I only have one more week in Rwanda.
Most of the students know my name and I know many of theirs. I can correctly pronounce the majority of Kigali's neighborhoods and give decent directions. The moto (small motorcycles used for public transportation) drivers no longer get more than the fair price for the trip from the office to my house. The man with good tomatoes at the market expects to see me on Sunday mornings. La Sierra sells the best, and some of the only, whole grain bread in the city and Ndilo’s supermarket has the cheapest peanut butter. I can run for hours without getting lost and focus more on the morning fog hugging the hills than on the stares from people I pass. I’ve taught dozens of classes, started an internship for students, and initiated a few other projects at Orphans of Rwanda. Kigali, while it still holds mysteries and unknown corners, has become comfortable and provided a good group of friends.
For all those reasons it is time for me to leave.
I came to Africa to be challenged, to throw myself into situations that were foreign and uncomfortable. The first month in Rwanda met that desire. Backpacking through Uganda brought plenty of those kinds of situations. Over the last few weeks, the strange and new have become the familiar. I feel more irritated than humored when merchants try to charge me double or people assume I can’t eat a plateful of bananas and beans.
It would be easy to stay in Rwanda. Kenya, however, will be quite different. Rusinga Island is remote and very poor unlike my current home in one of the nicest and safest African cities. I look forward to the new surroundings, different language, and opportunities to feel out of place. In Kenya, I get to once again learn without asking questions. It’s a thrilling experience to rely solely on my wits and the graciousness of strangers. I’m glad I get to go through such an assimilation process again.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Journal Entry from the evening of January 20, 2009
A slight breeze and the possibility of rain gave the already cool evening a bit more energy. The American embassy sits on top of a hill in Kigali and tonight it hosted a broadcast of the presidential inauguration. Tonight, America’s today, Barak Obama took office. Roughly 300 people had gathered within the United States compound to watch the ceremony shown live on 3 TVs and a projection screen. One of the commentators said that more people would watch this event than any other in history. There would be far more viewers outside of the US than within. The statistic rang true for my immediate surroundings; over half of those standing beside me were not American. Rwandan, Kenyan, Russian, British, German, Canadian, Dutch, Congolese. We huddled together and watched, stood and bore witness.
Why? Why were all of those people there? Why did the African men in the front row stomp and shout at the mention of Obama’s name? Why was there a pervasive spirit of joy and anticipation from so many non-Americans? This was not their president, not about their country.
They came and watched because for them, I believe, it was a homecoming, a returning. All had gathered to observe a historical event but their excitement was for something bigger, more important.
People from other countries want to see an America hell-bent on idealism and compassion. They want to believe in a country that is fair and just, especially when their own is riddled with corruption and violence. A powerful county choosing a young minority male as its leader gives hope to a world, not just a nation. Foreigners relished this induction because it is signified America returning to bold and idealist truths. It reaffirmed the possibility of “The American Dream.” It was a homecoming, a wayward nation taking steps to return to its source of glory and pride.
While Obama was taking the oath, I looked to my left and right. All gazed at the screens, transfixed and beaming, some with tears in their eyes. He repeated the creed and in that moment it felt as if could be well.
And then the power went out.
Oh well. He’s still the president.
Why? Why were all of those people there? Why did the African men in the front row stomp and shout at the mention of Obama’s name? Why was there a pervasive spirit of joy and anticipation from so many non-Americans? This was not their president, not about their country.
They came and watched because for them, I believe, it was a homecoming, a returning. All had gathered to observe a historical event but their excitement was for something bigger, more important.
People from other countries want to see an America hell-bent on idealism and compassion. They want to believe in a country that is fair and just, especially when their own is riddled with corruption and violence. A powerful county choosing a young minority male as its leader gives hope to a world, not just a nation. Foreigners relished this induction because it is signified America returning to bold and idealist truths. It reaffirmed the possibility of “The American Dream.” It was a homecoming, a wayward nation taking steps to return to its source of glory and pride.
While Obama was taking the oath, I looked to my left and right. All gazed at the screens, transfixed and beaming, some with tears in their eyes. He repeated the creed and in that moment it felt as if could be well.
