interesting encounters

Flashback: Hikes

2009-06-09T14:00:00.026+02:00

9 May 2009

The plateau had a ravaged and desolate feel. You see the blackened stumps crowning the hilltops, hugged by clouds of white fog, and it feels almost eerie and sad. And just when you are about to spout off something indignant about the deforestation of our planet and the scourge of mankind, someone informs you that all the burn victims were non-indigenous Mexican pines that were brought to the country long ago and proliferated so fast they literally changed the ecology. Apparently more invasive than good, they’ve all been burned and indigenous cedar has been planted in their stead.

Malawian cedar is treated like a national treasure, and after a surprisingly strenuous hike up Mount Mulanje, I was relieved that we could take respite in a log cabin made out of the aromatic stuff.

Together with a group of 9 expats and several porters and guides, we made the hike to the plateau, a trip that took nearly 4 hours and at least three different sweat-throughs of my Tshirt. Dense fog lingered the whole day and stole all the picturesque views.

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Gorillas in the Mist, December 2007

The hike immediately took me back to the Virungas where I made a similarly tough trek to visit the famous mountain gorillas that live in the mountains that straddle the borders between the DRC, Rwanda, and Uganda. Though I had fully intended to write a blog post about the experience, somehow it – like so many others – got shuffled under the rug.

After hiking nearly 3 hours through a thick canopy of trees and bamboo shoots, sometimes waist-high vegetation, and ankle-deep mud, we tracked the Susa group, the largest of the habituated groups with 38 gorillas (as well as the only known surviving set of twins). We first came upon one silverback who sat with his arms crossed, seemingly bored by yet another group of wide-eyed tourists, who had fallen completely silent, equal parts awestruck and stricken by fear. He was massive. Then we came upon a clearing and suddenly, gorillas literally tumbled out of the bush from every direction. Humbling and magical, an experience I wish everyone could enjoy.

Near the start of the hike where there was an actual path

Young silverback (1 of 4 in the group)

Aww... a baby

The photos don’t quite convey how massive the adult males were…

Munching on veggies. (they’re herbivores)

Scampering little one… coming close enough to touch your shoes!
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The spartanly furnished cabin featured a rustic hearth. With a fire going to kill the afternoon chill at almost 3000 meters, the smell that wafts up from the cedar is simply intoxicating. That burst of something warm and fragrant – like towels out of a dryer – is so inviting. You feel a slight pressure in your chest, like you’ve smoked a gigantic cigar filled with cedar-flavoured tobacco.

Relieved to have made it to the plateau.

The cabin.

Happy hikers, chillin' at the cabin.

Flashback: "High-risk situations"

2009-05-21T17:04:00.009+02:00

At 6am the stately town hall on Victoria Avenue was already completely surrounded. I couldn’t quite make out if there was in fact a line or in what kind of formation the people stood, but no matter. The point is, people were out in droves ready to vote.

Many arrived at work that morning proudly showing off inked index fingers.

My usual hotel breakfast was frequented by a number of non-regulars: folks in khaki journalist vests emblazoned with “African Union Observer” or “EISA – Promoting Credible Elections and Democratic Governance in Africa” or “EU – Observer Mission.”

May 19, 2009. Election Day in Malawi. The day when Malawians exercised their votes for both President and MPs (members of Parliament).

I arrived in Malawi a mere 3 weeks before the big day, at the height of campaign fever. A crash course in Malawian politics, courtesy of a local colleague, and I quickly learned to identify the difference between blue and yellow.

Blue

At left, a rally for the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP). It’s hard to see but if you look carefully enough, you might spot the trademark blue fabric. The DPP’s candidate: Bingu.

Ladies and supporters of the DPP wear sarongs or swaddle babies on their backs in that blue fabric, a shade something like cerulean, printed with orange circles, ears of corn, and Bingu’s face. The incumbent President – Dr. Bingu wa Mutharika – has been heralded as a leader whose economic policies have helped Malawi to greater prosperity and turned it into one of the fastest growing economies in Africa. In the 2004 election he rode to victory with the UDF and shared the spotlight with the Chairman of the UDF (and former President) Bakili Muluzi (see below). But in 2005, after a dispute with Muluzi concerning Bingu’s stance against corruption, Bingu split off and created his own party, the DPP.

His running mate, Joyce Banda, is reportedly a formidable politician, having already served as an MP as well as foreign minister in Bingu’s administration. Many believe she will become Malawi’s first female President in 2014.

Yellow

A short video clip of a passing rally for the United Democratic Front (UDF). The UDF’s candidate: Muluzi.

Muluzi already served 2 consecutive terms as President of Malawi, having won in 1994 during the country’s first multi-party elections. Though Muluzi started his political career as a popular advocate for democracy, his reputation over the years has become tarnished by scandals and reports of corruption.

Although the constitution limits a president to two consecutive terms, UDF supporters tried to exploit the vagaries in the constitution’s language in order to allow him to run and possibly serve another term. In the end, the Malawi Electoral Commission barred Muluzi from running, and the UDF instead chose to back the Malawi Congress Party (MCP) and their candidate, John Tembo.

Many MCP and UDF supporters feared that a ballot that included only the MCP and Tembo’s name would fail to garner all the UDF votes… With a literacy rate of 63%, many voters make their choice based on color. Without the UDF’s trademark yellow on the ballot, the MCP might miss out on a number of votes from UDF supporters who wouldn’t know where to cast their vote.

Election Tuesday was declared a public holiday. That day the main thoroughfares in Blantyre were remarkably unchoked by traffic and the usual thick streams of people seemed to have been diverted elsewhere.

With such an overriding sense of calm, you could scarcely believe that anything bad could possibly happen. And given that Malawi has had peaceful elections for years, the likelihood of a meltdown a la Kenya or Zimbabwe seemed infinitesmally small.

My company has developed fairly strict protocols when it comes to “high risk situations,” having sent consultants into dicey climates from Pakistan to Angola. And though Malawi does not normally fall under the category of “high risk,” apparently during election season, it does.

So in spite of the almost laughably safe conditions, my company has stepped up security measures in preparation for the worst possible scenario. Those measures include provisional plane tickets, a backup 4x4 in case we need to evacuate overland via Zimbabwe, dispatch of armed guards at the homes of long-term staff here, distribution of detailed photos and maps showing evacuation paths for all staff in Blantyre, contact information for next-of-kin, notification of embassies, etc, etc. I am required to check-in with the CEO twice a day and failing that, someone will search me out, having assumed that something terrible has befallen me. We have various stages of alert and evacuation which include stage I (all meet at a designated safe point in Blantyre), stage II (all “non-essential” staff evacuated), and stage III (everyone evacuated).

It reminded me of another “high risk” situation that I managed to escape…

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Gambia, Aug-Sep 2008

There were many highlights from my stay in The Gambia (“The” was introduced to differentiate it from Zambia, a country in Southern Africa which actually borders Malawi), including but not limited to the following:

- Befriending so many of the client’s Gambian employees and Pakistani contractors.
Though the Abuko Earth Station where we worked lacked most modern amenities (to phrase it mildly), we had a great time, picking mangoes from the yard, stepping over feral dogs and goats on the way, trying not to electrocute ourselves on a strange metal box in our office festooned with yards and yards of cobwebs, and generally trying to jumpstart the Internet’s heart. It was like the diseased heart of an old man who subsisted on a diet of red meat, cigarettes, and hard liquor.

- Lebanese cuisine.
The Gambia, like several other countries in West Africa, is home to a huge Lebanese diaspora, and they brought with them their absolutely divine food. Unfortunately, I was there during Ramadan, and with a population that’s 90% Muslim, nearly everyone participates in this religious observance whether you want to or not… Restaurants close during the day, many bars shutdown altogether, and the usual club-like atmosphere of Senegambia dies down to a rather dull roar.

- Trying to blend in.
I learned a few phrases in Wollof, a language that is only spoken but not written and was once even mistaken for a Gambian. Apparently the last name “Choi” is not an uncommon Gambian surname, so I arrived to a meeting once to find a number of people astounded to see my face. They saw my name on the list of attendees and did not expect a “Chinese-looking” person to show up. I have been mistaken for many things in my life, but being mistaken for Gambian was definitely original.

- The mouth of history.
Near the mouth of the Gambia river, where it empties to into the Atlantic, I visited James Island the launching point for thousands of ships bound for the Americas carrying millions of slaves from the 1500s through the early 1800s. Conditions were appalling… On average 1/10 of all slaves aboard the ships perished along the middle passage (the Africa to Americas route) and only 1/3 were actually able to work once they arrived. After spending many long weeks in cramped, chained conditions, some were literally crippled upon arrival, among other countless horrors.

I will remember The Gambia for all these reasons but also for what happened after I left…

Shortly before I was due to return to the Gambia for the second phase of my project, I received word that my three colleagues (who were working there on a long-term contract with the client) had been abruptly arrested and thrown in jail. They were subsequently stripped of important documents (passports, etc) and not allowed to contact counsel or families etc. Later they were released but detained under “house arrest.” Once my company caught wind of this, of course all work was indefinitely terminated and they started contacting embassies, etc, to extract them from the country. It was a messy, political situation involving money (and likely, corruption) and though my colleagues were not to blame for any of it, they were unfortunately caught in the cross-hairs. After 46 days of being detained in the country, I finally met up with them again, and they proceeded to celebrate their new-found freedom by getting thoroughly soused at the company Christmas party.

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It’s been over a week since election day... Last week, as the election results trickled in, there were rumblings about rigging by the DPP (who at that stage commanded a sizeable lead over the MCP) and that Tembo would not concede defeat… The army began rolling around the city in big tanks and police check points sprang up all over, presumably as a show of force to deter would-be rabble-rousers and disgruntled MCP-ers or UDF-ers from causing trouble.

On Thursday, Bingu was declared the winner and jubilation erupted all over town. People started singing and dancing, cars honked unendingly, and ecstatic people spilled out of pickup trucks, packed to the brim with merry-makers.

I arrived to find my hotel transformed into a hotbed of activity and the lobby had been adorned with a long red carpet and a metal detector at the main entrance. On my floor, I found hotel employees wearing gleaming white gloves standing at nearly every other door.

I asked one, “What’s going on?”

He responded, “Ma’am, there are many dignitaries and heads of states coming here to celebrate the re-inauguration. Like from Tanzania, Rwanda, Mozambique…”

Me: “Sorry, I thought you said Rwanda. Did you say Rwanda?”

Him: “Yes.”

I later found out that Paul Kagame did not in fact stay in my hotel, but I nearly died at the irony. I lived in Rwanda for a year and never came that close to the President. I went to Malawi and “ran into him” at the Mount Soche Hotel.

The next morning, I also found out that Robert Mugabe was rumoured to be staying at my hotel. What a breakfast conversation that could have been! “Bob – how do you manage to keep your inflation rate so high? What is your secret? They make a great omelette here, don’t they?”

Flashbacks, now and then.

2009-05-18T15:49:00.022+02:00

Now

The petite lady to my left had the leathery, wizened skin of someone who had spent the better part of her life bucking the SPF trend. She also had the eyes-half-closed-sway-to-and-fro look of someone who had spent the better part of the evening imbibing something stronger than juice. With the DJ spinning throbbing techno music, she was doing some protracted arm-flopping dance that reminded me of a dignified English woman fluttering through a parlor, checking on her guests having tea.

Under the cover of night, on the terrace of “Villa 33” in Blantyre, Malawi, I looked up and saw a silvery disco ball hanging from a tree.

Having had the impression that this “Braai” (Afrikaans for grill or cook-out) would be a more casual affair, I showed up in flip-flops and a boring T-shirt and was unpleasantly surprised to arrive at a veritable scene, where some of the hippest of Blantyre were decked out for a night of clubbing, some in sky-high heels, skinny jeans, and earrings that scream fabulosity.

So I found myself awkwardly bopping on the dance floor, shifting my gaze from that woman, to the tree, to the maroon-painted concrete floor, everywhere except to my German colleague at my right, and asking myself, how on earth did I get here?

Oh yeah, I remember: Feeling both sore from having hiked Mount Mulanje all day and inadequately dolled up for such an affair, I had a burger and coke and was ready to make a discrete exit. I asked Esme, a cute and bubbly blonde girl who worked at the place for the phone number of a taxi company, and though she was from the British Isles (a guess, based on her accent) and should have understood English, her answer to this question was, oh let me take your purse, stash it in some undisclosed location, pour you an apple pucker shooter, and then drag you onto the dance floor.

