Enjoyed an apartment-warming lunch with a few of my classmates today: Lise, Michelle and her husband (my tutor) Emile, and Adriaan and Huly from AIMSEC.

Then I went surfing—and got my ass handed to me on a salty platter. Beat up. Smacked by my board. Smacked by the waves. Tumbled to the point of confusion. Just when I thought I was figuring it out, I could not even stand up. Bigger, faster than anything I had been in before, and I was once more a beginner.

I came into the beach, watching the experts, contemplating my ineptitude when my surfing instructor William walked up. He has beach blonde hair, dark skin, and bright blue eyes that seem to glow of their own accord. He is a prankster who loves a good story, shared or received. “Mister Kai! How are you today?” His whimsical, Afrikaans accent mixed with a jovial attitude always makes me smile.

I responded, “I fear I have forgotten everything you have taught me.”

“Young man, just what seems to be the problem?” He loves to taunt me with ‘young man’ to which I respond with ‘sir’ and the cycle continues.

I explained where I was failing. On the beach, he drew diagrams in the sand and walked me through a few adjustments in my stance, position on the board, and means of getting out, through the waves.

He had a free hour so we got back in the water and I followed him out, to the back line. I was exhausted, my arms without feeling. I got tossed, smacked, and tumbled. I paddled for fifteen minutes, maybe more. It was the fact that he did not wait for me, but sat comfortably on his board, always 30 meters ahead of me, waving, that I kept going. Later, he admitted to this tactic, and laughed.

William said, “Mister Kai! It’s time to stop drinking the Appleteiser and drink beer with the boys! You made it to the backline for the first time. Congratulations!” He shook my hand, both of us sitting on our boards a good 200 meters off-shore. I thought I was going to lose my lunch.

After a few minutes rest, I caught a wave (just barely) and rode it half way in. One of the seasoned pros rode a dozen waves to my one, flipping 360 over and over again on the crest. I went back out again, just once more, and then I was done. I rode a wave to shore, resting on my belly. I never tire of the sensation of flying over the water, a light mist spraying my face. The power of the water can destroy you, or carry you with a sense of grace.

The intensity of the sun and nearly silent wind inspires locals and tourists to this seaside town for what may be one of the last warm days of autumn. Shop owners stand by the front door, encouraging passers-by to venture inside for a drink, lunch, or a look around. Homeless kids welcome those with full stomach back onto the streets, asking for something to warm their insides in turn. Some simply point to their belly, their face and gestures needing no words. Others rattle sand and pebbles in an empty soda bottle, singing “Oh when the saints go marching in” out of tune and a few stanzas confused. Like fish in the sea, when one received food, the others swarm, begging, sometimes taking without asking from their friends.

The closest beach to downtown lies below the arch supported train bridge, at the bottom of the marina. That day the beach was used primarily by blacks and coloureds. A white man walked across the top, just behind me and to the left, saying “I don’t understand Why they don’t erect a fence, to keep those kids out. Just look at them.” Tents and umbrellas sheltered parents who keep careful watch over their children a play. Chicken and burgers grill over open coal fires, the smell of a meal in preparation enough to call those who wade play to shallower water. A seal breaches just off shore, a child laughs and tries to splash it. Too late, for the seal submerges again, releasing its breath an incredible distance from where it was last spotted.

I stood from my kneeling position after taking a photo of a girl sitting among the sandstone formations (above) when a man with two small girls approached me. He asked for two or three minutes of my time. I assumed he would soon ask for money, the children a ploy. I didn’t mind the conversation, so I invited him to continue as we walked together, his young girls running forward and then waiting, criss-crossing between our legs once we caught up with them again.

He asked if there was money to be made in photography. “No,” I answered honestly, “it is far, far too hard a business to break into. I would not recommend it to anyone at this time. Too many people with high quality cameras, even if they are not the best photographers, they make it work.”

He continued, sharing his vision for a photography exhibition which tells the story of his people, the Malay, who were brought to this continent as slaves more than two hundred years ago. We continued to walk and I was engaged. I kept waiting for his request for money, but it never came. I asked questions. He shared. I learned a great deal. He was direct and well informed, his historic research impressive, to me.

I recognized the coincidence, that he should have approached me, one who is always seeking this very kind of story. As we neared the end of the beach I explained that I am documentary film maker and am interested in continuing the conversation. We exchanged contact information. I encouraged him to record his story in the coming weeks in order that we might prepare a rough script.

