Three Cups of Tea, Anyone?

This book is one hell of an inspiration. So I finish reading it, pass it onto my mother in law, who reads it like I have never seen her read anything except the Quran; then I come across the sequel 'Stones into Schools'; can barely put it down. All the while, The Realist Novel is screaming at me, my first essay deadline is staring me in the eye. But I can't stop following Mortenson's amazing mission, his mind-boggling devotion and the progress he made, defying the many many obstructions....

I keep thinking of the time I went to Kaalam,a valley in the foothills of the Hindukush mountains, many years ago now. At Maghrib time, one evening, my family and I did Wuzoo by the River Swat and climbed up this path to a house perched on the terraced hillside. A house very typical of the region, a long, low structure with few windows and little light. After the idyllic surroundings of trees, mountains, goats and children playing about while women shyly covered their faces on our approach yet extended a warm welcome, the first thing that assaulted us upon entering the house was THE SMELL. The smell of - I don't know- damp corners never touched by sunlight, lingering smells of food and bodies and acrid butter tea that were never swept out by the wind. I remember we could barely breathe as we offered our prayers. We tumbled out of the dark and fell about gasping for air. Well not really, but you get my point. And that wasn't to be the end of it. The next day, we all broke into this strange rash- blotches of angry red all over our bodies- bug-bites, I believe. Back home, my wise doctor-to-be cousin made us bathe with water in which she put some purple solution. You can imagine how we turned our noses up at the whole thing, how smug we felt about progress and cities, how relieved we were being back in the impersonal, arrogant jungle of concrete that we called home.

And here's this American man, with no connection whatsoever to Pakistan or Afghanistan- the cruel mountains, the harsh life people live at the edge of the Karakoram and over on the other side, the freezing plateaus of Afghanistan, in houses that we found so dank, so inadequately equipped with the necessities of life. Yet, over the last decade or more, he has lived with them for months at a time, not only sharing cups of tea but slowly, patiently, initiating the sea change in these impoverished mountain people's lives by educating their boys and girls, empowering their women, investing his life into a mission that takes years, sometimes decades, to show measurable results.

What drives him?

Perhaps I should ask, what keeps us so complacent?