And there I was, bouncing on the last of my hamstrings, wishing that that apple pucker shooter had been either a cupful of absinthe (recently legalized in the US after all) or laced with arsenic.

My current 4-week stint in Malawi has brought back a flood of memories from the last two years, mostly memories of Rwanda and other African travels, times and places almost a year since my last post on this blog… Though it started out as another much-loved diary, my blog has lately become nothing but a source of bottomless guilt. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to write about; on the contrary, so much has happened. I have simply lacked the stamina and discipline to write down my thoughts and after a while, it becomes like an old dear friend with whom you’ve totally lost touch: cut off for so long, you scarcely know where to begin and your sense of guilt almost paralyzes you from being able to come across as normal. You wonder if you should just launch into your life as it is, or spend some time recapping everything that’s happened in the intervening months and glossing over the forgotten time in the hopes that he/she doesn’t notice how badly you have neglected him/her.

Then

I thought about the last time I shared a dance floor with colleagues… After a dinner of sushi and white wine, I found myself mangling a rug at Murphy’s, a dance club on the ground floor of the Hilton Hotel, one of two business traveller havens in Ankara, Turkey. My 2009 started with a 2-month project in Ankara, where I proudly watched Obama become the 44th President from my hotel room alone. That sentiment summarizes my time there fairly well, in the sense that my stay in Turkey was overwhelmingly dominated by work and therefore revolved around my hotel room or the client site. In any case, the evening at Murphy’s, a weekend trip to Istanbul, a bomb scare outside the hotel, the start of the Obama years, among others, were all blog-worthy memories that never found their way to paper. A few excuses, some procrastination, and suddenly the opportunity/inspiration to write a Turkey blog post evaporated.

I thought about my last project in Africa – a 5-week sweat-fest in The Gambia. Like Blantyre and Kigali, in no time flat, I found myself tangled in the folds of the expat community of Senegambia, again amazed at how large and small these communities are… Large in the sense that I would have never guessed that Banjul and Senegambia would be home to so many English, Dutch, and Germans; small in the sense that I could not go anywhere without running into at least one familiar face. It was project work of a totally different beast, requiring trips into the deep countryside in the middle of the night and long hours in telecom exchanges staring at masses of tangled cables. I started a love affair with mangoes there that to this day burns unabated (despite not being able to find good ones anywhere since). A trip to James Island, Ramadan by proxy, sabotage and reckless incompetence, and more – all entirely blog-worthy moments, all entirely lost to pure laziness and a dearth of motivation.

There were more moments, including, simply, life in Germany… In 2005 I made my maiden move abroad to Frankfurt and after moving back in August 2008, I felt like it was a homecoming of sorts. Since Frankfurt, I had moved to Brussels and then Kigali and visited countless other places in Europe and Africa, so I arrived back in Germany feeling a bit more like a seasoned traveller. I will never outgrow my inherent naïveté about the world but at least, with all these travels, I have tried to lessen it. Besides happily dusting off my German textbooks, I have enjoyed my job and life in Deutschland. From my perch in Bonn, I have been able to revisit my ole stomping grounds in Brussels, chaperone betrunkenen colleagues at the company Christmas party, take a trip to Edinburgh, wine in a circle during a Carnival extravaganza in Trinidad, celebrate my 30th birthday during a training session in the Netherlands, and go skiing in the German Alps… All, again, fitting stories for my blog but saved from immortalization by a simple inability to get my $%&* together.

Now

I can hardly right past wrongs by writing a bunch of delinquent blog posts now, but I can at least try to resolve to write on my blog with renewed enthusiasm and greater regularity! To that end, this post as well as the subsequent four will be part of a “Flashback” series, meant to recount some of the more memorable interesting encounters here in Malawi, as well as to include snippets of moments past that didn’t make it onto my blog. I hope you enjoy them.

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Malawi Fast Facts

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malawi)

Big City (and the capital): Lilongwe (population ~866,000)

Next Big City (and the financial+commercial center): Blantyre (population ~733,000)

People: ~13,900,000 (more than 10 different ethnic groups, mostly from the Chewa tribe, many Asians and Europeans as well)

Official languages: English, Chichewa

GDP per capita: $312 (nominal)

Size: 118,484 km2 (45,747 mi2, or almost 5 times the size of Rwanda and similar in size to the US state of Pennsylvania)

Elevation of the Shire Highlands (where Blantyre is located): 910 m (3000 ft)

Religion: 80% Christian, 13% Muslim

Primary Exports: Tobacco, sugar, cotton, tea

Life Expectancy: 43

The ravage of AIDS: 14% of population infected, 250 new victims are infected each day, and 70% of Malawi’s hospital beds are occupied by HIV/AIDS patients.

Trivia: Madonna put Malawi on the pop-culture map by adopting a Malawian child, David Banda. She continues to make waves here through her ”Raising Malawi” foundation, which focuses on raising money and building infrastructure to help AIDS orphans, as well as through her bid to adopt a second Malawian child.

Quick History:

1859 David Livingstone reaches Lake Nyasa (today known as Lake Malawi) in Nyasaland, under British colonial rule.

1964 Nyasaland gains independence and renames itself Malawi, under President Banda.

1993-1994 Government reforms enforced, new constitution enacted and first multi-party elections held.

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Maputo and Tofo Beach, Mozambique.

2008-08-14T18:28:00.016+02:00

On June 8, Garron and I boarded a flight from Joburg to Maputo, Mozambique. It was my first visit to this coastal nation and a first to any former Portuguese colony.

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Mozambique fast facts

GDP (PPP): $1400
Population: ~21 million
Capital City: Maputo
Official languages: Portuguese
Primary Exports: Cashews, shrimp, fish, cotton, citrus fruits
Religion: ~35% Catholic,~12% Non-Catholic Christian, ~20% Zionist, ~8% Muslim
Independence: 1975
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Maputo (~1.2 million) pays homage to Mozambique’s Communist past by naming all of its city streets after prominent Communist/Marxist figures.

For example, we had lunch at the intersection of Avenue Mao Tse Tung and Avenue Kim Il Sung…

What an address!

The beautiful Hotel Polana (didn’t stay there)

Occasionally you can feel the Portuguese influence in the people and food, especially in a particular fondness for a spicy condiment called “peri-peri” sauce. Fiery and quite tasty.

In Maputo, we visited the Museum of Natural History and I was terrified by the vast collection of creepy taxidermy there: taxidermy on the order of an entire floor filled with dusty relics of wildlife, posed as still life on the African tundra. Specimens such as whole lions, positioned mid-pounce with fangs bared and gleaming yellow eyeballs, were truly the stuff of nightmares.

We also stopped to watch a peculiar boat race along the city’s waterfront, where brightly colored and futuristic-looking aerodynamic things zipped along the surface of the water.

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A dash of sparsely

Mozambique is the 3rd least densely populated African country, which is so diametrically opposed to Rwanda, the most densely populated African country. It came as a bit of a surprise to pass through parts of the country and not see a single person for long stretches of road. In Rwanda, this is a nearly impossible feat.
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Part of our week-long stay in Mozambique included a jaunt to one of Mozambique’s many beaches. We hopped in a “chapa" minibus (crammed in the very back seat with 1) our luggage 2) an entire family of 4 and 3) seemingly the entire season’s harvests, including overflowing bags of raw sugar cane and a duffle of corn husks) and took the long 8-hour plus journey to Tofo Beach. Bone-shattering discomfort comes to mind.

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Beachy keen

Mozambique has 2470 kilometers of Indian Ocean coastline...

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Tofo beach

It was everything a beach vacation should be: completely unscheduled days filled with languorous hours of reading, sunning and admiring the vast stretches of unoccupied white sands. Our most titillating topics of discussion revolved around what we should eat (prawns or sushi again?) and when we should get back in the water (are the waves big enough to body surf?). We stayed in a rustic little grass hut banda that rustled when the wind blew. That combined with the sound of crashing waves was a lovely way to be lulled to sleep.

The sleepy beach town of Tofo had one internet café staffed by one very severe Portuguese woman and a tiny market where the scent of smoky chicken skewers wafted through the air and clotheslines of rainbow-colored pants and sarongs flapped in the ocean breeze.

Sunset

Me, atop a sand dune...

soaking it in…

Joburg, South Africa. Or, Dusting off my Blog.

2008-07-22T17:28:00.025+02:00

It has been a loooong time since I have posted on my blog, and for fear that it might die entirely, these next two posts are a feeble attempt to revive it. Many of you have seen some of these photos already, but for those of you not linked to Facebook (a.k.a. World's Greatest Timesuck), here is a short illustrated story of my trip to Joburg.

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On June 4, I flew to the southern most country on the African continent and spent 4 days in Johannesburg, a formidable metropolis.

Joburg was a fascinating city, a study in contrasts and contradictions. It was...

... an African city that couldn’t seem more un-African (which I suppose begs the question, what is 'African' exactly?) in its preponderance of sprawling shopping centers, gleaming skyscrapers and multi-lane highways. In many ways, it felt more like the US than anything else... a place where I could get my fix of shopping as well as a shocking dose of wintry weather.

... a city of diversity in spite of its sordid, apartheid past. Its dark history of racial segregation is manifest through memorials, museums and tributes, all of which – according to this tourist – give the city a certain pulse, a beat of constant remembrance. A vast immigrant population consisting of Congolese, Zimbabweans, Indians, and more, inhabit many of the city’s neighborhoods as well as the surrounding townships.

The Museum of Man & Science that had little to do with either man or science…

… and more to do with weird, dried animal skins and bones, and other rather creepy items within the traditional healer’s domain.

A vestige of the apartheid era – a sign that designated this shop as a “non-white shop.”

The Hector Pieterson Memorial, a tribute to the student uprising sparked by a mandate to use Afrikaans as the language of the classroom. The stones are meant to symbolize the students' solidarity.

Iconic photo of one of the youngest victims of the violence – Hector Pieterson – being carried by a fellow student.

...a city of opulent mansions fortressed in by imposing walls and arresting coils of barbed wire as well as a city of lawless neighborhoods crippled by violent crime, unchecked corruption, and crushing poverty.

Nelson Mandela’s House, in the leafy, suburban neighborhood of Houghton

St. John’s Boys Academy, also in Houghton

Hillbrow, arguably the most dangerous section of Joburg which ironically sits adjacent (and in stark contrast) to Houghton

... a city of townships, like the Southwest Township more commonly referred to as “Soweto.” Soweto was a vibrant community of unique homes and a surprising lack of crime (achieved through a fierce version of community police). Low crime notwithstanding, Soweto was not without its areas of squalor.

The ubiquitous barbed wire

... a city of gold. Joburg was founded as a mining town, and supposedly there is still gold to mine for another 80 years or so….

Note the yellowish tint of the soil from the gold deposits

Miscellaneous May

2008-05-26T10:08:00.006+02:00

May has come and gone and it was filled with no one special event but several miscellaneous ones…

Strumming my pain...
In an attempt to de-oxidize the rust caked onto my musical skills, I have started taking guitar lessons. My teacher, Aimé, has been extremely patient as I whine about my tender finger tips and inability to play the damn F chord. For all the frustrations though, it has been great fun to exercise the repressed musician in me and serenade Melanie and the guards with really abhorrent renditions of Amazing Grace and Edelweiss.

Party on, party people...
Perhaps it’s that time of year or perhaps it’s just the ephemeral schedules of the expat set in Kigali, but I feel like I’m continuously attending an unending procession of parties, often of the ‘welcome back’ or ‘going away’ variety. Some are more titillating than others – a wine and cheese party, for example, has more caché than your average fete since both wine and cheese are difficult to find a) for reasonable prices or b) in good quality. Friends who have recently been abroad sometimes return with such hard-to-find riches and magnanimously host parties to share the booty. Garron and I hosted a dinner party (a follow-up to the wildly successful Mexican Fiesta Fiesta dinner party of March) of our own as well. The highlight was a dessert of pure indulgent genius – vanilla ice cream topped with home-made peanut butter sauce and fried bananas. Comme d’habitude, hats off to the chef extraordinaire, Garron!