I then asked why he approached me. He answered, “I watched you, how you photographed. You took your time … that’s all.” Perhaps the story of his people displaced will generate something more far reaching than what he intended when he approached me. We’ll see …

I was sitting at the V&A waterfront of Cape Town, one evening last week, enjoying Thai take-away while trying to stay warm against the growing winter cape wind. I had again forgotten my wind breaker as it was stowed in the easy-to-forget top pocket of my backpack. The fog rolled in, broken by the strong lamps of a Coast Guard bay patrol ship, red and blue to either side, white on a spindle for search and rescue.

I was just cleaning the last of the noodles from the inside of the waxed cardboard box with my split wood chopsticks when a young man, likely in his early twenties, walked up to the end of the bench adjacent to the one I occupied.

He spoke quietly, as though an apology were in order, hesitant with his words “Excuse me. Sir. Would you happen to have–”

While I could not hear the individual words against the blasts of wind, I knew the intent. He would be asking for money. I didn’t mind, as I wanted to hear his story, “I am sorry, but I can’t hear you.” I finished another bite of the last remnants of my food.

He started again, “Excuse me sir. I have a baby girl. She needs food. Could you spare some change for milk and cereal?”

There was something about him that felt quite genuine. He was well dressed for a homeless guy, relatively new shoes, each of which had laces. They were apparently the correct size too. Jeans with a belt, clean, and his inner shirt tucked in. He wore a baseball cap with the brim set high, his entire forehead visible from where I was sitting.

He was black African, speaking English with the subtle accent of Afrikaans, double beats given to otherwise forgotten vowels, melodic in their intonation.

I motioned for him to sit next to me, and asked if he wanted some food, “I will be pleased to buy food for you, if you are hungry.”

“Thank you sir. But it is my girl, she needs food, not me.” He remained standing, now by my side.

“Sit with me. It’s ok.” He looked quite uncomfortable at my request and declined. Not for disdain but for simple lack of having someone ask this of him. His body moved in the direction of sitting but his brain held him back, uncertain what would come next.

“Where do you live?”

“At the shelter,” he motioned behind me to what I assumed as beyond the water front shopping center, “we stay there.”

“Is it safe? For you and your girl?”

“Yes sir, it is safe.”

“Where is your daughter now?”

“She is there.”

“At the shelter? Alone? Who is caring for her?”

“At the shelter sir, she is there.”

“Yes, I understand. But who is watching her?”

“They are … the …” he struggled with the words and so I filled in a few for him, “Child care?”

“Yes. Child care. They take care of her while I am away.”

It seemed unlikely that a single man would be raising a young girl at a shelter or that a shelter would offer child care, but I do not know the South African system. I liked him. He was not too bold, in fact he was humble in his approach. Given my extensive interaction with the homeless population, he seemed authentic to me.

Inside, however, I found that familiar pressure against the inside of my ribcage, the one that says, “This guy is just taking me for a ride. He’s making a quick buck. I don’t need to support his bad habits. Why can’t he just get a job!?” It is natural for this to rise in us. We are open to a certain degree, yes, but also protective of our resources and ourselves. If experience has provided a correlation between one who asks for something of us only to find that the person asking was not authentic, it is a kind of stove-top burn not to be repeated.

What’s more, we can use a certain self-righteous mode of communication which appears to be supportive when in fact it is little more than a wall around ourselves, justification for why we could not provide what is requested by a total stranger. We keep ourselves safely hid from authentic engagement for a lifetime, believing we are not responsible in any way for their situation. These people, the ones at the bottom, should simply try harder.

“Where is there a grocery?” I asked.

“A what sir?”

“Sorry. A supermarket. Where is there a supermarket?”

He pointed over my shoulder to the Pick-n-Save I had not noticed, less than one hundred meters distance.

“Ok. Let’s go shopping and get what you need.”

“Oh!? Thank you sir. Thank you. Just milk and cereal is all.”

“What is your name?”

“William. My name is William.” Again, his Afrikaans foundation came through, the ‘w’ in William given a breathy ‘v’ and ‘h’ at the same time.

I extended my hand and shook his as I introduced myself, “I am Kai.”

“Where are you from?”

“From the United States. Colorado.”

“I hear it is beautiful there.”

“Indeed. It is. Stunning.”

We arrived to the front of the store. He hesitated as though he was to wait outside. I placed my hand on his shoulder as a subtle insistence that he continue inside with me. I got the impression he had not been in a supermarket often, or perhaps the last time he exited he had not paid for all that he carried. He was uncomfortable.

“Tell me again what you need?”

“Just milk and cereal, sir.”

My decision to spend this time with William was reinforced as he had ample opportunity to take advantage of my generosity but each time refused. If this was a scam, at any level, he was not much of a scam artist.

“You need food too. Bread? Cheese? Meat?”

“You don’t have to do that,” he responded.