And then the power went out.
Oh well. He’s still the president.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Fun Games to Play in Matatu Parks
Matatus are the most common public transportation in eastern Africa. Minibuses that should seat about 14 people, matatus congregate in droves and wait for all the slots to fill. Not just fill to the suggested capacity, fill to the point of eruption. There are no more than a dozen and a half seats. The drives don’t even think about moving until they have 20 passengers. I've counted as many as 28. Therefore, if you get onto a matatu early, when there aren’t many other people already on board, you can wait for some time. An hour or two is not uncommon.
Vendors roam through these parked vehicles selling a huge assortment of goods: water, fruit, candy, grilled meat on sticks, sunglasses, socks, calculators, etc. Carrying their items on or in huge cardboard displays, they approach people sitting in a hot, stationary bus with a glint in their eye. Fish in a barrel – easy pickins’. The sellers knock on windows and can haggle for a long time. To make this waiting time more pleasant I have created some patented diversion techniques.
The Ridiculously Low Offer Technique: If they’re asking 2,000 shillings, I’ll offer 5 and stick to the price no matter what the item, no mater what the argument. The jewelry merchant made her pitch until I employed this procedure a few times. Eventually, she smiled, threw up her hands and proceeded to the next bus.
The Subject Change From Deep, Deep Left Field Technique: After a few offers and refusals, I’ll ask something like, “What are you doing tonight?” or depending on the looks of the vendor, “Are there any good bars in town?” Generally this leads to a pleasant conversation during which their resolve to sell something gives way to friendly banter. This worked especially well around New Years.
The Buyer/Seller Switch Technique: If a few "No thank yous" don't do the trick, I’ll pull whatever out of my pocket and try to sell it to them. Lip balm, receipts, and pieces of string are potential items. This normally leads to enough confusion that the all transactions are halted.
The “How’s Your Family” Technique: This one is a favorite and works efficiently without fail. Much of my time waiting in a matatu was around the holidays so if one of the vendors looked like he or she was old enough to be a parent, I’d ask, “Will you/Did you get to spend the holidays with your family?” If they answer yes, game over. Then its just a matter of “How many kids? How old? What are their names?” and by the time I’m done questioning they are grinning from ear to ear and have forgotten all about their business venture.
Vendors roam through these parked vehicles selling a huge assortment of goods: water, fruit, candy, grilled meat on sticks, sunglasses, socks, calculators, etc. Carrying their items on or in huge cardboard displays, they approach people sitting in a hot, stationary bus with a glint in their eye. Fish in a barrel – easy pickins’. The sellers knock on windows and can haggle for a long time. To make this waiting time more pleasant I have created some patented diversion techniques.
The Ridiculously Low Offer Technique: If they’re asking 2,000 shillings, I’ll offer 5 and stick to the price no matter what the item, no mater what the argument. The jewelry merchant made her pitch until I employed this procedure a few times. Eventually, she smiled, threw up her hands and proceeded to the next bus.
The Subject Change From Deep, Deep Left Field Technique: After a few offers and refusals, I’ll ask something like, “What are you doing tonight?” or depending on the looks of the vendor, “Are there any good bars in town?” Generally this leads to a pleasant conversation during which their resolve to sell something gives way to friendly banter. This worked especially well around New Years.
The Buyer/Seller Switch Technique: If a few "No thank yous" don't do the trick, I’ll pull whatever out of my pocket and try to sell it to them. Lip balm, receipts, and pieces of string are potential items. This normally leads to enough confusion that the all transactions are halted.
The “How’s Your Family” Technique: This one is a favorite and works efficiently without fail. Much of my time waiting in a matatu was around the holidays so if one of the vendors looked like he or she was old enough to be a parent, I’d ask, “Will you/Did you get to spend the holidays with your family?” If they answer yes, game over. Then its just a matter of “How many kids? How old? What are their names?” and by the time I’m done questioning they are grinning from ear to ear and have forgotten all about their business venture.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A Great Ending.