The hills are alive... with the sound of running...
Along with some other intrepid runner friends, I ran the Kigali half-marathon on May 11… Crossing the finish line of the 21-km course in Amahoro Stadium, I was flooded with the usual endorphin-high but felt the reward especially hard-earned this time. The hills combined with a shortage of water at most stations made for one tough, tough course… perhaps the most challenging one I’ve ever done.

Remarkably, I was snapped crossing the half-way mark looking relatively uncrumpled and pain-free. Usually these action shots from races are the most unflattering pictures possible, but I was so pleased by this one, I thought it blog-post-worthy. I can’t believe I was actually smiling when I still had 10 more kilometers to go.

Post-race, some friends threw a BBQ at their lovely home where we nursed our sore muscles and gorged ourselves on grilled kebabs, potato salad, cake and champagne!

And they called it, the Birth of the Biz...
For those of you who don’t already know, Garron and two of his bschool friends have started an MBA admissions consulting business… www.elitembaadmissions.com
Check out the website and get them clients. There’s a juicy little referral fee involved…

April

2008-04-16T13:22:00.011+02:00

I see him there, the Torso Man, propped in a wheelchair in the grass along the sidewalk. The first time I saw him I thought my eyes were deceiving me, that somehow my mind had erased his lower half. I occasionally see him on my walks during lunch, and I avert my gaze because it somehow seems gratuitous to look at him. How did this happen to him?

I see those gardeners pruning grass and bushes using machetes. I have seen it for 7 months now, and it still shocks me. No lawn mowers or real gardening clippers. Just machetes. I wonder how people can stand to see them and not be reminded of their painful past. Would it have been worthwhile to ban these things?

I see the house and sometimes wonder whether it was standing that year, and if it was, I wonder about the marks on the kitchen floor. How did all those chips in the tile get there?

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April 7th kicked off an official period of remembrance for Rwanda – a week without sports (hotel swimming pools were drained, gyms were closed, and soccer matches were banned) and merriment (bars and clubs were shuttered).

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100 days

The genocide lasted about that long in 1994, starting April 6 and ending in mid-July. In that time, nearly a million people were slaughtered.
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I have refrained from making commentary on the genocide in this space mostly because, as a muzungu and newcomer to this country, I don’t feel comfortable talking about something that I only first heard about from Anderson Cooper reporting on Channel One during high school homeroom period.

So let me restrict my thoughts to the following: on the whole, I have been surprised by how seldom – on the surface – the people bear the outward marks of genocide. Naively perhaps, I came prepared to be continually jolted by the human scars of an unspeakable inhumanity.

Instead, I have met Rwandans who are rather stoic and reticent about the divisions that caused the bloody rift in their nation… As a muzungu, I am not privy to the nuances in relationships among Rwandans themselves, and though I have the overwhelming sense that the country is moving forward, I hear little and big things that make me think that the wound is still quite raw.

The little things…

The email had the form-letter air of most company-wide notices:

“Earth Station informs all RWANDATEL Staff the death of one staff member, THEOPHILE GATARE, happened last night in a moto accident at Kanombe around 20:00.”

The news it brought sudden and sad.

Even though I had never met Mr. Gatare, I felt a palpable sense of loss as a junior member of the Rwandatel community.

But unbelievably, the story would become much worse. Far more scandalous, in fact.

Apparently his death was no accident.

The car that struck down Mr. Gatare was driven by the Executive Secretary of the Kigali City Council, Mr. Peter Uwimana.

http://www.newtimes.co.rw/index.php?issue=13460&article=4640

Allegedly, Mr. Uwimana may have intentionally targeted Mr. Gatare because Mr. Gatare testified against one of Mr. Uwimana’s close family relatives in a Gacaca court.

“Meanwhile some furious family members have alleged that there might have been intentions of killing Gatare in a purported road accident because he testified as a witness in a Gacaca court against a close relative to Uwimana.”

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Gacaca (“gah-CHA-cha”)
(wikipedia.org)

The Gacaca Court is part of a system of community justice inspired by tradition and established in 2001 in Rwanda, in the wake of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide. After the Genocide, the new government struggled with developing just means for the humane detention and prosecution of the more than 100,000 people accused of genocide, war crimes, and related crimes against humanity. By 2000, approximately 120,000 alleged genocidaires were crammed into Rwanda’s prisons and communal jails.

From December 1996 to December 2006, the courts managed to try about 10,000 suspects: at that rate it would take another 110 years to prosecute all the prisoners. To speed things up, some prisoners were released: In two rounds in 2004 and 2005 about 50,000 prisoners were released. Just recently (January 2007) it has been decided to release another 8000 prisoners.

However, the courts needed a more expeditious means of delivering justice. In response, Rwanda implemented the Gacaca court system, which has evolved from traditional cultural communal law enforcement procedures. However, the system has come under criticism from a number of sources, including the Survivors Fund, which represents survivors of the genocide, due to the danger that it poses to survivors. There has been a number of reports about survivors being targeted for giving evidence at the courts.

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So Mr. Gatare, after surviving the genocide and losing his wife and 4 children, perished tragically in a seemingly senseless act of revenge, leaving behind his new wife and 3 children.

Incomprehensible, really.

The big things…

Just last Thursday, during the week of remembrance, someone threw a grenade into the Genocide Memorial (an impressive museum and tribute) grounds, killing a police officer and wounding another…

http://www.newtimes.co.rw/index.php?issue=13498&article=5519

That same day, someone drove his car into a procession of students leaving a memorial service, killing one student and injuring a handful more. The report mentioned that the driver did not have a driver’s license, but the whispers among people suggest that the driver did it on purpose…

http://www.newtimes.co.rw/index.php?issue=13498&article=5521

RUN FOR THE BORDER

2008-04-08T10:33:00.017+02:00

Uganda would not go quietly into that dark night.

No, it went kicking and screaming, like a fussy child who isn’t quite ready for bed.

Our departure from Uganda was a real comedy of errors, plagued by calamity after calamity, starting with a flat tire and ending with a mad dash for the Uganda-Rwanda border…

After the turbulent drive to Kampala, we found that the car was worse for wear: Saturday morning, we awoke to find the car had one very sad looking flat tire. Fortunately, providence intervened in the form of essential equipment (spare tire, jack, etc.) and mechanical-savvy individuals (Lillian). So on Sunday night, the eve of our departure, Lillian and Garron rolled up their sleeves and triumphantly changed out the flat tire.

Day of Departure, 9:00 AM

With the car loaded, we put on our game faces, ready to tackle the 10 or so hours of that awful drive. Knowing that it would take ~8.5h out of 10 to reach the Uganda-Rwanda border, and knowing that the border would close at 7:00 PM, we figured that we had a good 1.5h cushion to ensure we reached the crossing in time.

All ready to go, and… click.

The car wouldn’t start.

We regretfully realized that, after two days of idling in the parking lot, the car battery had died. (Most cars have such poor batteries they require you to drive them on a consistent basis to keep the juices flowing, so to speak.)

The staff at the guesthouse kindly called someone to assist us.

(Getting the car jumped… Note the sour expression on my face)

9:20AM

A bit behind schedule, we still figured we would be in good shape for the drive and the border…

Unfortunately, the spare tire would not cooperate with us… It tugged at the steering wheel and felt totally misaligned… Worried that either it or the car would not fare well on the trip, we pulled into a garage to have the pressure checked.

(Pot-holes-cum-ponds on a Kampala road)

As it turned out, the pressure was somewhere “close to exploding” (the mechanic’s words), so our only recourse was to repair the original tire and change out the spare.

(At the garage, fixing the original tire… Lillian being our advocate for all matters car.)

9:45 AM

A little more behind schedule, we felt confident now that, with a rejuvenated tire, we could make up some time on the road and still reach the crossing in time…

Sadly, my navigational skills failed me a bit on our exit from the city, and put us squarely in the middle of a bus depot.

(Crush of buses)

10:00 AM

Extracted from the traffic mess, we breathed a sigh of relief, picked up some speed and finally, felt on our way…

10:30 AM

Sarah: “Oh look! That must be Lake Victoria! How pretty!”

(Lake Victoria)

Lillian: “I don’t remember seeing it on the way here…”

Me: (sinking feeling) “OH CRAP.”

I frantically flipped open the map and realized that we had been traveling 30 minutes in the wrong direction.

Once again, my navigational skills failed me and if it were physically possible for me to give myself a solid kick in the pants, I would have.

11:30 AM

Having back-tracked back to Kampala and re-directed ourselves on the correct path, we picked up the pace, knowing that our border-crossing window had now become much narrower…

We stopped to get gas in a dusty little outpost called Lukaya.

After the debacle with the battery, we all chanted to ourselves that we must NOT turn off the engine, we must NOT turn off the engine.

So, we filled the tank with the engine running (tsk tsk, I know), stretched our legs for a bit, hopped back in and… click.

Garron hit the ignition again and succeeded in shutting off the engine. And as luck would have it, the car wouldn’t start again.

The garage brought help to jump the car and after multiple tries, we found that this time, the battery was not the culprit. A mechanic discovered that the starter needed to be repaired. So we begged him to please do it, whatever it takes.

(Getting the car fixed in Lukaya… You can’t see it, but I have another sour expression on my face)

12:00 PM

One-hundred dollars poorer, we liberally thanked the mechanic, hastily jumped in the car and pressed on the gas.

Now we were in real danger of not making the border in time, and there was no time to waste.

Garron calculated that we needed to maintain an average speed of 100 km/h in order to make it there in time, which, given the state of the road and the many, many challenges (reckless trucks and buses, livestock… see previous post) along the way, was asking a lot…

Afternoon-ish

Lillian: “Do you guys hear that? It sounds like something rattling.”

We pulled over, left the car running, and inspected the car. There was nothing visibly amiss, but there was some strange leakage. “Oh well, no time to stop and worry – we have a border crossing to make!”

We hopped back in and sped off again.

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Zero Degrees

Kampala, Latitude = +0.19 degrees

Kigali, Latitude = -1.195 degrees

With no time to play tourist, we saw the big white round sign whiz by and thought, Oh how cool. We’ve just crossed over the Equator.
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Late afternoon-ish

A large rock (or something) flew up into the windshield and gave it a lovely snowflake-shaped crack. Then like a shooting star, it crept laterally across windshield.

Great.

6:55 PM

At the expense of fried nerves and cold sweats, we made up significant time and reached the Ugandan border with only 5 minutes left.

With the crossing in sight, we armed ourselves with passports and pens, ready to leap out of the car and attack the Ugandan immigration desk.

At this late hour, immigration was blissfully line-free and we filled out our departure forms and exchanged niceties with the immigration officers in record time. I even managed to make friends with the gentleman who assisted me with the car’s customs declaration.

6:58 PM

We piled back in the car, and… click.

Garron: “Oh my gosh.”

Sarah: “Garron, STOP JOKING.”

Garron: “I’m not kidding. The car won’t start.”

Like 4 chickens that had recently lost their heads, we leapt out of the car and started flailing about.

Me: “Put it in neutral and we’ll push the car over the border!!!”

Luckily, a Ugandan offered to look under our hood, and quickly spotted a cable that had become disconnected from a diode of the car battery. He reconnected it and voila! The car started.

We burst into rapturous applause and probably startled him with our disproportionate response to his simple solution. After slapping the last of our Ugandan shillings into his hand, we sped the 400m or so across the border and re-entered Rwanda.

7:00 PM

Me: “Where is my passport? Omigosh, I just had it. WHERE IS MY PASSPORT?!?”

The rest: “What?!?”

Like 4 chickens that had recently lost their heads, we leapt out of the car and started flailing about.

Frenetically, we started emptying all the compartments of the car, rooting around like children in the bottom of their toy chests. Garron even re-popped the hood.

Helpful Rwandan, inspecting under the hood: “What’s the problem?”

Garron: “She’s lost her passport.”

Helpful Rwandan, puzzled: “And you’re looking in the engine?”

Garron: “I don’t know, she lost it over there, and we looked under the hood…”

Meanwhile, I was breathlessly running circuits of the 400m dash between the car and the border crossing, furiously gesticalating over the gate to ask my new-found friend on the other side to check if he had seen a passport lying around.