“I don’t have to purchase milk and cereal for your daughter either, but I have already chosen to do this for you. So what will it be?”

As we walked through the store, grabbing various items which eventually, with some prodding, included fresh fruit and a bar of dark chocolate (which he had never enjoyed before), I made a point of making physical contact as often as possible, the way I would with an old friend or family member. I would hold the upper portion of his arm as we spoke or make certain that when we chose food I gave it to him to add to the basket in order that it was his act of shopping, not my own.

I wanted to know more about William, to receive his story.

“How many years of school did you attend?”

“I completed the sixth grade.”

“Ah. Good. What were your favorite subjects?”

“Mmmm, the one with numbers, what is it called?”

“Mathematics?”

“Yes, mathematics.”

“Are you good with numbers?”

“Yes, I like numbers.”

We walked down a few more isles, eventually finding the original two items he had requested.

“Do you know how to write?”

“Yes. I can write.”

“Do you enjoy writing?”

“Yes, very much.” He lit up a bit, making eye contact with me again.

An idea jumped into my head in full form. I moved on it immediately.

“Do you write poems?”

“No, but I write songs.”

“Songs?”

“Yes sir.”

“Are they original?”

“Yes, original songs.”

We had just walked past the office products isle. I stopped abruptly, grabbing William by the arm. “I have an idea. I am going to help you start a business.”

He was intrigued, but didn’t respond.

I grabbed two bound notebooks, the kind whose pages can be removed; two ball point pens (blue at William’s request) and two packs of twenty envelopes.

I handed the collection to William and then explained my concept. “When you approach someone asking for money, you are a beggar. No matter how well you dress, no matter how good you smell, even if your story is completely legitimate, you are still asking for something without giving anything in return. As you likely well know, this usually doesn’t go over so well.”

He agreed, knowing all too well the challenges of this affair, “Yes, that is right.”

I continued, “If you sell something, magazines or books or fruit, people assume you stole it.”

He nodded his head again. His eyes widened as he caught on.

“But if you can sell something that could not possibly be stolen, an authentic, originally part of you, well, then you are no longer begging. You are a proper business man.”

I waited. He looked at me, his hands, and back to me again, smiling. “You mean I sell songs?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

He appeared perplexed, “I never thought of that.”

“You said you like math, so let’s run the numbers, ok?”

We quickly added the total cost of the books, pens, and envelopes which offered more than enough pages for him to scribble, write draft songs, and practice his penmanship and signature. In summary I concluded, “You sell each song, handwritten, signed with a title and date, placed neatly inside an envelope. Don’t seal the envelope as your potential customers may desire to inspect the goods, or even pick their favorite song from your portfolio.”

He nodded, listening with intent.

“We have a total cost of forty rand for the whole package. If you sell each song for just ten rand, and there are forty envelopes, that is four hundred rand. Forty from four hundred leaves you with a profit of thee hundred and sixty.”

William looked at the goods in his hands again, and then back to me. These basic things were no longer just paper and pen, but a source of income for him. He had a huge smile on his face and that look of having discovered something totally new.

He shook his head and said, “I never thought of that. I just never thought about this before.”

“If you sell just one or two a day, at least it is some cash flow. As you get better at writing and presenting yourself, your sales will grow.”

We turned toward the cashier and he asked, “How did you think of this?”

“It’s what I do. I help people build their business.”

“Then I am so lucky to have met you.”

We added diapers to the shopping list, which was a bit of a chore as he did not know which size was the correct one for his daughter. Again, doubt returned to my mind as I wondered if he really did have a daughter back at the shelter. But if it was his goal to sell or trade the diapers, even some of the food, then at least he would be building upon his entrepreneurial experience and learning how to barter. I encouraged him to keep the receipt in case he had to return anything. Clearly, he was not aware of this process, and so I explained it to him.

We sat outside the supermarket for another ten minutes. On the inside cover of one of the two notebooks we built a simple amortization schedule to determine the real cost of each song sold. The profit per song was of course far better than my rough estimate which assumed the total volume of both notebooks and the ballpoint pens would be consumed with the sale of just forty songs. William’s math was rusty. I encouraged him to practice his basic tables using one of the notebooks in order that he could easily present change to his customers. He seemed eager to do this, soon.

We parted ways, shaking hands. He offered a Christian blessing and I reciprocated in good form, having learned that even if this is not something I usually do, it means a lot to those who offer.

I walked only a block from the water front when my emotions caught up with me, rising in my chest like expanding air. I sobbed.