My dad is coming to Africa. He arrives in mid April, two weeks before my planned departure, and we will fly back to the States together. During his stay, we'll head to Tanzania for a short safari and then to Rusinga Island, Kenya, where I will have been living for the previous couple months. It will be a joy to share this journey with him. I can't wait.
This picture has nothing with my dad coming to Africa. It just shows that he's hardcore.
This picture has nothing with my dad coming to Africa. It just shows that he's hardcore.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Kisoro, a small, rural town, is a few hundred miles from Kampala, Uganda's capitol city. On Tuesday morning I was in Kisoro and on Wednesday morning I needed to be in Kampala. From there I would catch the bus for my Christmas safari. Innocent, the young man from the Mgahina Community Campground, said there would be plenty of buses from the small southwestern town to the bustling metropolis. I got into Kisoro about 8:30am and went to the bus headquarters.
There was a huge charter bus sitting outside the office which seemed like a good sign. The one man leaning on the plywood desk at the Horizon Bus bureau raised his eyebrows when I walked through the door.
“I would like to take a bus to Kampala,” I stated.
He didn’t answer right away but looked beyond me, through the open door. Eventually he said,
“Bus left at 6. No more buses today.”
That presented some obstacles.
“No more buses? I need to be in Kampala tomorrow morning. Is there any way?”
Again, no response for a while. Then,
“That bus is for refugees to Mbarara. Talk to him,” and he pointed to a well dressed man eating breakfast and the restaurant next door.
Public buses and vans have a driver and a conductor. The driver, of course, drives. The conductor deals with money and watches for hitchhikers. The man by the desk directed me to the conductor for the refugee bus. He said he could take me to Mbarara and from there I could get a bus to Kampala.
“When will the bus leave?” I asked.
“In a while”
With that assurance I sat down for breakfast. About halfway through my Rolex, a rolled tortilla with eggs and avocado, the bus started to move.
“Is the bus leaving?” I frantically asked the person closest to me.
“No. It is turning around.”
Which was true, it was turning around. It just didn’t stop moving once it had completed its turn. A new set of obstacles.
Luckily, the conductor was still eating his breakfast. After he saw me quickly approach with a bewilderment oozing from wide eyes, he said that there was no problem. We could take a bodaboda, or small motorcycle used for public transit, to meet the bus.
In a few minutes we were both seated on mopeds heading down a dirt road. About 10-15 kilometers later, the bus came into view. It rested in a field surrounded by white tents with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees initials and symbol painted on the roofs. There were people, families, calmly waiting beside the bus. An American woman with a clipboard motioned people to move forward and she called out the numbers on their wrist bands. Other than that woman’s resonant voice, there were only whispers.
The conductor of the bus came to my bodaboda driver and slipped him an extra 500 shillings. The bodaboda driver then turned to me and pointed to the backseat of his moped.
“We go,” he said softly.
“Where?”
“Not far.”
The conductor would not miss an opportunity to charge for a seat on his bus so I knew there would be a space for me. As this bus was chartered for refugees, he probably didn't want the UNHCR folks to see the American backpacker bumming a ride, which explains why he wanted me out of sight. The bodaboda left the field and stopped a few hundred meters down the road where I waited on a grassy but exposed hillside for about an hour. Swipe, a boy of around 12, befriended me and we had a decent conversation until he asked for money and then left when his request yielded no donation.
Soon enough, but not before some worry began festering, the bus came lumbering down the road and slowed enough for me to jump through the creaking door. Jumping onto the moving bus was a bit awkward because of my huge backpack which I quickly unbuckled and set in one of the front seats. Once free of the load I looked up and met 80 eyes staring silently at me.
Kisoro is the first major town once across the southern Uganda/DR Congo border so it was pretty clear where these folks were coming from. They were refugees from a country ravaged by war and unaided by other nations. I was in the midst of a two week holiday and had a 35 pound bad that stood 3 feet high. In the luggage racks above their seats were a couple dozen duffle bags.
5.5 million people have died in Congo in the last 6 years. 5.5 million. The last time that many people have been killed in a conflict was during WWII. The rebels use rape and mutilations with escalating atrocity to inflict wounds that will last generations. There is too much malice, to much anguish for the lives of these people to seem possible.