I imagined what the locals must be thinking, as they watched the scene unfold:

A car of muzungus blazes up to the gate in a cloud of dust. They jump out of their car and run into the office. Five minutes later, they reemerge, jump back in their car, and after a few seconds, jump out again and start circling the car and shaking their heads. The Blond Girl looks like she will cry. A Very Wise Ugandan diagnoses the car problem and they jump back in the car and drive to the Rwandan side. On the other side, they jump out of their car again and start throwing away everything inside their car. One of the Chinese Girls starts some sport of running back and forth from the car and the gate. Her hair is a mess. Strange muzungus.

7:05PM

Miraculously, I found my passport, slyly tucked flush against the inside pocket of the passenger door, where I had put it in the first place. Je suis une IDIOTE.

Frazzled, we pounded against the window of the Rwandan immigration desk, pleading with them to process our paperwork: “Yes, we know it’s late, but we just came through Ugandan immigration, and if you could just please, please help us...”

Perhaps they saw our weary mugs, streaked with sweat and wild-eyed with desperation, and felt sorry for us, because even though we were 5 minutes late, they went ahead and stamped our passports.

So Rwanda welcomed us home. And the return never felt so sweet.

Uganda: Cheating Death

2008-04-01T13:44:00.020+02:00

The trucks were parked totally helter-skelter across the road. The damp dirt road lacked markings for lanes or any delineation between the side of the road and the road itself. Some trucks faced north, some pointed south with their cabins angled to the east, no order, rhyme or reason, they idled or had drivers asleep behind the wheel giving the appearance that Sarah, Lillian (visiting friends from the US), Garron, and I would NEVER weave our way through this border crossing.

With the help of an entrepreneurial young man who herded the lumbering vehicles out of our way, we squeezed through a canyon of trucks with nary a paper’s width of space to spare on either side.

Catching our breath and relieved that we squeezed through relatively unscathed, we settled in for the long drive to Kampala, Uganda, my first foray into Rwanda’s neighbor to the northeast and one of its East African Community brethren.

Suddenly we noticed a truck barreling down our lane – the right lane – with no apparent intention to slow down. He flashed his lights and in the nick of time careened to the left with his trailer dangerously fishtailing behind him. It then dawned on us that – now that we were in Uganda, old British colony that it is – we should be driving in the left lane… So this little game of chicken was our sobering introduction to a long-weekend trip to Uganda... and the first in a series of moments that can only be described as cheating death.

The drive was long.

In the beginning, I enthusiastically soaked in the scenery of a new countryside, one that – just past the Rwenzori Mountain Range – changed to a tree-lined expanse of green tempered by hilltops of rocky soil, a marked difference from the plush dense vegetation of Rwanda’s hills. I also had the sense that Uganda was slightly more developed, based on my very scientific observation that there were more houses and churches along the way that were made of sturdier materials like tin and concrete rather than mud and clay.

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Rwanda GDP (nominal) per capita = 286
Rwanda GDP (PPP) per capita = 1000

Uganda GDP (nominal) per capita = 368
Uganda GDP (PPP) per capita = 1100
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Nine hours or so later, I was no longer enthralled by the views. The ride had turned into my personal version of hell.

Near-death Experience #1

Both sides of the road were so eroded from rains and wear-and-tear that what should have been a 2-lane thorough-fare was really a 1.8-lane fight-for-the-road. Trucks or towering buses would come recklessly flying through bends, elbowing us off the road and forcing us to rattle along the ragged edges.

Even when we could avoid the edges of the road, we still had massive potholes with which to contend, some of which were so deep, I could swear they led to all the way to Hawaii. For a ride this long and roads this poor, hitting potholes became totally unavoidable. My forehead throbbed from constantly wincing, my hand ached from white-knuckling the door handle and my tailbone felt more and more bruised each time the chassis violently banged into a pothole or scraped against some monster speed hump. One particularly nasty pothole caught us by surprise and after hitting it especially hard, the dashboard lit up and the windshield wipers and turn signals came on simultaneously.

Between the reckless buses and potholes, the schools of villagers on bicycles that would swim onto the road, the tense gamble of passing cars on such a narrow road, and the random piece of livestock (mostly steer with alarmingly thick and pointy horns) that wanders into the road, I saw my life flash before my eyes on more than one occasion.

I sometimes like to live life on the edge, but not this kind of edge. The next time we go to Kampala, I will insist that we fly.

When we finally reached Kampala, we found a lively, bustling capital city (population 1.2 million) teeming with cars, pollution, chickens, and enticing Indian restaurants. We spent Saturday touring the city, stopping in a pan-African crafts village and visiting Kabaka’s (= king, in Luganda) Palace. We stayed in an adorable guest house with just 6 rooms and met up with two other friends – Hugh and Clara – there.

(mosque on the hill)

(Mambo Point Guesthouse)

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Uganda Fast Facts

Population: 30 million
Capital City: Kampala
Lingua franca: Luganda
Official languages: English and Swahili

Primary Exports: Coffee, tea, sugar, cotton

Religion: 84% Christian, 12% Muslim
Independence: 1962
Most notorious despot: Idi Amin
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Near-death Experiences #2, 3, 4…

As nice as Kampala was, we really went to Uganda for one reason: to go white-water rafting in Jinja.

Jinja, a town about an hour east of Kampala, has played host to the adventurous in recent years with a number of tour companies based there, running rafting trips on the rapids of the Nile River.

After getting outfitted in life jackets and helmets, we piled into pickup trucks and jostled down some dirt road to meet the illustrious “White Nile.”

The six of us commandeered an inflatable red raft with Peter as our guide and coach, a young Ugandan with a serious exuberance quotient and healthy sense of humor.

Peter: “I used to be a white boy from Canada, but I’ve spent too much time in the sun in Africa.”
Peter: “Don’t worry about the crocodiles. They’re vegetarian. Except for the white meat.”

Act I: The Playground

Like children learning to ride bicycles, we spent the first few kilometers of our river ride getting a feel for the raft and learning the basics, i.e. how to row in sync, learning what to do when the raft flips, learning not to freak out if you’re trapped under the raft, learning how to ride the rescue kayaks after you’ve been dumped into the water, etc.

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Commands

“Go forward!” = row forward
“Go forward hard!” = row forward, hard
“Hold on” = stop rowing, grip the rope with your outside hand, and lean toward the center
“Get down!” = stop rowing, crouch down, hold onto the rope, and try not to sh*t yourself as you go over a big rapid
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After doing ‘test flips’ of the rafts, the guides let all the rafters swim and float for several kilometers, carried along by the current. What a fun yet odd sensation to exert no effort but to watch the banks of the river pass by at a swift clip, feeling bathed by the warm and surprisingly clean waters and holding conversations with your fellow rafters as if sitting in a coffee shop, remarking on the lovely green vegetation and dearth of villagers on the river’s banks. It was child’s play: a smattering of pink and blue helmets drifting down the river, some horsing around and tossing pieces of vine at one another, some chatting away, some just serenely watching the scenery pass, perhaps taking mental notes of the scene.

Occasionally I would remind myself that it was Easter Sunday, and I was floating in the Nile River. Surreal.

Act II: “This is not fun”

After trying a few easy Class 1 and 2 rapids, we suddenly felt as if someone had savagely ripped off the training wheels from our bikes and threw us to the mercy of the big scary open road: we took on some serious Class 3, 4 and 5 rapids and quickly realized that this was no longer child’s play.

Class 3 rapid “50-50” gave us our first flipping and while most of us tumbled through the waves relatively trauma-free, poor Sarah was stuck under the upturned boat for a while and eventually emerged looking like she had seen a ghost.

Most of us – with perhaps the exception of Sarah – were still feeling pretty hardy and eager to continue challenging the rapids… that is until we encountered the Class 5 rapid, “Silverback.” This aptly named beast of a rapid flipped us in the very beginning, spilling all of us into the violent churn and leaving us to traverse the whole rapid sans boat. I can only recall being plunged into the water, being thrust through a veritable wash cycle of waves and feeling a bit panicked that I would drown if I couldn’t come up for air soon. I burst through the surface with a gasp and emerged to witness the carnage of upturned red rafts, strewn oars, and rescue kayaks plucking shell-shocked rafters from the surf. Only a minority of the boats fought the Silverback and won; the rest were ruthlessly pummeled like us.

Given the conditions, naturally we couldn’t bring cameras, but a fellow rafter in the blogosphere kindly agreed to let me link his post to my blog. Check this out and look out for the red rafts. That’s what we did. (Thank you very much, Max!)

http://xackers.net/pages/DefaultFrame.aspx?ID=3040&fiID=156281

Act III: Cool-down

Fortunately, we had a short respite after that, a chance to feel truly humbled by Mother Nature, to kick ourselves for not having written our last will and testaments yet, and to munch on fresh pineapple and biscuits.

The sun and heat of Kampala did not revisit us on the river; instead, the sky stayed overcast and it rained all. day. long. I felt like a sorry wet dog, thoroughly chilled to my core. Everyone’s lips had a bluish tinge and the girls’ jaws visibly chattered. The post-lunch stretch of rapidless river meant we had some long kilometers to row, which helped us to fixate on something other than being so achingly cold. At times we were a solemn crew, with only the sounds of the lapping water and raindrops in our ears. We were thankful for the breaks from the rowing, when we could jump in the water and be momentarily warmed, only to have the warmth quickly washed away by the unrelenting rain. It danced on the river in undulating waves, making the surface twinkle like a sheet of silver sequins in the overbearing grayness.

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Whitewater Rapids 101: Classification.

www.about.com

Class I: (Easy) Moving water with small disturbances on the surface and a few small waves. There is little to no danger to swimmers.

Class II: (Novice/Beginner) Faster moving water with easily avoided rocks, holes, and waves. Danger to swimmers is still slight but care must be taken.

Class III: (Intermediate) Fast moving water containing various rocks, holes, currents, and waves that require skillful maneuvering to avoid. Swimmers could be at risk and may require help.

Class IV: (Advanced) Strong rapids, large waves, big holes, unpredictable currents, and dangerous obstructions requiring multiple maneuvers to get through or around. Swimmers are at risk and will require help to be rescued.

Class V: (Expert) All of the characteristics of Class IV with the added danger of being longer and containing more continuous features that may not be avoided. There is serious risk to swimmers and others may be of no help.

Class VI: (Unrunnable) Only a team of experts who carefully plan every aspect of this expedition would have hope of surviving these rivers and rapids.

Rumor has it that Class VI is basically un-survivable!
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Act IV: Itanda, or “The Bad Place”

After seeing my life flash before my eyes – yet again and several more times – I developed an intense anxiety about tackling the next set of rapids, which totally displaced the blind enthusiasm I had at the beginning of our run.

The next Class 4 flipped us – seemingly with very little effort – but fortunately, the gods of whitewater rafting spared us on the next set of rapids and the entire boat made a joyous noise, utterly euphoric for having navigated the waters and winning, this time.

We couldn’t ride our wave of ebullience for very long, for lurking not far from our victory was the infamous Itanda, or “The Bad Place.”

Sarah, Lillian, and I decided that we had filled our adventure quota for the day (or really, for at least a year), and opted to watch the more daring rafters tackle Itanda from the safety of the banks.

Staring at the long crush of white rapids, I could think only two things: 1) the soundtrack to this would be Beethoven’s Symphony #9 and 2) anyone who runs this rapid must have taken leave of their good senses. A long time ago. It was frighteningly monstrous.

Garron, Hugh, and Clara, along with a surprising number of less pussy-footed rafters, ran the last half of the rapids (the whole set of rapids constitutes a Class 6 which – if you read above – would be a death wish) which included the giant wave known as “The Bad Place.”

Sarah, Lillian, and I felt nervous watching them hit the wave, but they flipped (it’s apparently impossible not to) and all three popped up in no time flat. Relieved, I turned to see Peter jumping up and down on their up-turned boat, squealing, hooting and hollering something just short of certifiably crazy. A daredevil at heart, he must be someone who’s spent a little too much time getting regular injections of adrenaline.

Epilogue

We climbed the river’s banks and sloshed through mud and grass in our bare feet. I think I saw the world’s biggest, blackest caterpillar and prayed that I wouldn’t contract some freakish Nile River disease from some other strange bug in the water or bush. It felt like Romancing the Stone without the romance and the stone.

As we waited for our rides in the still unrelenting rain, still cold and wet and now painted in mud, I felt strangely happy that our Ugandan adventure was as riddled with risk as it was, and we pulled through scot-free and all the more emboldened for it.