Having been in this situation many times before, I knew what had happened. I had disabled that the part of me that would otherwise keep William on the outside, a safe box for me and another in which I define this homeless man. Instead, I chose to recognize him as an old friend with whom I was simply catching up, and in so doing, I automatically recognized how similar he is to me. All barriers were down. I saw him as a complete human being, no different than me or any other. His chemistry, his needs and desires identical to my own.

In that place, he could have easy been me and I could have been him.

Therein lies the true source of fear, the reason we choose to not engage. It is not because homeless people and beggars are poorly dressed or speak with a limited vocabulary. Outside of those who do present a danger, it is not truly for our own safety. No. We maintain our boundaries because to truly engage someone less fortunate than ourselves is to see ourselves in their place.

And that is something we are not readily willing to do.

Mponda and I had a late night conversation about eBooks. He is in his late twenties and unusual for a Tanzanian. Having lived in Europe and traveled extensively, he returned to his country to help his people rise out of ignorance and poverty through education, one student at a time.

Before I even raised my concerns for electronic reading, he said clearly, “eBooks are not what Africa needs. It is just one more electronic device which needs charging, one more thing to break and be discarded. When a learner is given a book, he or she will disconnect from the world for a while and dive in. Kids need novels, not just text books. They need to be given joy in reading as well as reading for education if they are to keep reading for a lifetime.”

I added, “Paperbacks have volume, weight, and a sense of three dimensional accomplishment. A chapter read is a chapter closer to the conclusion with each page folded one-by-one.”

“Yes, exactly!” he confirmed. Bernard, my adopted son had inadvertently initiated this conversation when he discovered a massive, more than 5KG book called “The Medicine of Africa,” an alphabetical list of every known disease and ailment on the Continent. It was daunting, but Bernard’s eyes lit up when he realized how valuable this would be for his degree in Community Health. It was the size that struck him in a way an eBook never could. The kinesthetic reviewing of the index or random flipping of pages gave it a sense of depth and power which a single electronic page is missing and will never offer.

Dozens, hundreds, even ten thousand books in a single, hand-held device is not power of education, rather it is a total distraction just as email and Facebook has kept an entire generation of well intended employees from getting much of anything done. Electronic devices keep us engaged in myriad communications while a printed book in and of itself is an excuse, a means to turn off and just read.

Lindah, Bernard and I had just returned from the Cultural Heritage Center in Arusha. While both a gallery and exhibit hall, every piece for sale, it offers an incredibly rich collection of antique treasures, historical pieces, and modern painting, sculptures, and photographs from throughout Tanzania and neighboring lands.

From the ELCA Guest House we walked over slippery, red mud roads lined with houses, shops, and dense green to a small shop along the main, paved road to purchase a container of yogurt. While waiting in line, we noted a number of people running to the scene of what we assumed to be a fight or an accident.

When the crowd did not disperse, we also walked this direction. A shuttle bus (matatu in Kenya, dala-dala in Tanzania) sat idle in the middle of the road, its windshield cracked and broken glass on the ground. I noted a single flip-flop on the pavement behind the bus.

Bernard and Lindah were soon at my side, the pressure of the growing crowd making it difficult to determine what happened. Someone said they thought a man riding a piki-piki (motorbike) had been hit, and so I turned to see if one was around, lying on the road.

In looking back I realized we had walked past a circle of tightly clustered people, all facing in. We pressed through the wall to find a man lying on the ground, his right temple and cheek covered in blood. Once inside the circle, I asked if anyone had called for a doctor. A man to my side said he did. Then I recalled that in our lodge was an American M.D. I told Bernard to run back to the Guest House and bring him immediately.

I yelled to the crowd to step back, motioning with my hands and body as best as I could. I turned to Lindah and asked her to translate to Kiswahili, loud and clear. By the man’s side, I could see he was unconscious but breathing. I asked if anyone would loan me their sweater. No one responded so I removed my shirt, rolled it, and placed it below the back of his head, careful not to move his head side to side nor lift too much.

Calling to the crowd again, I asked for pen and paper. Immediately, someone handed me a 4×5 card and pen. I pulled my cellphone from my pocket, launched the timer application, and asked Lindah to alert me when it reached 15 seconds. I took the man’s pulse at just 18 beats or 72 per minute. Steady. Strong.

The crowd pressed in. I asked them to step back again, this time in a stronger tone. The man who had called the hospital was now assisting me. He wanted to move the man but I insisted on checking him for additional bleeding, broken bones, or spinal injury.

The man was starting to come-round, his eyes fluttering. I carefully, slowly repositioned his body so that he was completely flat, rather than one leg on, one leg off the pavement. I positioned his legs in parallel, arms at his side.

