There's not much to photograph here in Kigali. It would be like walking around LA with a camera. Big buildings, in various states of construction or decay, crowded streets, funny little shops. In the midst of the photogenic void there are the people.
Like the man who works at the post office.
Over 6 feet tall and weighing in at around 130, he could be as young as 40 or as old as 70. Customers hand him the slip of paper that denotes an awaiting package. He slowly recedes to the bowels of the post office basement and then emerges with the parcel and a tattered book for you to sign, acknowledging you’ve received your mail. He kept his eyes toward his feet which never left the ground. He softly spoke only what was required and his voice turned course and perturbed if he had to repeat his selective words.
Haunted. After discreetly watching him for a few minutes, that's the word that came to mind. Haunted. With him, as with many of the people with sunken eyes or hunched backs, the questions always arise are, "What have you seen? What have you lived through and what did it show you about human's capacity for evil?” Pain and loss etched the deep lines in their foreheads and cast a haze over their eyes.
To hold a camera in front of those faces would reduce their wounds to souvenirs.
Chimpanzees, on the other hand, make great photo subjects. I should be seeing loads of those in the next few days. Now to figure out how to gain acceptance into their troop so I can get a group shot with them…
Friday, December 19, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Tentative itinerary.
Over the holidays I have about two weeks to travel. Here is what I have planned thus far:
Saturday, December 20: Mgahinga National Park in Uganda. It borders Rwanda and plans include but are not limited to: hike some extinct and active 14,000 foot volcanoes, see some playful Golden Monkeys, get comfortable in Uganda.
Tuesday, December 23rd: Murchison National Park, Uganda. Here, the Nile River, the whole thing, squeezes through a small crevice and then falls over 140 feet. Hippos and crocs congregate in the water and along the banks. There are boat trips that pass these cute little carnivores and take the water-logged spectators to the base of the falls. Yippee!
Saturday, December 27th: I'll raft that might Nile River that I just saw forcefully cascading 14 stories. There are plenty of class V rapids on the 30 kilometer stretch. This may be the highlight of the trip.
Monday, December 29th: Hell's Gate National Park in Kenya. Huge rock formations, deep gorges, and one of the few parks where a visitor is free to walk or bike alone. Hopefully I'll find some folks with climbing gear and join them.
Thursday, January 1st: Serengeti National Park in Tanzania. Depending on roads and buses and the position of the planets, I’ll make it to this huge park. It’s expensive but renowned for good reason.
Sunday, January 4th: Back in Kigali.
All dates, activities, and countries subject to change.
Saturday, December 20: Mgahinga National Park in Uganda. It borders Rwanda and plans include but are not limited to: hike some extinct and active 14,000 foot volcanoes, see some playful Golden Monkeys, get comfortable in Uganda.
Tuesday, December 23rd: Murchison National Park, Uganda. Here, the Nile River, the whole thing, squeezes through a small crevice and then falls over 140 feet. Hippos and crocs congregate in the water and along the banks. There are boat trips that pass these cute little carnivores and take the water-logged spectators to the base of the falls. Yippee!
Saturday, December 27th: I'll raft that might Nile River that I just saw forcefully cascading 14 stories. There are plenty of class V rapids on the 30 kilometer stretch. This may be the highlight of the trip.
Monday, December 29th: Hell's Gate National Park in Kenya. Huge rock formations, deep gorges, and one of the few parks where a visitor is free to walk or bike alone. Hopefully I'll find some folks with climbing gear and join them.
Thursday, January 1st: Serengeti National Park in Tanzania. Depending on roads and buses and the position of the planets, I’ll make it to this huge park. It’s expensive but renowned for good reason.
Sunday, January 4th: Back in Kigali.
All dates, activities, and countries subject to change.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Payment.
I suppose that for every teacher, in every class, there some students that make the effort worthwhile. As many of those who might read this blog are or have been teachers, this is common knowledge.