Going home / What I loved

2008-03-14T15:47:00.029+01:00

I wouldn’t necessarily consider my travels to the US as falling under the rubric of ‘interesting encounters’… But after being abroad in Europe and Africa, I feel justified in adding a post about my visit there… ‘cause the re-entry certainly felt like an interesting encounter to me!

Two weeks filled with re-acclimating myself to wintry weather, kicking back with the fam, visiting friends, re-acquainting myself with my beloved Honda (and its steering wheel on the left side), and indulging myself in free refills, enormous salads, sushi, home-cooked meals, shopping, shopping and more shopping...

The highlights:

-Spending 200% of my monthly Rwanda budget in 2 weeks.

Disgusting but oddly therapeutic.

- Target.
The most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Rows upon rows of product paradise. I loved going there and just saying to myself, If I wanted to, I could buy that chrome-plated shower caddy.

- Starbucks.
Daily.

- New York City, rock-star style.
Call it karmic justice: after mildly ‘roughing it’ in Africa, I was treated to a lavish stay at the Four Seasons hotel and a monumentally extravagant meal at the pool room, all in the company of dear old friends John, Marley, Jeremy, and Anne. After an initial period of intense interrogation about Rwanda (“Who?” “When?” “Why?” “Are you nuts?!?” “Should we go on a luxury safari?”), we reminisced about our Charlottesville days and resumed our old habit of bar hopping and liver calisthenics. Going shopping (well, window shopping) at Bergdorfs and Henri Bendel, doing brunch at quaint bistros... some of the highlights of this all-too-brief jaunt and among the countless things I love to do in that incomparable city.

-A good old-fashioned house party.

My friends Anne (a Martha Stewart heir-apparent if you ask me) and Quinton threw quite the bash, and over delicious hors d’oeuvres and flutes of rosy champagne and pomegranate juice, I caught up with some of my former coworkers and friends.

- Meeting the munchkins, new and old.
Miss Cassidy Ann (Jody and Paul’s munchkin) has these gorgeous blue pools for eyes (from dad) and adorable little button nose (from mom) – the portrait of a beautiful, delicate Gerber baby.

Sir Tyler James (Nicole and Brian’s munchkin), on the other hand, outweighs her by some 10 lbs and rolls around like he’s Superman, surprising you with his toughness and crushing you with that irresistible smile, like he just knows how cute and entertaining he is…

Briana Madison – or Boo as she’s sometimes called – has had a soft spot in my heart ever since her parents Rob and Angela broke the news that they were pregnant to me over steaming Malaysian food in Philly. Suddenly (it seems), she's turning 5 and going to kindergarten in the fall. Such a precocious and charming girl. Without any instruction, she served me a donut from her Barbie kitchen and wanted to paint my nails in pink with silver sparkles. Really a girl after my heart!

- A family outing, high-rolling?
My parents wanted to take a day trip somewhere and since none of us had ever been to Atlantic City, New Jersey, we thought, why not? It wasn’t exactly on my list of must-see cities, but now that I’ve seen it, I can safely say that it would not have made the cut.

What an odd place. I thought about titling my next blog entry: "Why you should move to Africa: your weekend trips will no longer take place in Atlantic City." You can tell that the place once had some old-time charm, a la Coney Island, but now it has more of a down-on-heel, down-on-its-luck (ironically) feel… A place that seems to be trying really hard to be something it’s not… Much like the waitresses on the floor at the Trump Taj Mahal: mostly 40+-year-old women wearing heinous gold lame body suits with ruffle trim across their bottoms and bearing gratuitous freckled décolletage.

No one in my family is a big gambler, so I had to wonder what we would do there other than ogle the shops at the Pier at Caesars and walk along the - admittedly, very nice - boardwalk.

Then my dad had the wild idea that we should each gamble just $10. Black jack was tempting, but the minimum table was $10 and knowing my lackluster card skills, I didn't want to lose it all in one hand. So instead, my brother and I followed my dad to a poker machine where the 3 of us proceeded to huddle over the thing to figure out how to make it work, surely annoying the crusty old lady sitting on the right who looked like she had been glued to the same machine clutching her plastic tub of tokens and chain-smoking for at least 40 hours. After a few fumbles, we finally got the hang of it, and after a scant 5 minutes, my dad got… wait for it… a straight flush.

A STRAIGHT FLUSH.

The machine then lit up like Christmas and started clanging like a cash register until his $10 had turned into $134. With his jaw hanging ajar and a look of utter shock across his face, he said, “We have to go NOW.” 1000% profit – not too shabby. Maybe if I gamble with my dad from now on, I'll never ever have to visit the macaroni ATM again. :)

For all its glory though, sadly the visit could not be everything I had hoped it’d be… primarily because it was just too. damn. short.

'Til next time...

Going home / What I miss

2008-02-15T09:25:00.005+01:00

In anticipation of my upcoming trip home to the US, I have begun to fantasize about the under-appreciated treasures I will rediscover there, the land of limitless creature comforts and den of unbridled consumerism.

So in honor of this homecoming, I am dedicating this post to a retrospective on all that I have missed about the States, having now spent 5 months here in Rwanda…

I miss…

Bathrooms at the workplace that a) don’t require the cleaning staff to bring buckets of water to manually fill the toilet tanks and b) feature sinks that run consistently and are regularly equipped with soap.

Going to the store and being able to recognize more than 1 out of every 5 brands.

Not having to wish I could read labels in Arabic. (Goods are shipped from Dubai.)

Being able to buy cereal that doesn’t cost $10/box.

Having my choice of cheese. (One can only rotate the local gouda and goat cheese for so long.)

Not feeling like my brain becomes dislodged inside my skull and thanking God for the modern bra every time we drive on dirt roads.

Cable service that doesn’t go out every time there’s a thunderstorm.

Not having to fight armies of ants who march around like they own the place, carrying out crumbs of food in what looks like one long undulating trail of black pepper.

Not being afraid to go into the back bedroom ‘cause I saw the BIGGEST cockroach in there, and Garron could you please kill it when you come home.

Fast, reliable internet connectivity. (Don’t even think about sending me a link to something on youtube.)

Having a car with a CD player.

- Oh well maybe that’s asking too much -

Having a car with a good, working radio.

- Or even better yet –

Just having a car that doesn’t require you to cut off the air conditioning when you drive uphill (to give it more power).

Street signs.

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Directionally-challenged

Only a handful of streets actually have names so signs and addresses don’t really exist. In their absence, directions can sound like this:

Lost Person: “How do I get to x?”
Helpful Rwandan: “It’s no problem. You pass the La Fiesta sign and turn left.
“Then you go, you go, you go.
“You pass a woman carrying bananas on her head.
“Turn right.
“You go, you go, you go.
“You’re there.”

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Not being constantly stared and gawked at, in the manner of rubbernecking or stopping people dead in their tracks. (It’s only a matter of time before I erupt in a “TAKE A PICTURE WHY DON’T YA?! IT’LL LAST LONGER!”)

Peacefully sleeping through the night without being woken up by the sounds of a mosquito buzzing by my head.

Not having to come home and worry if the featherweight-one-foot-in-the-grave guard is dead when he doesn’t open the gate after 5 minutes.

Not having to feel annoyed when he comes trotting up 10 minutes later, having spent some time getting soused at the little ‘bar’ down the street.

Phone etiquette, the way I’m used to it. (This means a) identifying yourself within seconds of the call, b) not taking calls during meetings, and c) not calling me, letting it ring once, hanging up, and expecting me to call you back – a practice known as ‘beeping.’)

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Hello?

Rwandans will always exchange pleasantries before even stating who they are.

“Hello?”
Caller: “Hi, how are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
Caller: “I am fine. How is your family?”
“Oh, fine but Emmanuel is sick.”
Caller: “Oh I’m sorry.”
“Eehh yes, he’s not well.”
Caller: “Eehh, I’m sorry. Ok, this is Concilie.”
“Hello. How do I know you?”

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A coffee culture. (I like to take my coffee only one way: with VOLUME. Unfortunately here, outside of the one coffee shop that has been my savior, restaurants rarely serve it and customers seldom order it. And instant coffee – if you can find it – will set you back $10 for a 100g canister!)

Clean money. (No, I don’t mean money that hasn’t been laundered by the mafia; I mean money that isn’t physically DIRTY. I'm often handed bills so utterly filthy, discolored, smelly and flimsy I wonder if they will disintegrate in my fingers and I shudder to think where they’ve been.)

Not having to wonder if this salad will give me amoebas if it wasn’t washed in filtered water.

Not having to only occasionally purchase diet coke as a “splurge.”

Not being constantly viewed as a dispenser of money.

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Faranga!

Amafaranga = money, in Kinyarwanda. No need to take a class to learn that one – as a muzungu, you will hear it in constant refrain.

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Not having to see children with yellowed eyes from malnutrition.

Not having to witness crushing poverty at almost every turn..............

Zanzibar... the Spice of Life

2008-02-14T11:51:00.007+01:00

Some say that variety is the spice of life.

I would argue that vacation is the spice of life.

And a vacation in Zanzibar? That’s like an extra spicy, spice of life.

We spent the first week of 2008 on this exotic isle, one at the intersection of Arabic, Indian, and African cultures, where the influences of all 3 are strongly reflected in the language, people, and food. During its heyday in the 1800s, the island became one of the most important outposts along the spice route, trading in cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, cumin, and ginger.

The highlight of the first few days in Stone Town included the lively outdoor market that starts at sun-down with vendors lined along the waterfront, selling irresistible treats like fresh-squeezed sugar cane juice (made by pressing thick stalks of sugar cane through large cranks) and grilled seafood of every variety on huge outdoor spits. Vendors hawk clothes, jewelry, and spices in vibrant display. The atmosphere is colorful, aromatic, electric, and inviting. Everyone wants to be your friend, and everyone wants to sell you something.

After Stone Town, we spent some days on Kizimkazi Beach in the south, known for dolphins. One morning, aboard a simple fishing dhow with two fisherman who spoke Swahili and a few words of English, I rode out into the vast Indian Ocean, past the point where the water turns from a clear turquoise to an opaque sapphire, to ‘track’ dolphins. As soon as we came upon a family, I sort of wished I hadn’t gone… While they were lovely to see (arcing above the water just like you would imagine and chattering and chortling among themselves), as soon as we were close enough to see them, they would become spooked and swim off… and we would chase them. Something that was more predatory and less of the ‘swim with them and feel healed’ experience than I was envisioning…

Wanting to swap one white sands beach for another (such difficult decisions!), we moved to Nungwi Beach in the north. While Kizimkazi felt a bit sleepy and isolated, Nungwi felt more like a ‘party’ beach with plenty of young people and a healthy variety of restaurants and shops. I spent the remainder of the vacation wishing it wouldn’t end…

Race in Africa

One evening, while strolling along Nungwi Beach at dusk, a young Tanzanian man approached me. By this point, I had become fairly numb to all the local people who try to befriend you in an effort to sell you a tour package or some tchotchke painting or handicraft. And this gentleman was no different, I assumed.

"Eeeehhhh… Jambo” (= hi in Swahili) he says.
“Jambo,” I reply.
“My name is Adam,” he says as he extends his hand.
I shake it.
“What is your name?” he asks.
I answer, still shaking his hand. (Handshakes tend to last longer here.)
“Ok. So where you from?”
“The US.”
“Ohh.”

A long pause.

A furrowed brow.

He steps back in a lazy swagger, stretches his arms out as if measuring the width of a refrigerator, looks me up and down, and asks, totally incredulously,

“Then… Why you look so China?!?” (emphasis on the CHI-na)

Since he didn’t necessarily bowl me over with his salesmanship, I declined his offer to see his little shop where he apparently sells very nice art work that’s “almost free.”

So while he was no different than the tens of other entrepreneurs who approached me there, he did, however, give me a gem of a catchphrase that really encapsulates an African take on race, one that would suggest that race trumps nationality…

In most cases, the Africans I meet don’t find it a satisfactory response when I say “I’m from the US.” They see my face and think that that cannot be the whole story. So, I often feel obliged to answer their puzzled glances or their “but…”s with some explanation. Though this type of reaction is understandable (given most people’s limited exposure to the world beyond Africa) and completely inoffensive, I still rankle a little each time I have to explain myself. And it has given me pause to reflect on how refreshing it is to have grown up in a country where the population is so wonderfully diverse that someone like me is not an oddity but something totally ordinary.

