch prior to arriving, or mine would surely be all over Dr. Gyasi’s shoes.
I have nothing to say, so I don’t say anything as I follow the doctor to the next bed.
“This is Wambua. He is twenty-one. He just came to us yesterday. As you can see, he has skin cancer.”
Wambua has huge lesions all over his face, and a tumor the size of my fist is growing from his neck.
The doctor continues, “Only two percent of albinos live past the age of forty. The ones who are not murdered will die of skin cancer. Their light skin has no protection against the hot African sun. There is only one hospital that treats cancer in Tanzania, and it is a long drive for most people. If they get to the hospital, they will be treated for free. Yet many cannot afford the journey to the cancer center.”
“Where is it?” I ask.
“It is in Dar es Salaam.”
“That’s not too far. We just came from there this morning. Surely, he can get there,” I say.
“He came here because he does not have the money for bus fare to Dar. However, my brother is going into the city tomorrow to buy some supplies. He is going to take Wambua to the hospital. But it will be too late. His cancer has started invading his organs.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yes, it is. But, for many albinos, it is reality.”
The doctor continues to tell me about his patients, and each story is as heartbreaking as the previous one. There’s so much sadness in this one space that it’s palpable, debilitating even. I have to will my feet to carry me to the next hospital bed because the truth is, my heart is begging me to run in an act of self-preservation.
“Are you ready to interview some of them?” Abdu asks me when the doctor has finished giving me the background of every patient.
“You think that’s okay? I mean, they’ve been through so much. I don’t feel right, making them talk to me about it. It seems almost cruel,” I say honestly.
“It’s not cruel,” Dr. Gyasi says. “You are giving them a voice, something that they’ve never had. Don’t think for a second that they don’t think about their experiences every single day. They do. Talking to you about their past, knowing that you care enough to tell their stories…it will give them some worth. It will help them heal.”
“Okay.” I nod.
I didn’t think of it that way. But it makes sense. The least I can do is give these people a voice.
With Abdu as my translator, I begin talking to the wounded within this building. They tell me their stories in painstaking detail.
I listen. I hold their hand. I tell them I care. I tell them that others in the world will care, too. I tell them they’re brave. And then I tell them good-bye.
Two percent make it beyond the age of forty. Two percent.
Before we leave the hospital, I stop by to see the angel baby who first stole my heart. She’s dropped her plastic water bottle, and instead, she clutches her new bracelets tight to her chest.
“I have to go, baby girl.”
I hold out my arms, and she allows me to pick her up. I squeeze her against my chest, resting my face on her puffy hair. I feel her soft skin against my palms as I run my hand up and down her arm.
I hold her back from me, so I can look into her blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll be in the two percent, okay?” My voice cracks. “Promise me.”
She shakes the bracelets in my face with a giggle.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I smile down at her. “I’ll always carry you in my heart.”
I place my hand to my chest. She does the same, placing her hand against her own chest.
“Heart,” I say again.
I place her back down on her bed. Before I go, I lean down and give her a kiss on her cheek. Then, I rub the spot where I kissed her.
“Remember, in the two percent, okay?” I smile sadly, get up, and leave the hospital.
Abdu, Oliver, and I get checked in to a motel in Lindi, near the Indian Ocean. We eat dinner at the neighboring restaurant, but I don’t remember most of it. I’ve been zoned out since leaving the hospital, afraid to feel. If I had to process the gravity of emotions running through me, I’d crumble.
Abdu and Oliver order a round of beer, and I excuse myself from the table. I walk out to the ocean. Removing my sandals, I walk through the part where the ocean meets the land. My feet squish in the soft sand, leaving fleeting footprints that last for just a moment until the next wave of water washes them away. After a few minutes, I take a step back and sit in the warm sand. The ocean is a light shade of blue at this time of day, almost the color of the baby girl’s eyes.
With that thought, the tears come, and I let them. I cry for every single person I met today and the many others that I’ll never meet. I cry for the ones who have been abandoned by their parents. I cry for the ones who have or will endure more trauma than any person should ever have to experience. I cry for those who go through life without the love of a family because they’re seen as the devil. I cry for the ones who will be offered up for slaughter by a father or an uncle—all for money.
How can a human life be worth so little? Their poverty doesn’t justify their actions. A living, breathing, loving person is worth more than any dollar amount.
My task here is daunting. How will my retelling of their stories change anything if some here can’t grasp the simple fact that life is worth more than money?
It all feels so hopeless, and I feel so empty.