In my current class of 14, there are some who don't want to be there, some who follow my directions without thought, and some who supply vast amounts of invigoration. Of the 14, two men, age 18 and 32, scored perfect zeros on their computer test 6 weeks ago. One of them simply wrote his name and a brief apologetic note.
These two sit in opposite corners of the computer lab, during the four day session for the beginners. The lap itself consists of desktops almost a decade old sitting on wobbly table and chairs of various colors and textures. I bounce between these two students fairly consistently for two reasons: one, they have very limited understanding of how to use a computer and two, they have very limited understanding of English.
"Open," I say as I tap on an icon on the older student's screen.
He cocks his head to one side and furrows his brow. He just stares at me. Spoken language is not an option. His small, tentative hand rests motionless on the mouse. How can you teach without words? I place my hand on top of his, guide the cursor to a program and quickly tap his right index finger. As this is taking place, he slowly leans toward the screen and squints his eyes in concentration. When he finally manages to translate my finger tapping and opens the program, his brow releases and he emits a subtle, "Ohhhh."
In the opposite corner the younger one sits silently. He will stare at the screen for minutes, not in an absent stupor but devouring all he sees, methodically examining every detail. I point to where he is supposed to go, give instructions in the simplest English possible, and after a few attempts he gets it. Every single time this happens, he rears back slightly in grateful surprise and gives a chipper, "Thank you!"
Basic computer skills are not the most thrilling subject, for me or the students. For these two, however, learning how to use a mouse and change the font are unlocked pieces to a daunting enigma.
We ended class just before lunch yesterday. Most of the 14 students were focused and helpful to each other and so they finished the lesson plan early. At around 3 pm, these two novices came back to the lab.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "We do not have class this afternoon."
"We have come to practice."
Of these two, the younger one, the author of the apologetic note, scored the lowest on the final test. He earned a 97%. The other got a 100.
In my current class of 14, there are some who don't want to be there, some who follow my directions without thought, and some who supply vast amounts of invigoration. Of the 14, two men, age 18 and 32, scored perfect zeros on their computer test 6 weeks ago. One of them simply wrote his name and a brief apologetic note.
These two sit in opposite corners of the computer lab, during the four day session for the beginners. The lap itself consists of desktops almost a decade old sitting on wobbly table and chairs of various colors and textures. I bounce between these two students fairly consistently for two reasons: one, they have very limited understanding of how to use a computer and two, they have very limited understanding of English.
"Open," I say as I tap on an icon on the older student's screen.
He cocks his head to one side and furrows his brow. He just stares at me. Spoken language is not an option. His small, tentative hand rests motionless on the mouse. How can you teach without words? I place my hand on top of his, guide the cursor to a program and quickly tap his right index finger. As this is taking place, he slowly leans toward the screen and squints his eyes in concentration. When he finally manages to translate my finger tapping and opens the program, his brow releases and he emits a subtle, "Ohhhh."
In the opposite corner the younger one sits silently. He will stare at the screen for minutes, not in an absent stupor but devouring all he sees, methodically examining every detail. I point to where he is supposed to go, give instructions in the simplest English possible, and after a few attempts he gets it. Every single time this happens, he rears back slightly in grateful surprise and gives a chipper, "Thank you!"
Basic computer skills are not the most thrilling subject, for me or the students. For these two, however, learning how to use a mouse and change the font are unlocked pieces to a daunting enigma.
We ended class just before lunch yesterday. Most of the 14 students were focused and helpful to each other and so they finished the lesson plan early. At around 3 pm, these two novices came back to the lab.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "We do not have class this afternoon."
"We have come to practice."
Of these two, the younger one, the author of the apologetic note, scored the lowest on the final test. He earned a 97%. The other got a 100.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Dancing.
(Emily and Margot, this is especially for you.)
The students of ORI (Orphans of Rwanda) live in group homes. In each of these houses, there are 6-8 students and about 3-4 bedrooms. That fact will be important later.