Akagera… Reflections on Mother Nature

2008-01-11T13:19:00.000+01:00

With friends Arwen, Chris, and Heike on the continent too, we kicked off two weeks of holiday fun with a trip to Akagera National Game Reserve in eastern Rwanda, on the border with Uganda.

A 4x4, a driver, and guide in tow, we basically went off-roading all over the park territory, only occasionally staying on dirt roads. Our guide had some super-human ability to sense where the animals would be and could spot them in the distance long before we even knew where to look.

Being in the park and observing wildlife in their natural habitat really made me reflect upon Mother Nature and extol her virtues…

1. She must be a feminist.

Why else would she make all giraffes – male or female – look so girly, with their wide-set, flirtatious doe-eyes and long lashes? We crept up on the giraffes, and watched the elegant beasts, silently chomping on leaves, intently watching us.

Making eyes at you.

2. She has a great sense of style.

Only a true fashionista would think to outfit the zebras in stark black and white coats. How au courant.

Showing your stripes.

The zebras’ shape reminded me more of donkeys than horses, and the little ones had stripes that were more brown and white than black and white.

3. She is so wise…

… for harmonizing an animal’s anatomy with its environment. Like designing the hippos' eyes to be able to poke above the surface of the water like two periscopes.

Snorkeling.

We caught the hippopotamuses enjoying a morning swim. For hippos, water represents safety, so you would do well never to come between a hippo and the water! We would have liked to see them in all their immense glory, but they stayed mostly submerged with only their close-set, beady eyes and snouts breaking the surface. I could swear that one laughed at us as we waited for them to make an appearance, playing with the papyrus rods and swatting the small black butterflies in the bush.

“I peeled my papyrus and now it’s all clean”

4. She has a healthy sense of humor…

…for giving baboons those angry pinkish bottoms.

Unlike the hippos, the baboons were all too happy to make an appearance… everywhere! I find their pinkish bottoms rather disturbing. It’s almost like Mother Nature forgot to finish the baboon’s coat and as a joke, left them the way they are, so that they can perpetually moon their onlookers.

Cheeky Monkey… Stop looking at my bum!

5. She is industrious!

So much wildlife... So worth protecting...

Rally, Ruhengeri.

2007-12-06T15:57:00.000+01:00

On the way to Ruhengeri (recently renamed Musanze) in the northwest of the country, you can catch glimpses of the Virungas volcano chain that straddles the borders between Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, in the distance. Their shadowy figures cut impressive shapes on the horizon, usually crowned by a halo of smoke or clouds. You can see the soil turn from burnt orange to ashen black. One of the most fertile regions of Rwanda, the region boasts those same patchwork hillsides I love covered in crops. People haul unwieldy bundles of fat purple sugarcane. Flimsy bicycles seem to groan under enormous sacks of potatoes that sag close to the ground. Trucks pass packed high with bunches of green bananas.

We had gone there to see a rally, a car race completed in alternating stages of racing and technical assistance over some seriously challenging terrain. This rally ran a course from Kigali to Ruhengeri, one riddled with cliffs, muddy roads, sharp turns, hills, huge pot holes, and precariously steep drops into water. In short, it seemed like a sick death wish to participate in such a sport. Family, friends and other spectators formed a caravan on the road there. Occasionally a racecar would whiz by, and we waved wildly. We stopped in a small village just short of Ruhengeri for the official start of the race and were swarmed by local kids.

They huddle around you with little regard for your personal space, staring at your face, clothes, and trying to peer into your bags. Their intense gaze makes me uncomfortable.

During a lull in the afternoon, we drove up to the Virunga Lodge.

The children stare, wave, and smile as if you’re the first muzungu they’ve ever seen, though surely that road has seen countless funny people traverse its terribly treacherous path, speckled with that porous black volcanic rock. They run alongside the car with huge grins on their faces.

"Muzungu!!!"

One boy in particular really raced himself breathless at my window and kept yelling ‘bic-a, bic-a!’ We thought perhaps he wanted a pen (bic), and so we slowed and I handed over a pen. He ran from the car holding it aloft as if he had just won some trophy.

The Carina (the Corona’s replacement but definitely not an upgrade) took a serious beating on the ascent, but once there, we could see that sacrificing the car to make the climb would have been worth it: the 360-degree views were fantastic. The lodge - completely eco-friendly and powered by solar energy – had unusual ‘dual drop’ toilets (meaning, one hole for liquid waste, and one for solid… yes, be careful how you aim!) that require a bit of skill to use.

There, surrounded by two crater lakes, volcanoes, lush green hillsides, and nothing but the sound of a rather loquacious cow, you feel a little bit like the cherry atop a nature sundae.

Eastern Rwanda: Poo-tastic! Cow dung art and brown waterfalls

2007-12-04T15:57:00.000+01:00

Together with another American expat, I took a day drip to the Eastern part of Rwanda and learned that poo has many extensive properties.

Having recently purchased several pieces of “Imigongo” to decorate the house, I was curious to see the factory where this unusual artwork is produced. Textured art work featuring geometric prints, Imigongo is created from cow dung applied to wood pieces, baked, and painted in either black and white schemes or earth-colored hues. Supposedly the dung of youthful cows is the best.

The ‘factory’ consisted of a room with 8 women sitting on mats on the floor. The women to the left were taking clumps of dark green cow dung and molding it to wood planks with their hands like clay. The women to the right were painting. An interesting micro-conveyor belt system that produces around 20 pieces a day. They worked rather morosely, not talking much or really even smiling. Perhaps that was because they didn’t like two funny looking tourists watching them while they work. Or perhaps it was because they stick their hands in cow dung day after day. I imagine it gets old.

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Don’t Eat on the Run

We had packed a lunch for this day trip, but come noontime, we were left with a small quandary: where do we eat our lunch? In Rwanda, it is considered poor taste to eat or drink anything while you walk on the street, drive in your car, or are anywhere in public that is not a dining establishment. We resorted to discreetly munching on our sandwiches in the car, taking a bite when there wasn’t someone staring at us on the road!

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After the imigongo detour, we continued to Rusumo Falls at the border of Tanzania. On foot, we crossed onto the bright yellow bridge between the two countries that hovers over the falls. On one side of the bridge, the falls angrily rush and burst, perpetually churning a small pool of trash and green leaves at the bottom. All the rains of late have muddied the water, turning the falls from a shock of white water (as it says in the guide book) to a rusty brown. It looks almost like someone is pouring out a big batch of butterscotch cake batter. Or – to continue the theme – it could be described as that giant’s very bad bout of diarrhea.

On a more sober note, during the genocide, this bridge became the funnel for large exoduses. As many as 250,000 fled in one day. Sadly as well, the river became swollen with bodies. According to the guide book, journalists on the scene reported seeing 1-2 bodies tumble over the falls per minute...

You Never Walk Alone (or Why You Should Take Motos)

2007-11-14T15:57:00.000+01:00

After Adventures in Driving (http://millescollines.blogspot.com/2007/11/adventures-in-driving.html) last week, I have been sans car (while it’s being repaired) for some days now and find myself walking… a lot.

Oddly enough, I never ever seem to walk alone.

The other day, a familiar face skipped toward me as I ambled down the main road of the neighborhood. Her face lit up when I recognized her and even recalled her name – or at least something close to it. Mediah (I thought it was Medinah) is such a pretty little girl, even if she is a bit too skinny. She has light skin and hair cut so close to her head that the curls just barely make it out, looking almost like caramel-colored bubble wrap. On this brisk day, she had wrapped a cloth around her that must have been in the reject pile at a fabric store. It was a burgundy, yellow and white patterned abomination that would have been used to make one obnoxious pair of Bermuda shorts in another life. In spite of the hideous cloth, she looked so pretty, blinking out from under it with her narrow face and elegant eyes. She followed me almost all the way to the Novotel, where I was going to check email and lounge by the pool with other fat and overpaid expats. Again, we couldn’t really communicate even though I am so curious to know about her family, where she lives, where she goes to school, what she likes to do for fun. And again, by the end, she was making pleas for money or some donation in a Kinyarwanda/French mix.

On another occasion, as I was returning home at dusk, a young man from Kenya quickened his pace to catch up to me. David was just looking for some fun and wanted to know if he could buy me a drink at the Planet nightclub, since it was after all on my way. Even if I couldn’t smell the alcohol on his breath, I still wouldn’t have wanted to go. Being rude/bitchy doesn’t come naturally to me and even when I want to be rude/bitchy, I still somehow end up being a shade too nice. And true to form, I was too nice and let him walk with me long after he had overstayed his invitation to chat. He asked for a hug in the end, and then I said that sorry I had to hurry ‘cause I hadn’t been home all day and was worried about my very old dog that has Alzheimer’s. Hey, if you can’t be a rude bitch, at least be an inventive liar.

In those rare moments when I think no one is accompanying me, I have the view to keep me company… The walk from the Novotel to my neighborhood follows the crest of two hills and you can peer into the valley all along the way. You can watch women carry baskets of bananas on their head as they traverse the little red paths that cut shortcuts from one hill to another.

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Motos Operandi

Motos are the little motorbike taxis that abound on Kigali streets. Once banned because the government found them too problematic (lots of accidents, known to be reckless), they’ve since been reinstated much to the dismay of many a nervous driver. Moto drivers wear green and yellow vests and helmets, and they always carry a second helmet for the customer who rides on the back.

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Slightly weary of having to haul my very heavy butt every day, I finally decided to work up the nerve and take a moto.

And it was like opening the floodgates: I now take them all the time. They’re so fun!

Sure, they’re horribly dangerous and you don’t know who or what was wearing that helmet last. In fact, I felt especially uneasy today as we weaved past a long queue of cars in the small space between the (rather deep) concrete drainage ditch and the right lane. If the stress of these moments doesn’t age me quicker, then all the noxious fumes I inhale will surely deduct several months off my total lifespan.

But c’mon, those are minor cons. The pros include

-They’re convenient and fast. You can hail one almost anywhere, hop on, and zip off in no time flat. Practically door-to-door service.

-They’re cheap. The longest trip in Kigali will probably cost 500 Rwandan Francs . That’s less than $1.

-They’re kinda… cool. I have caught myself being fixated by my shadow, watching my hair whipping out from under the helmet. I can’t help but feel a little proud that I am throwing caution to the wind and, quite frankly, enjoying it.

Finding Zen in Kibuye

2007-11-07T14:36:00.000+01:00

I took a weekend trip to Kibuye with a group of friends to celebrate birthdays and, for the woefully overworked among us, to enjoy some much needed R&R.

And oh the view on the way to Kibuye – every bit as lovely as the one to Gisenyi.

(photo to come)

We had the company of James and Maniza on the drive there, and with an iPod in the stereo, we sang songs at the top of our lungs and sipped some Belgian beer (spoils from Brussels) as we wound through the hills. A particularly raucous rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ – complete with Wayne’s World-esque head banging – turned several villagers’ heads.

A close call with an errant goat and we had arrived. The hotel was nestled into a hillside in a small cove of the glassy Lake Kivu.

We had a few good moments for swimming, boating, and for the more intrepid of us, water skiing. Unlike Gisenyi, the lake around Kibuye is free of asphyxiating volcanic gases, so swimming in the lake is no longer extreme sport. The waters were remarkably clean and calm. Such sweet serenity: to swim out, lulled by the sound of lapping water, and face the open water, mist, and somewhere over there, the Congo.

But mostly, it rained. Rain that pelts the lake in a rhythmic staccato, deluges down staircases, and coolly sloshes over your flip-flops.

In the rainier moments, some of us retreated for yoga sessions by candlelight.

Dinner on the hotel restaurant’s terrace was a lovely affair, surrounded by complete blackness broken every few moments by a flash of lightning, illuminating the sky in a strange warm mauve and striking somewhere on the lake’s horizon.

Fat dragonflies swarmed the lights and occasionally dropped onto the table. Everyone except me seemed to take this quite well. The white wall behind our table became the gecko lizard’s playground: they scurried up and down catching dragonflies in their mouths, casually munching on them so that their wings spread out of their mouths like mini oriental fans.