We took his heart rate again. 20 beats per 15 seconds. He was waking up. Better to be climbing slowly than dropping or rising too quickly, which could point to internal bleeding. We learned his name is “William” before he passed-out again.

I gave Lindah some cash to purchase paper towels and a water bottle. When she returned we took another reading. 22 beats per 15 seconds, steady and strong. William was more alert now. I could smell alcohol on his breath. He tried to rise, but I asked him to remain lying on his back. Lindah and the volunteer assistance both translated. I gently pressed him back down.

Kneeling at his left side, I crossed his right leg over his left, tucked my arm under his arm and supported his head. My WFR training came back to me. Although I surely missed a few items or did them in the wrong order, I believe I was not making things worse.

He did not complain of any acute pain at any vertebrae, but said his left hip hurt a great deal. No blood, and from what I could see without removing his jeans, no abrasion. As the right side of his face was hit by the bus, it is likely he landed on his left hip.

The crowd has pressed in again to the point of near suffocation. I was yet without my shirt, the light rain cooling my back. I stood up and physically pushed a half dozen people away from the center.

Lindah later told me later that she heard people asking how I knew his back was not broken without an X-ray. She thought on her feet and responded, “He is a doctor. He just knows. Do what he says.” It worked, and people gave us more room for the few minutes we required.

Bernard had arrived to the Guest House and found Dr. Rob who in turn called Dr. Kawisi whom I had met a half hour earlier at the Guest House.

With William fully awake now, we sat him up, slowly, taking the weight of his upper body. He could not stand, due to the impact or alcohol or both, it didn’t matter. We carried him, one arm behind his back, the other beneath his leg, a comfortable, safe chair for the short transport.

In the back of the Toyota there was a flip-down bench which was too small, and so we placed him on the floor. But clearly, this was not an option for he could not extend his legs and as lying on a hard, metal surface, his neck now crooked against the back of the last row of seats. I was frustrated for things were happening so quickly, the truck already pulling away. The rough road forced William into tears, crying out and grabbing at my shoulder and neck trying to lift himself.

I asked for the truck to stop. It did not. I yelled instead, this time it did. I asked that the back seat be cleared of the boxes and William be moved there. We opened the back of the truck and with less elegance than our original transition, I literally carried him from back to front and onto the cushioned seat.

Lindah recorded his full name, telephone number, and continued to ask him basic questions to make certain he remained cognitive. The doctor, from the front passenger seat had also engaged him in a conversation. I poured water onto a stack of napkins and washed his forehead four times. He calmed down and seemed more relaxed, but tried to sit up repeatedly, always complaining of the pain in his left hip.

At the hospital the doctor and driver returned to the truck with a stretcher. We moved William in four successive, small efforts, grabbing folds of clothing then arms and finally supporting head to keep his back straight and stable, just in case.

Once in the first room to the right of the entrance, the nurses arrived. They laughed, uncomfortably, when they entered the room. I handed one the note card with the heart beat data, his name and number.

She did not make eye contact with me or William, and asked, “What is the matter?”

I offered, “He was hit by a bus.”

“A what?” Still no eye contact was made, with anyone. This is a cultural difference, I know, but it remains difficult for me, especially at times when I want to know if someone is paying attention.

The nurse looked at William and then me, “He is drunk.” She frowned again.

“It doesn’t matter. He needs his back checked. An X-ray.”

“I am sorry. But you see, the technician is gone home. We can’t do it now.”

“You have his number, right? Can you call him?”

She rolled her eyes and reached into her pocket for her phone. William was lifting and lowering his legs, trying again to sit up. I placed my hand on his head so he would lie still again. The lights wavered and the power went out. A few seconds later, it returned, but continued to fluctuate most of the night.

The doctor entered and asked the nurse to start an IV. He left the room to prep the X-ray machine. Clearly, they had the required staff. When he returned, he and the nurse conducted a more thorough examination while talking to me and Lindah.

We waited for a half hour. I followed William on his stretcher into a recovery room and helped move him to a bed where they continued the IV. The X-rays showed no damage. The doctor called his driver and ten minutes later, Lindah and I were on our way back to the Guest House.

As I do not encounter this kind of direct life/death situation every day, I was reserved and reflective for the remainder of the evening. I reviewed my effort in the street, recalling additional facets of my Wilderness First Responder training. I also worked to not judge the nurse for her initial reaction for I know that in the U.S. too it is difficult to find compassion for someone who is drunk or high who hurts himself or someone else. Here, that challenge is compounded by the poverty and challenging conditions in which everyone lives and works.

I am thankful for my training, Lindah’s help, the proximity of the doctor and his good timing.

The next morning we were informed through Dr. Rob that William was released and is ok.