One of the houses has 6 charming and intelligent young men living there, each of them warm and pleasant. Emily, an intern at ORI, ends her service this Friday and the men of this house wanted to throw her a goodbye party, which took place this past Saturday night.
Emily and I arrived at the quiet house around 7pm. They offered us Fantas and plates of brown nuts (similar to peanuts but tastier). For roughly the next 2 hours we all sat on couches and exchanged pleasant conversation.
Slowly, and without any formal acknowledgment, the music that was in the background became louder. Huge, three feet tall speakers emerged from one of the bedrooms and were set up in the living room. Furniture was pushed against the walls.
One of the students, I'll call him John, was the first to dance. John brings unmatched energy into any situation, which might be in part due to his steady diet of cookies and soft drinks. Therefore, he had no reluctance to starting the festivities. As he began, it became clear that he did not intend to demonstrate simple toe-taping, hip-swaying movements. His mother had taught him and he later performed traditional Rwandan dancing, which attempts to glorify and mimic cows, one of the countries main and longest standing sources of revenue and pride. So, there in the living room, he began to lionize cows through dance.
He extended his arms out to the side, bent his knees slightly, arched his back and began the footwork, a small side to side step. With he eyes closed, he slowly moved about the room. Then "Thawp! Thwap!" He slammed his feet against the concrete floor and brought his arms forward, pointing straight ahead. Back to the subtle footwork. His arms serpentined from the front to the side, each position representing a cow's horns. "Thwap! Thawp!" Arms forward while his head rolled. The dance is meant to be serious, a bovine homage. As hard as he tried, however, he could not keep from grinning. He was also wearing a Barak Obama T-shirt.
"Come, Trevor, I will teach you how." John beckoned me to the dance floor and taught me, as best he could and with graceful patience, how to dance like a cow. The basic steps were easy enough but my best attempts to personify the respected animal looked more like a reaction to ice water down my back and some mild seizures.
Soon, the music changed from traditional Rwandan to Congolese and Nat took prominence on the floor. Nat is somewhat of ORI's spokesperson. He is handsome, speaks English fluently, and loves people. Dressed in baggy jeans, dress shirt, and straight-brimmed fitted hat with NY embroidered on the front, Nat tucked in his shirt, hitched his pants up to his torso, and gyrated - simply shook.
It appears that in Congolese dancing, intent trumps style. It doesn’t matter what you do, just do it to a full extent. Shudder. Swivel. Glide. Pop. All of us pulled up our pants, tightened our belts, and moved in whatever way felt natural. Nat eventually had to wrap a towel under his NY hat to keep the sweat out of his eyes.
These young men are all in their early 20’s, all studying computer science, management, etc. In that room, with empty Fanta bottles abandoned on end tables, I saw joy, pure, unabashed joy. There was no attempt to impress, no reason for dancing other than to simply dance. It was 6 men, including me, and Emily dancing in a living room. That's it. For 3 hours. It was wonderful.
Perhaps innocence can be chosen, can be an acquired state of being. These young men have experienced unimaginable loss and suffering. Yet wrapped in music and dance, they were as carefree children, basking in one another's presence and laughing because they could seemingly do nothing less.
Later on that same evening…
Through the speakers came, “On a warm summer’s evening, on a train bound for Georgia…” In Kigali, Rwanda, at a college house party, they played Kenny Rogers', “The Gambler.” All six of them screamed after a bit of shocked silence when I began to sing along. They asked me to write down the lyrics.
After midnight, as the dancing stopped and talking resumed, one of the young men, a tall, thin volleyball player that had led us in a Congo Line, noticed my fatigue.
"You are tired? You stay here tonight, in my room. It is just me."
And just one bed.
His roommate was out of town. There are 6 guys who stay there and 4 beds. Totally normal for them.