Sometimes I wonder what I did in my past life to deserve the treasures I find in this one......

A Tale of Two Cities: Gisenyi & Goma

2007-10-30T16:04:00.000+01:00

Gisenyi (Rwanda)

That shade of blue. I love that shade of blue.

In Kigali, you see this vibrant cobaltish blue sprinkled into the orange/green/white palette of the hillsides; on the long drive to Gisenyi, you see it stand out against the lush greenery of the passing countryside’s villages, sometimes painted on a door, gate, or roof.

We went to Gisenyi for a weekend trip courtesy of Garron’s company. He had some conference to attend and I was more than happy to tag along.

With a driver and a 4x4 (the Corona would not fare well on this trip), we snaked through the hills and countryside. The views were stunning. Every bend gave way to some towering hill, covered in a green patchwork of terrace farms. That mysterious giant who keeps figuring into my blog must have had an artistic streak: it looks like he took square samples of grass carpet – in varying shades of green – and pasted them to each hill. For good measure, he also uncorked a few waterfalls here and there. Banana trees with huge floppy leaves (that look like he took a giant pair of pinking shears to their edges) sprout all over the hillsides; from a distance they look a little bit like that pesky crab grass whose lighter shade of green and thicker blades can interrupt the uniformity of someone’s front lawn.

The road was not without the occasional precarious pass, but overall, the roads were in good condition. Sometimes when we passed through a village, the driver would lurch to a 5 mi/h crawl in order to gently negotiate a pot-holed road. I almost wonder if the locals created the potholes just so that they could have the opportunity to carefully stare at each car and its passengers as it passed.

Even on some of the more remote parts of the journey, there was always someone walking along the road. I marvel at the way women bundle babies to their backs with colorful swaths of fabric. The babies look positively smushed against their mothers’ backs.

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Rwanda Fast Facts, continued: 90% of the population is engaged in subsistence agriculture. Primary exports are coffee and tea.

We passed fields of crops and even caught some glimpses of tea plantations, marked by tea plants with leaves an alarmingly bright, radioactive shade of green.
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Gisenyi lies on the western border of Rwanda, a small town tucked on the banks of Lake Kivu. Part of Lake Kivu lies in Rwanda; part lies in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). As you arrive in Gisenyi, the road slopes downhill, offering a view of the majestic Lake Kivu.

If it weren’t for the faint outline of blue hills on the horizon, you could almost forget that it’s a lake. It’s so vast, you could easily mistake it for an ocean.

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Excuse you! Lake Kivu is gassy.

Given the lake’s proximity to several volcanoes, volcanic gases seep into the earth under the lake and when the gases reach a certain concentration, they can erupt through the surface. A little bit like burping. When this happens, the methane and carbon dioxide clings to the surface causing oxygen-dependent organisms in the area to asphyxiate. The locals know where it’s safe to swim and where it’s not, so follow their lead!
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Saturday, we wandered along the road that hugs the edge of the lake and stopped at Bikini Tam-tam, a restaurant with striped pavilions for beachfront dining. We paid a funny entrance fee and were told that there would be music and a drink included in the fee. As Rihanna’s “Umbrella” played over the loud-speaker during our meal, we had the vague sense that we were fleeced out of some money. But we were pleasantly surprised...

After lunch, we sauntered over to a grassy plot where we were treated to a chorus of singers, some bongo drums, and inspired traditional dances. The male dancers wore colorful patterned sarongs and beaded suspender type straps draped over their bare chests. Some had maracas-like noise makers tied to their ankles that looked like rows of roasted chestnuts. The female dancers sashayed in coordinating fringed sarongs and thin iridescent ribbons around their foreheads and necks in the colors of the Rwandan flag. The dancing looked positively exhausting – plenty of aerobic jumping, stomping, and tumbling.

The concert also included a brief departure into pop music… A group of young hip-hop dancers – outfitted in baggy jeans, un-laced sneakers, and hats cocked at funny angles – lip-synced and grooved to Dr. Dre, Tupac, and Justin Timberlake. The chorus of singers – in their traditional garb – kind of sulked in the background, some with their arms crossed, giving off the impression of ‘I’m so annoyed that we have to include these jokers in our show.’

Outdoors, under shade of trees and against the backdrop of the beach and lake, it was a fun little cultural interlude.

Afterwards, we continued wandering on the road as it split from the edge of the lake, and curled steeply upwards into the hills. There was plenty of traffic on the road – people traffic, that is – and it was hysterical the way some people stopped dead in their tracks as we passed. The road boasted spectacular views of the lake and dramatic drops into wild green hillside.

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Less Agreeable Fauna #1: Bird with koosh ball on its head.

I don’t know this bird’s technical name, but a group of 3 pranced around our hotel grounds like flamingoes, with the same type of rhythmic, legs-bending-backward gait. These black and grey- plumed birds had unusual tufts of yellow feathers sprouting on the top of their heads reminiscent of that 90s phenomenon, koosh balls. In spite of my pleading to stop, Garron liked to antagonize them by hissing their way. When the feathers on the back of one bird's neck stood up, I quickly moved to another table. Far away.
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Goma (DRC)

Sunday we traveled a whole 5 or so km to the border of DRC which was surprisingly unfortified. Despite the lack of arms and (relatively) smooth visa process at the border, I was still uneasy. There’s a low-level WAR going on just 20 km north of this area, and Mike – Garron’s colleague and travel companion this weekend – stridently suggested that I remove my watch since mugging is a bit too common there.

Once inside the DRC, a taxi driver picked us up and drove us through the city. In 2002, the city was devastated by an eruption from the volcano Nyiragongo. Lava flowed into the city and buried parts of it up to 2m deep. We drove over dirt roads the color of coal. We saw homes from their 3rd or 4th floors and thoroughly rusted trucks buried in the ground. Like a junk graveyard.

Although Goma is bigger than Gisenyi and apparently sees a healthy number of tourists, it seemed much less inviting than Gisenyi. Piles of old trash were a real eyesore, the roads were noticeably much worse, and the city felt dead. Moreover, the volcano – still active – bubbles in the distance and the specter of eruption hangs over the area like the mist that clings to a hill.

But, like most everything, it’s worth a visit………………

A Roast

2007-10-24T11:00:00.000+02:00

You're never too old to stick sharp objects in your eyes.

Happy 30th Birthday, Garron!

Love/Hate

2007-10-23T16:34:00.000+02:00

I am in love. A healthy yellow glow, an intoxicating aroma, chubby but firm, and bursting with… juice. Handle with care, or he might spring a leak. Yes, his name is Pineapple.

I would cheat on Pineapple with Fried Banana though. Mélanie prepared Fried Banana for dessert and a new obsession was born. If I can figure out how to get her to cross that with a donut, I might never go back to the States.

The electricity regularly goes out, sometimes as much as multiple times a day. One night, we were leaving Garron’s office, and with one loud clap, the lights on the whole road – every single building on either side and the street lights – went dark. Very eerie. Sunday we were sitting in Bourbon Coffee Shop and the whole place became washed in black. It’s fun the first few times, but after a while, you really do want to get back to reading your book.

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New Favorite Haunt #1: Bourbon Coffee Shop.

This little Starbucks incarnation (waaaay more character, though) serves up sprout-hair-on-your-chest Rwandan coffee, yummy smoothies and blended coffee drinks, and other treats sure to threaten the waistline. I have made it my new ‘office’ – spending hours on end there, abusing their free wifi, adoring the funky décor, and loving it when the rains come in and jostle the canvas tarps that hang off the terrace.

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(photo of bourbon coffee)

For all the adventures I may take, at my core, I am still a very risk-averse person. I’m not exactly a princess, but I would be lying if I said that I didn’t like to be pampered and protected now and then. So, while I like to see security guards patrolling an office building, I can unequivocally say that I do not like to see them brandishing Very Big Guns. The other day, I went to a meeting and the guard escorted me to the 5th floor in a very small elevator. I had to inhale a little to make sure the rifle slung across his back wouldn’t brush the front of my suit. Yesterday, I was in the cell phone store (I bought a cell phone! Email me if you’d like the number, but a word of warning: calls are very expensive!) and as I was admiring the display case, the security guard passed behind me and the tip of his gun rubbed against my butt. And that marks the first time I have actually touched a firearm. Truly titillating.

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That’s Contraband?!?

Plastic bags have been banned here and if you’re caught with one by the police, you have to pay a fine!
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The ubiquitous Armed Guard is not a sign of a totalitarian state, but the government isn’t exactly loosey-goosey with the populace either… A Rwandan colleague of Garron’s told a story about how another American colleague of theirs once equated Bush to a monkey (without turning this into a political rant, I’ll just say that the comparison is rather apt) and he just clapped his hand over his mouth in shock and astonishment. Apparently, the American colleague further demonstrated his hypothesis by typing “bush – monkey” into a google browser and voila – you even have photographic supporting evidence. The Rwandan colleague couldn’t believe how people could insult their President so brazenly. He then said that he actually prefers that people here tread very cautiously when it comes to criticizing the Rwandan government. It made me wonder if people here truly revere the government or if they fear it. Nearly every business or home you enter has a photo of the President, Paul Kagame, prominently featured in the lobby or over the hearth. It’s a little bit like a school dress code: good for order but maybe stifling for self-expression?

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They killed Kenny!

They love their Kennys here, in particular the Rogers and G varieties. At first, hearing “Songbird” was oddly charming and nostalgic. Now, it’s downright jab-a-needle-in-my-ear.
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Muzungu means ‘white person’ or ‘foreigner’ in Kinyarwanda. Though little kids use it liberally, it’s not exactly a word of politesse. When I leave the house to go for a run at the roundabout at the top of the hill, I hear muzungu at least twice before I’ve made it there. Growing up in tiny little Athens, PA, Asians weren’t exactly in large supply, so I had grown accustomed to getting the occasional stare… But this is something else altogether. On Sunday, Garron and I were followed by a gaggle of little kids who insisted on trying to run with us around the circle. It was cute and charming at first, but when they started to pant and take off their shoes (if they were even wearing them), I started to feel supremely guilty. At one point, I stopped, gave them each a high-five (and they were all very confused by this act… definitely not the hip-hip-hooray I was hoping for) in order to indicate, ‘Wow, good job! Now go on your merry little way’, but they continued to huff and puff alongside me. I tried.

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New Favorite Pastime #2: Being that weird muzungu __________________________________________

(photo of the weird phallic cactus)

Today, as I walked up the hill, like clockwork, a small flock of kids followed me… One little boy, maybe 2 or 3 years old named Fidèle wanted to hold my hand. He had lovely curled eyelashes and was just chattering away, smiling and laughing. And as the cliché goes, I just melted. So cute. His mother followed just behind us, carrying an enormous something on her head. When she needed to head off in another direction, he stuck out his lower lip and stamped his foot. Two older girls (maybe 10 years old) – Angelika and Madinah – followed me all the way to my destination. As is typically the case, my French is bad and theirs was too, so carrying on a conversation had its challenges. At one point, Angelika said, “Donnez moi kamembiri.” In French, “Donnez moi” means “Give me” in the polite form, but I had no idea what “kamembiri” meant… Then she pointed at her feet and I realized that “kamembiri” must mean “shoes” in Kinyarwanda. Neither she nor Madinah were wearing shoes.

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The Nihao Factor

From a land full of mostly white people to a land full of mostly black people, people seem to think that while I’m running I like it when someone yells “Nihao!” to me when I pass by. Even if I were Chinese, I might appreciate it, but since I’m not, I usually want to yell back something obscene accompanied by my middle finger. Thankfully, I don’t feel that same aggression here but in Belgium you would think that people knew better.

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For one second, I wondered if her feet were similar in size to mine and which shoes she would like. In the next second, I felt simultaneously sad and angry. On the one hand, it’s awful that they don’t have shoes. (It should come as no surprise since 83% of the population here lives on less than $2 a day.) On the other, (and my seat in hell will get upgraded for this) it’s annoying that they see me and see an opportunity to ask for shoes or money or the like. It made me wonder if Fidèle’s mother had trained him to sidle up to muzungus, unarm them with his cuteness, and thereby butter them up for some money or other donation. Isn’t that just terrible for me to think??? I certainly have money (and more than enough pairs of shoes) to give away to people who need it more than me, but once you give one person something, how can you not give something to the next person who asks? Surely, someone will ask me for something tomorrow, and sadly, I don’t have enough shoes for everyone…

A Day in the Life

2007-10-17T16:38:00.000+02:00

People always honk when they pass me on the left. It startles me every time even though I really try to make a concerted effort to stay centered in my lane. The problem is, I just haven’t gotten the hang of this steering wheel being on the right, and I find myself drifting too far to the left all the time. I usually break a sweat once they honk, overcompensate by swerving to the right, and then cuss loudly that the curb shouldn’t be so close.