They had almost no belongings. They had almost no words. Yet most striking about this small group of refuges was the singing. It began soon after the bus started climbing through Uganda’s cultivated mountainside. In a call and response style, one person would sing a line and the rest would answer. Started quietly, as if unsure if it would be permitted, would survive, their music spoke of hope and memories. Unbridled above the other singers, the men and women who sat with eyes closed or gazing toward the approaching East, rose the strong and pure voices of children.
There was a huge charter bus sitting outside the office which seemed like a good sign. The one man leaning on the plywood desk at the Horizon Bus bureau raised his eyebrows when I walked through the door.
“I would like to take a bus to Kampala,” I stated.
He didn’t answer right away but looked beyond me, through the open door. Eventually he said,
“Bus left at 6. No more buses today.”
That presented some obstacles.
“No more buses? I need to be in Kampala tomorrow morning. Is there any way?”
Again, no response for a while. Then,
“That bus is for refugees to Mbarara. Talk to him,” and he pointed to a well dressed man eating breakfast and the restaurant next door.
Public buses and vans have a driver and a conductor. The driver, of course, drives. The conductor deals with money and watches for hitchhikers. The man by the desk directed me to the conductor for the refugee bus. He said he could take me to Mbarara and from there I could get a bus to Kampala.
“When will the bus leave?” I asked.
“In a while”
With that assurance I sat down for breakfast. About halfway through my Rolex, a rolled tortilla with eggs and avocado, the bus started to move.
“Is the bus leaving?” I frantically asked the person closest to me.
“No. It is turning around.”
Which was true, it was turning around. It just didn’t stop moving once it had completed its turn. A new set of obstacles.
Luckily, the conductor was still eating his breakfast. After he saw me quickly approach with a bewilderment oozing from wide eyes, he said that there was no problem. We could take a bodaboda, or small motorcycle used for public transit, to meet the bus.
In a few minutes we were both seated on mopeds heading down a dirt road. About 10-15 kilometers later, the bus came into view. It rested in a field surrounded by white tents with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees initials and symbol painted on the roofs. There were people, families, calmly waiting beside the bus. An American woman with a clipboard motioned people to move forward and she called out the numbers on their wrist bands. Other than that woman’s resonant voice, there were only whispers.
The conductor of the bus came to my bodaboda driver and slipped him an extra 500 shillings. The bodaboda driver then turned to me and pointed to the backseat of his moped.
“We go,” he said softly.
“Where?”
“Not far.”
The conductor would not miss an opportunity to charge for a seat on his bus so I knew there would be a space for me. As this bus was chartered for refugees, he probably didn't want the UNHCR folks to see the American backpacker bumming a ride, which explains why he wanted me out of sight. The bodaboda left the field and stopped a few hundred meters down the road where I waited on a grassy but exposed hillside for about an hour. Swipe, a boy of around 12, befriended me and we had a decent conversation until he asked for money and then left when his request yielded no donation.
Soon enough, but not before some worry began festering, the bus came lumbering down the road and slowed enough for me to jump through the creaking door. Jumping onto the moving bus was a bit awkward because of my huge backpack which I quickly unbuckled and set in one of the front seats. Once free of the load I looked up and met 80 eyes staring silently at me.
Kisoro is the first major town once across the southern Uganda/DR Congo border so it was pretty clear where these folks were coming from. They were refugees from a country ravaged by war and unaided by other nations. I was in the midst of a two week holiday and had a 35 pound bad that stood 3 feet high. In the luggage racks above their seats were a couple dozen duffle bags.
5.5 million people have died in Congo in the last 6 years. 5.5 million. The last time that many people have been killed in a conflict was during WWII. The rebels use rape and mutilations with escalating atrocity to inflict wounds that will last generations. There is too much malice, to much anguish for the lives of these people to seem possible.