My mantra at that point changed from, "Yes," to, "Maybe some other time." As a teacher, their teacher, a slumber party might be a bit much.
Around 1 o’clock all six of them accompanied Emily and me for the 20 minutes walk to the road to catch a ride home. Nat called about a half an hour later to make sure I had gotten home safely. I am already dreading saying goodbye.
The students of ORI (Orphans of Rwanda) live in group homes. In each of these houses, there are 6-8 students and about 3-4 bedrooms. That fact will be important later.
One of the houses has 6 charming and intelligent young men living there, each of them warm and pleasant. Emily, an intern at ORI, ends her service this Friday and the men of this house wanted to throw her a goodbye party, which took place this past Saturday night.
Emily and I arrived at the quiet house around 7pm. They offered us Fantas and plates of brown nuts (similar to peanuts but tastier). For roughly the next 2 hours we all sat on couches and exchanged pleasant conversation.
Slowly, and without any formal acknowledgment, the music that was in the background became louder. Huge, three feet tall speakers emerged from one of the bedrooms and were set up in the living room. Furniture was pushed against the walls.
One of the students, I'll call him John, was the first to dance. John brings unmatched energy into any situation, which might be in part due to his steady diet of cookies and soft drinks. Therefore, he had no reluctance to starting the festivities. As he began, it became clear that he did not intend to demonstrate simple toe-taping, hip-swaying movements. His mother had taught him and he later performed traditional Rwandan dancing, which attempts to glorify and mimic cows, one of the countries main and longest standing sources of revenue and pride. So, there in the living room, he began to lionize cows through dance.
He extended his arms out to the side, bent his knees slightly, arched his back and began the footwork, a small side to side step. With he eyes closed, he slowly moved about the room. Then "Thawp! Thwap!" He slammed his feet against the concrete floor and brought his arms forward, pointing straight ahead. Back to the subtle footwork. His arms serpentined from the front to the side, each position representing a cow's horns. "Thwap! Thawp!" Arms forward while his head rolled. The dance is meant to be serious, a bovine homage. As hard as he tried, however, he could not keep from grinning. He was also wearing a Barak Obama T-shirt.
"Come, Trevor, I will teach you how." John beckoned me to the dance floor and taught me, as best he could and with graceful patience, how to dance like a cow. The basic steps were easy enough but my best attempts to personify the respected animal looked more like a reaction to ice water down my back and some mild seizures.
Soon, the music changed from traditional Rwandan to Congolese and Nat took prominence on the floor. Nat is somewhat of ORI's spokesperson. He is handsome, speaks English fluently, and loves people. Dressed in baggy jeans, dress shirt, and straight-brimmed fitted hat with NY embroidered on the front, Nat tucked in his shirt, hitched his pants up to his torso, and gyrated - simply shook.
It appears that in Congolese dancing, intent trumps style. It doesn’t matter what you do, just do it to a full extent. Shudder. Swivel. Glide. Pop. All of us pulled up our pants, tightened our belts, and moved in whatever way felt natural. Nat eventually had to wrap a towel under his NY hat to keep the sweat out of his eyes.
These young men are all in their early 20’s, all studying computer science, management, etc. In that room, with empty Fanta bottles abandoned on end tables, I saw joy, pure, unabashed joy. There was no attempt to impress, no reason for dancing other than to simply dance. It was 6 men, including me, and Emily dancing in a living room. That's it. For 3 hours. It was wonderful.
Perhaps innocence can be chosen, can be an acquired state of being. These young men have experienced unimaginable loss and suffering. Yet wrapped in music and dance, they were as carefree children, basking in one another's presence and laughing because they could seemingly do nothing less.
Later on that same evening…
Through the speakers came, “On a warm summer’s evening, on a train bound for Georgia…” In Kigali, Rwanda, at a college house party, they played Kenny Rogers', “The Gambler.” All six of them screamed after a bit of shocked silence when I began to sing along. They asked me to write down the lyrics.