(photo of the house + corona)

Between the honking, the people milling about, the Atraco Town Service (festive yellow and green striped VW-like vans usually filled to the brim with people) vehicles that dart in front of you, combined with the whole steering wheel on the right thing and the fact that I only know my way to 5 places (further complicated by no cell phone) and I can assure you that driving here is a wholly unnerving experience.

If that isn’t enough to make you pee just a little, there’s rumored to be a fierce sense of vigilante justice here… Apparently, if you kill someone in a car accident, you should just keep going and not stop, as the angry mob might avenge the poor sap’s untimely death by killing you. Eye for an eye, in the flesh.

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Mosquito bite count: 16

3 of which were on my face. Why do they bite my face? If I was a mosquito and I had the sad choice of dining on my forehead or upper arm, I think I would choose my upper arm. But nooooo. Fortunately, many of those angry red and swollen welts have healed and I no longer look like a leper. I’ve taken to dousing myself in DEET nightly. Stay tuned for gene mutation.

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Every time we pull up to the blue gate of the house, one of two ‘guards’ is there to swing it open. By day it’s Sambiri; by night, it’s Edouard. And they are as different as day and night…

Sambiri is maybe 17 years old, tall and lanky. He has a bright smile and mischievous glint in his eye, particularly when I pull onto our road and find him dashing to the gate from across the street where he often hangs out with other neighborhood folk. I often wonder if he feels bad about ‘abandoning his post’ but as soon as I think that, I want to slap myself, ‘cause really, what is there to protect here?! He should be off doing whatever he pleases – or more importantly, he should be in school! He perpetually has ear phones on – part of an unwritten dress code for teenagers worldwide I think.

(photo of the front garden)

Edouard – who must be pushing 70 – reminds me of a wire hanger under clothes. He is short, a little hunched, exceptionally frail, and friendly (although Garron says that he’s known Edouard to cop some ‘tude now and again). He shook my hand warmly and smiled broadly when I met him but I couldn’t help but be a little shaken inside by his teeth. He has two large, yellowed front teeth that point in slightly opposite directions and are separated by a good 2 cm gulf. During the night, Edouard rests on a very sad mattress in the garage (it really kills me to see it) and we speculate that he must be going deaf because we often hear his tinny radio echoing down the hallway well into the wee hours of the morning.

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Days ‘til Paris Hilton arrives: oh wait, I don’t care

See Garron’s blog (http://millescollines.blogspot.com/2007/09/news-that-has-kigali-abuzz.html) as well as this recent article on cnn.com
(http://edition.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/TV/10/15/people.parishilton.ap/index.html ).

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If we return to the house for lunch, we usually enter to find Mélanie industriously mopping the floors, out back doing laundry, or cooking up something delicious in the kitchen. She is fantastic. She’s a very cute, smiley lady who – I imagine – has youngish kids who adore her. (We need to talk more, but I like to use the excuse that my French is utter sh*t so we don’t say much really. I know, I’m terrible.) Part of me feels super guilty that she works so hard to clean up our disasters. I feel especially bad when she serves lunch to us at the dining room table like a waitress. I can’t wait to give her a Christmas bonus. Or maybe two.

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Cockroach sightings: 0

(angels singing)

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By midday, the sun often becomes so intense and turns the Corona into one sweltering sauna. I wilt a little. I think to myself, ‘I’m about as close to the Equator as I will ever be, so maybe this is true, unadulterated sunlight. If sunlight were water, this must be what it’s like to drink it from the firehose.’

Fortunately, this is the rainy season, and by mid-afternoon, clouds roll in and the skies empty themselves with gusto: sheets and sheets of water that turn the drainage ditches into raging rapids and even wash out entire sections of brick wall. Yesterday I saw a group of school children gleefully running in the rain. One little girl had even taken off her periwinkle uniform top and was sloshing it in the gurgling runoff along the sidewalk. I imagined that she is some free-spirited student who will one day travel the world; I wondered if she would look back on this day as a fond memory of her childhood and yearn to go back. From the look on her face, you would think it was nothing less.

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New Favorite Pastime #1: Waving to groups of school children.
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In the rush hour crunch to get home, plumes of black smoke billow from every fourth car, and it feels a little like you can’t breathe. Your eyes burn and you taste bitter exhaust in your mouth. Garron: “This is what it must have been like to live in the US in the 70s.”

When we finally pull into our neighborhood “Kimihurura”, I take a deep breath as we rumble downhill. The pavement gives way to a now familiar burnt orange dirt road, one that looks like it has been clawed by a giant hand from all the rain and little valleys it leaves in its wake. I sometimes sigh when I see the hills in the distance. It’s just a nice sight – one that I hope I don’t tire of too quickly.

(photo of the view beyond the house fence)

Refueling the "interesting encounters" series

2007-10-10T15:28:00.000+02:00

Friday, October 5, 2007.

I suppose it was no accident that, on my way to the Belgian employment office, I stumbled upon Rue Florence, the street of the hotel I stayed in during my very first trip to Brussels in the summer of 2005. The trip that resulted in losing both of my big toenails. Years of obstinate running and pounding pavement and I never lost a single toenail; a day of trekking all over Brussels and I lose both big toenails. It was enough to make you wonder if it was some sort of sign that Brussels would be some sort of painful experience. Perhaps some sort of cautionary metaphor that Brussels would strip off some sort of protective shell. Or maybe I just needed to get shoes that fit better. Who knows.

In any case, I saw the hotel and in that moment, there came the attendant self-reflection about whether or not my stay in Brussels had in fact come full-circle: was it what I had expected/hoped for? And in case you’re wondering why I even needed to pause and have this internal discourse, it was because I would be leaving my dear Belgium the very next day. For hills. In Rwanda.

I hadn’t really planned on leaving Belgium… at least not so soon. My life had become so comfortable there – my job was going well, I was living in a great apartment, I had a car that I loved (the PMP!), and I had a great group of friends with whom I could travel and in general cause a ruckus, swilling beer and cava, dancing on tables, and occasionally clicking our heels (shout out to the bru crew :)).

But what I guess I failed to notice was that I had built again a comfort zone composed of cozy little routines that didn’t really feed me creatively. Fortunately, I can always count on Garron to provide some serious cage-rattling… this time in the form of a job offer in (wait for it…) Rwanda. He had grown weary of his job at McKinsey and on a whim applied for a job in Rwanda. And of course, they extended him an offer. Given his long-burning desire to work in development/Africa, it became an offer he couldn’t turn down.

So then the question became, should I go too? And in the face of such an enormous change, it’s amazing how quickly your life can come into focus. I could suddenly see that the life I had created for myself in Belgium had taken on shades of my former life in the US: my job was vaguely interesting and important but did nothing for my long-term career goals (still so unformed), my French had stagnated and I was losing interest fast, and the bright bulb of my wanderlust had dimmed. I had become content to just get that monthly paycheck and be a homebody. In short, my inspiration had dried up and the radio silence on the “interesting encounters” email series (for those of you kind people who actually read and can remember those emails) was a perfect indicator of that.

The mechanics of the move (the perks of Garron’s new job combined with a healthy boost from the Belgian state for me) made it rather palatable… The possibilities seemed not endless, but at least, far-reaching. I could perhaps work for a Rwandan/African telecom company or maybe teach English, work for an NGO or (if I’m lucky) even the UNDP. So, it seemed the move would be good for both selfish and maybe even selfless reasons.

And beyond that, it would be Rwanda for chrissakes. Talk about an adventure.

Fast-forward through the resignation, the moving companies, 6 vaccinations, hallucination-free malaria meds (so far… knock on wood), a visit from my parents (preceded by a mild disapproval of this move and eventual acceptance that they couldn’t change my mind), a lovely short vacation to Spain (a last hurrah in Europe), and little farewells to la Belgique…

And I’m here. I arrived on Saturday, October 6.

While I’m here, I hope to refuel the earlier “interesting encounters” email series, so to that end, and in an attempt to be less of a luddite, I have started a blog. (For nostalgia’s sake I may even add the old emails in the archives.) I feel a little intimidated by it, mostly because I have hard time believing that my stories/thoughts/ramblings are interesting enough to justify Internet real-estate...

RWANDA FAST FACTS

Big City: Kigali, population ~650,000 (the capital and where we’re living)
People: ~8,800,000 (84% Hutu, 15% Tutsi, 1% Twa)
Languages: Kinyarwanda, French, English, Swahili (unofficial).
GDP per capita: $290
Size: 26,000 km2 (10,000 mi2, or about the size of Massachusetts and land-locked)
Elevation (Kigali): 1500 m (5000 ft) and hilly!
Nickname: “Le Pays des Milles Collines” = “The Land of a Thousand Hills”
Average Temperature: 23 C (73 F)
Number of Volcanoes: 5
Number of Lakes: 23
Trivia: Dian Fossey, author of ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ and renowned researcher, studied gorillas and died (under suspicious circumstances) in Rwanda.
Quick History:
1885 Germany creates “German East Africa” (comprised of present-day Rwanda and Burundi).
1923 The League of Nations hands Rwanda to Belgium as a “spoil of World War I.”
1962 Rwanda becomes independent from Belgium.
1994 The population of 7.5 million is decimated in just 100 days. 800,000 perish.

Garron has already been here a month and has regaled many of you with some great posts on his blog (www.millescollines.blogspot.com), and so far, my impressions have been very similar…

Some preliminary remarks:

1. At every turn and at every hour, the hills provide an amazing vista. By day you see a vibrant mix of verdant vegetation and burnt orange soil; by night, you see the twinkle of lights cast across the hills like a sparkly bedspread over a sleeping giant. Lovely to see but also comforting to know that the infrastructure is good enough to bring electricity to so many.
2. There are luxury hotels, tennis/golf clubs, and sprawling new villas occasionally abutted against mud/clay shacks. A strange dichotomy of prosperity and poverty.
3. People are everywhere, walking, socializing, and occasionally carrying everything except the kitchen sink on their heads. Yesterday we saw a man carrying two fully feathered dead chickens by their feet. Garron mused that one day that will be him and the unlucky bird will be the $%&! rooster that crows incessantly just outside the house. The bird must die.
4. I cannot shake the feeling that the house feels like… camping. It’s spacious and modest and lacks some furniture and personal accoutrements, but fixing it up should be a fun little project, I’m sure. More to come on the house and ‘staff’… No comment on the bugs just yet…
5. There’s a reason why there are so many all-terrain 4x4 vehicles here: the dirt roads here are a special breed. Steep, rocky, ragged, and multi-planar, they never fail to elicit a chorus of squeals from me or make me squirm in my seat or in other ways annoy Garron who has grown so accustomed to these roads that he just barrels over everything. I would have difficulty navigating some of these roads on bike let alone by car, not to mention a low-riding Toyota Corona (no, not Corolla, Corona) sedan like Garron’s. (As he’s mentioned in his blog, the steering wheel is on the right even though people here drive on the right side of the road. Apparently he often engages the wipers when he means to use the turn signal.) To be fair, the paved roads are generally quite nice but some of the more residential roads have pot holes the size of kiddie swimming pools. Negotiating them has become something of sport for Garron: if he hits one, I get 4 more grey hairs. Joy.
6. We might be the first people to go to Africa and get fatter. The food is good! Saturday night, we stuffed ourselves silly on some fantastic paneer and chili chicken at a lovely Indian restaurant. Sunday night, we had dinner with James and Maniza (a coworker of Garron’s and his wife) at a cozy little neighborhood restaurant with yummy bruschetta, beef brochette, and pizza.

The plan was to upload all the pictures I’ve taken so far, but the Internet connections here are agonizingly slow. So, in the interest of just letting you know that I’m here safe and sound (and sparing my very thin patience), I have only added a few photos here. More to come later, I promise.

As always, I would love to hear from you so please comment on the blog/email me/or look me up on skype!