They had almost no belongings. They had almost no words. Yet most striking about this small group of refuges was the singing. It began soon after the bus started climbing through Uganda’s cultivated mountainside. In a call and response style, one person would sing a line and the rest would answer. Started quietly, as if unsure if it would be permitted, would survive, their music spoke of hope and memories. Unbridled above the other singers, the men and women who sat with eyes closed or gazing toward the approaching East, rose the strong and pure voices of children.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Pictures.
Here's what I have posted so far:
http://picasaweb.google.com/tsnoworries/Africa#
More pictures should be up within a few days.
By the way, one of those 50 pound clusters of bananas from the yard came to fruition and has been sitting in the kitchen for the last week. Since it would be a terrible waste to let that free, delicious fruit simply rot, and since I'm the only one in the house that eats bananas, I've been averaging about 8-10 per day. That rate of consumption has some strange side effects.
http://picasaweb.google.com/tsnoworries/Africa#
More pictures should be up within a few days.
By the way, one of those 50 pound clusters of bananas from the yard came to fruition and has been sitting in the kitchen for the last week. Since it would be a terrible waste to let that free, delicious fruit simply rot, and since I'm the only one in the house that eats bananas, I've been averaging about 8-10 per day. That rate of consumption has some strange side effects.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Mt Muhavura
Resting in the southwestern most corner of Uganda is Mgahinga National Park. Encompassing only about 24 square miles and three extinct volcanoes, it is part of a larger conservancy it shares with neighboring countries, Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Of the three volcanoes, Mt Muhavura is the tallest, peaking at about 14,000 feet, and visitors can climb all of the mountains with a guide and a guard. The guide directs visitors along the appropriate path and keeps hikers from damaging the delicate surroundings. The guard, and his Cold War Era AK-47, protects hikers from foreign rebels and buffalo. The guide and guard were much more concerned about the buffalo.
The hike began at 6am because it needed to finish before nightfall and all together it would be about 10 or 11 miles in length with more than a mile in elevation gain and loss. The Ranger Station, where I met the guide, stood roughly 100 meters from the Mgahinga Community Campground, a great little operation that served as my home for a few nights.
Essentially, the day consisted of two major undertakings: going up and coming down, both of which were challenging in their own regard. Some stretches of the trail were boulders that arouse out of vats of mud. Others were so steep that the guides had constructed crude ladders of tree limbs and twine. The scenery was amazing and the hike enjoyable but near the top it got hard, really hard. 14,000 feet is approaching 3 miles, well above any elevation I’ve experienced. For the last few hundred meters, my heart, more than my legs or lungs, slowed my pace to a crawl. My heart rate would skyrocket within a few steps after a rest. I felt it in my temples and fingertips. There was a point when I wondered if I could physically finish. That’s not a familiar feeling.
Eventually, after much effort, I made it to the top and took a nap while wrapped in every article of clothing I had. As stated earlier, the day consisted of two undertakings. The first was over; the second loomed in the near future.
Innocent is the young man who acts as the concierge, cook, and overall manager of the Mgahinga Community Campground. He smiled every time he spoke and carried himself with humble poise. Although he had already done it a few times, Innocent decided to climb Muhavura and was behind me for much of the downhill. He wore rubber gum boots which cost roughly 1/40th as much as my fancy Gore-Tex lined Asolo’s. Even on the mud covered ladders and the patches of hardened earth slick with dew, Innocent never lost his footing, never even slipped. As one of the Peace Corps Volunteers keenly observed, I “breakdanced” through portions of the descent with an emphasis on "break." Some unlucky shrubs softened a sideways tumble.
The hike finished just before sunset and I went to sleep with a strong sense of accomplishment.
Since being in Africa, there have been times when I’ve ached to be with people I know in someplace familiar, another new feeling, similar to what I physically experience on Muhavura. Thankfully, those periods of longing are always interrupted by moments of wonderment and gratitude. Dancing in a living room with other grown men; watching a student eyes widen with discovery; the conversation with Innocent during the slow descent down an ancient volcano: the company of 6 incredible Peace Corps Volunteers while in a beautiful corner of Uganda. I’m grateful for the times of yearning for they enrich the moments of joy.
Pictures will soon be posted, once the internet here starts working properly.
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