After midnight, as the dancing stopped and talking resumed, one of the young men, a tall, thin volleyball player that had led us in a Congo Line, noticed my fatigue.
"You are tired? You stay here tonight, in my room. It is just me."
And just one bed.
His roommate was out of town. There are 6 guys who stay there and 4 beds. Totally normal for them.
My mantra at that point changed from, "Yes," to, "Maybe some other time." As a teacher, their teacher, a slumber party might be a bit much.
Around 1 o’clock all six of them accompanied Emily and me for the 20 minutes walk to the road to catch a ride home. Nat called about a half an hour later to make sure I had gotten home safely. I am already dreading saying goodbye.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Invitation for an adventure.
Is anyone interested in going to Central or South America from mid May to early June of next year? My brother's wedding is May 9th and I start leading some backpacking courses in early to mid June. I'd like to spend the time between in some Spanish speaking country(ies). If you're interested, let me know and we'll kick around some ideas.
Friday, December 5, 2008
A nice moment.
Today ends my first week of teaching computer classes. It's nothing advanced, just basic Word, Excel and email but to someone who didn't see a computer until they were 18, learning how to use the Shift button or attach a file in email is brand new material.
As I'm grading the tests, it begins to rain heavily, the kind of shower that can't be ignored. No problem for me because I'm inside the computer lab, underneath the corrugated steel roof, listening to Marvin Gaye in one ear and the rainfall in the other. What made this moment so wonderful, besides the music in both ears, was knowing that students who scored 30-40% on this same test a month ago were now averaging 90% and above. I'm not saving the world, a country, or even a community. I am, however, providing a tangible service to young men and women who deserve this knowledge.
As I'm grading the tests, it begins to rain heavily, the kind of shower that can't be ignored. No problem for me because I'm inside the computer lab, underneath the corrugated steel roof, listening to Marvin Gaye in one ear and the rainfall in the other. What made this moment so wonderful, besides the music in both ears, was knowing that students who scored 30-40% on this same test a month ago were now averaging 90% and above. I'm not saving the world, a country, or even a community. I am, however, providing a tangible service to young men and women who deserve this knowledge.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Some of the perks of an equatorial climate.
Avocados. Lots of them. Hundreds of them. All hanging from a tree in my front yard like big green drops of rain suspended from the ends of branches. They soften once you cut them down and will stay fresh on the tree for months.
Bananas. Clusters that weigh over 50 pounds are ripening along the side of the house. Coupled with the local peanut butter they make an amazing breakfast, dessert, snack, or basically the foundation of a diet.
Papaya. These ones are tricky due to their location at the top of the tree. Similar to coconuts in that they grow in the canopy among fronds, there’s a handful on a tree in the corner of the backyard. Unlike coconuts, if they fall, they can be bruised and not as tasty.
Oranges. None yet but they're on the property also.
Coffee. You betcha, a coffee plant right off the patio. This is more fascinating than appealing.
Mangos. In the same category as oranges - there's a tree but no fruit. Hopefully they'll come within the next couple months.
Bananas. Clusters that weigh over 50 pounds are ripening along the side of the house. Coupled with the local peanut butter they make an amazing breakfast, dessert, snack, or basically the foundation of a diet.
Papaya. These ones are tricky due to their location at the top of the tree. Similar to coconuts in that they grow in the canopy among fronds, there’s a handful on a tree in the corner of the backyard. Unlike coconuts, if they fall, they can be bruised and not as tasty.
Oranges. None yet but they're on the property also.
Coffee. You betcha, a coffee plant right off the patio. This is more fascinating than appealing.
Mangos. In the same category as oranges - there's a tree but no fruit. Hopefully they'll come within the next couple months.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Running in Rwanda
Sunday morning, 6am.
Health, and its means, is a burgeoning idea in Rwanda. Thus, jogging is a bit of a novelty. As in many other circumstances, you work with what you have. For example, if you only have one pair of shoes, and that pair happens to be what you wear to work, then you're running in loafers. Furthermore, if you only have trousers and a collared shirt, you do your 30 minutes of cardio and then head to church, no attire change needed. Honestly, there were women running in slippers, sweat pants, and a traditional head wrap.
So, there I am - shorts, t-shirt, running shoes. There is a road that encircles a nicely wooded area on top of a hill. Since any open space, let alone one that includes grass and tress, is scarce in Kigali, this loop attracts a fair amount of runners...more like "shufflers." I'm running along this scenic route and feeling good. Without any bang from a starter pistol, the game started. The game, played primarily by the children, was called, "Who Can Keep Up With The White Guy?" They would run alongside for a few seconds, or bolt ahead, but most often had to stop to collect a shoe. When they're 4 sizes too big, equipment failure is inevitable.
Then I saw him. About my age, wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey, number 8 - "Aikmen." He was moving at a good pace and I slowly gained and passed. He, apparently, was aware of the game and an avid partaker. He sped up to catch. I matched his speed and we settled into a rhythm that neither one of us would have maintained if solo.
After about 2o minutes, he started to peel away. We made eye contact and smiled. He gave a fumbled, "Thank you," and I butchered a, "Merci."
Health, and its means, is a burgeoning idea in Rwanda. Thus, jogging is a bit of a novelty. As in many other circumstances, you work with what you have. For example, if you only have one pair of shoes, and that pair happens to be what you wear to work, then you're running in loafers. Furthermore, if you only have trousers and a collared shirt, you do your 30 minutes of cardio and then head to church, no attire change needed. Honestly, there were women running in slippers, sweat pants, and a traditional head wrap.
So, there I am - shorts, t-shirt, running shoes. There is a road that encircles a nicely wooded area on top of a hill. Since any open space, let alone one that includes grass and tress, is scarce in Kigali, this loop attracts a fair amount of runners...more like "shufflers." I'm running along this scenic route and feeling good. Without any bang from a starter pistol, the game started. The game, played primarily by the children, was called, "Who Can Keep Up With The White Guy?" They would run alongside for a few seconds, or bolt ahead, but most often had to stop to collect a shoe. When they're 4 sizes too big, equipment failure is inevitable.
Then I saw him. About my age, wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey, number 8 - "Aikmen." He was moving at a good pace and I slowly gained and passed. He, apparently, was aware of the game and an avid partaker. He sped up to catch. I matched his speed and we settled into a rhythm that neither one of us would have maintained if solo.
After about 2o minutes, he started to peel away. We made eye contact and smiled. He gave a fumbled, "Thank you," and I butchered a, "Merci."
It really is, after all.
Every Sunday at an eclectic athletic club, complete with tennis courts of hardened dirt and live music, a group of expatriates and Rwandans meet to play ultimate frisbee. Yup, ultimate frisbee in Kigali. Who knew? One of my new roommates is a regular attendee of this event and invited me along. As we were throwing to each other before the games began, a middle-aged man approached the field. He was wearing an old pair of mesh shorts with "Berkeley" silk-screened on the leg.
"Is that Berkeley, California?" I asked.
"Yes. Did you go there?" He replied.
"Not yet, but I'd like to. It’s my top choice for grad school."
"Oh, my brother is the chancellor of the university."
In the few seconds of stunned silenced that followed his revelation, I tried not to giggle. Perhaps nothing will come of this connection, but it sure can't hurt. It is a small, small world.
"Is that Berkeley, California?" I asked.
"Yes. Did you go there?" He replied.
"Not yet, but I'd like to. It’s my top choice for grad school."
"Oh, my brother is the chancellor of the university."
In the few seconds of stunned silenced that followed his revelation, I tried not to giggle. Perhaps nothing will come of this connection, but it sure can't hurt. It is a small, small world.
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