Journeys through Africa

September 28, 2005

2006-01-16T17:27:00.000-02:00

The following day, instead of attending the conference, Dawn tours TICH, meets the people and checks out the library. She is impressed with the school’s curriculum, the medical books in the library and with the education and experience of staff members. “Seeing TICH and meeting the people is worth the trip to Kisumu,” Dawn says.

As we walk home after work, we pass Dr. Sokwala a block from my house. She’s walking with her cousin who is a self-described ambassador the Neem tree. Every part of the Neem tree, bark and leaves and seeds, are used for such diverse things as candle wax and tummy soothers and to cure for malaria and skin rashes. This is the first time I’ve seen Dr. Sokwala since missing our lunch date and I tell her why I was thinking about leaving Kisumu. I want to tell her I’ve made the deicison to return to the U.S., but do not feel the roadside is the right place to deliver the news.

When I tell her about the robbery, she immediately says, “1994. It’s 10:00am and two men burst into my office. They have guns and force me onto the floor. One sits on my chest and chokes me until I pass out. When I wake up hours later, they’ve stolen money and drugs.”
“How horrible,” I say. Then she tells me how her, her husband and a female neighbor were walking in this neighborhood recently, taking a stroll as many people do on Sunday afternoons. Her husband commented on three guys walking toward them. Dr. Sokwala didn’t notice anything unusual about the men but listened to her husband. The three of them stopped in the driveway of a large house, as though they were about to enter. They waited for the three guys to pass and then decided to return home, not wanting to risk being robbed. As they walked home, Dr. Sokwala said they heard footsteps pounding toward them and turned to see the men raising large rocks overhead, to bash them. But the doctor and her husband and friend were able to fight them off.

When we reach my house, I tell Dawn this is how it’s been since I began telling people what happened. I hear at least two stories from each person about how they were robbed. Even Grace, the Ruprah’s housekeeper, was robbed. She told her story in Kiswahili with Raju translating. She was in her home in Nyalenda with two other female relatives when more than 20 men burst in with knives. One man grabbed Grace from behind and held a knife to her throat, demanding money. Grace told them she had no money but suggested they take her TV, which they did. Grace does not have a lot of money. She lives in a mud house in the slums, though she does have electricity. Maybe that’s why they think she has money. Also, she works for an Asian family, so they think she has access to lots of cash. Grace, like many other Luo’s I talk to, was robbed by her own people in her own neighborhood.

Tonny has lived in Nyalenda most of his life and because he’s completed college and has a good job at TICH, he’s improved his home, adding piped water and electricity. He says he is robbed regularly. He constantly hears doors being knocked in and robberies taking place. But he refuses to move away. He wants to stay and act as a role model for the children, so they can see that he is successful because he works hard. When they see him walk through the slums each morning, pushing his mountain bike while wearing dress slacks and a long-sleeved dress shirt, they’ll see that just because they live in Nyalenda doesn’t mean they can’t excel.

The more I talk to people about crime, the more I’m convinced living in Kisumu is much riskier than I was told. Even VSO doesn’t have a clear picture of the crime in the area.

Because I haven’t heard back from Chris at VSO about the date of my flight home, I haven’t said anything to the Ruprah’s about leaving. The rent has been paid for the entire month of October, though I’ll only be here half that time. It will be hard to tell Mrs. Ruprah, so I wait for the flight info from Chris in Nairobi.

September 27, 2005

2006-01-16T17:20:00.000-02:00

The next day, I drop the resignation off for Dan. Throughout the day, I talk with people and tell them about my decision to leave. Even though news of my resignation will spread fast, there are certain people I want to tell myself.

When I see Kikoli, a student from the Congo, I tell him I’ll be leaving and he is sad. Kikoli is such a kind man and an earnest student. I admire how hard he works to learn English and can appreciate the difficulty of having to do his thesis research and writing in a language he hasn’t yet mastered. We’re in the library on the second floor, exhanging email addresses so we can stay in touch, and Kikoli says, “You made the right decision.” I’m rather surprised by his attitude until he tells me his story. He shares an apartment in a 13 unit building in Nyalenda. In July, Kikoli and his two other Congolese roommates were in their living room at 9:00pm one night when 17 thugs busted through their front door. The men had guns and knives and took just about everything of value.

“We are Congolese and because we live in Kenya to go to school, they think we have money,” Kikoli tells me.

I hadn’t heard his story until now. Each new person I tell, I hear their personal experiences with crime, whether it happened to them or their family member or friend. It’s apparent crime in Kisumu is much worse than I and VSO had realized. And it’s much worse mainly because people consider these incidences normal and do not report them to the police and do not tell people in warning. If I had heard some of these stories before, perhaps I would have been more cautious and better prepared when I was robbed. In Kisumu, being a victim of crime is something people try to prevent but know it could easily happen to them anyway. That is not the way I want to live.

After work, I walk to the end of Tom Mboya Road, the road I live on, and meet Dawn, a fellow VSO volunteer, at the Tom Mboya Labor College. Dawn is African-Amerian, from Texas, and she’s serving as a volunteer in Kitui, a village southeast of Nairobi. Dawn is in Kisumu to attend a nurse’s conference this l week, but she’s not impressed with the conference content and is especially worn down by the long and fruitless speeches given today by important Kenyans. We walk to Ned’s house in Nyalenda to get her gear, then go to my house, where Dawn will stay through Saturday. She’s shocked to hear about the robbery and that I’ll be leaving Kisumu, but she understands.

September 26, 2005

2006-01-16T17:13:00.000-02:00

Arriving on campus Monday morning, I find Dan is out of the office today and tomorrow. I talk to Sister Masheti instead, telling her the story of the robbery and my anguished decision to return to the U.S., explaining how difficult the decision was to make and letting her know I plan to give Dan a two week notice. Sister Masheti is my line manager and she’s come to my office to say hello. We talk about my robbery, crime and life in Kisumu for nearly an hour.

“Cindi,” says Sister Masheti in her forthright way, “I support your decision. You must decide what’s best for you and not worry about others. TICH is an institution and it will continue without you and without me and without others. But your safety and peace of mind is of utmost importance now.”

I’m taken aback by her level of understanding and am grateful to Sister Masheti for realizing how hard this has been. She says my perspective is unique, for I come from another culture, and while everyone here may think it’s normal to be expected to be robbed, I don’t have to live like that if it’s an issue. Then she tells me about Dan’s Christmas Eve party in 2004, an incident that happened only three months before I arrived in Kenya.

Dan had 30 guests from around the world and they were all dancing in his living room. Fred, the guard at TICH’s gate, was working the gate at Dan’s house that night. The gate was chained and locked, but thugs cut the chain and were in the gate before Fred knew it. One guy hit Fred on the head with a gun, knocking him to the ground and dazing him. They then took Fred to the front door and pushed him ahead of them into the living room. Sister Masheti was across the room when she saw Fred stumbling through the door. She thought someone was drunk and giving Fred a hard time. When Sister Masheti stood up to go to him, that’s when the men shot their guns over everyone’s head. Sister Masheti tells me a bullet went right over her head and stuck in the wall. They were all told to get down on the floor and were systematically robbed.
Sometime in 2003, Dan was awakened in the night by men holding AK-47s in his face. They robbed his house. “Every year for the last six years,” Sister tells me, “Dan has been robbed. So I can’t tell you something like that won’t happen to you.”

When I talk to Walter Mukwana, he’s also understanding. He tells me how his next door neighbor was carjacked last week while pulling into his own gate. Walter also tells me how the ad salesman from the Nation, who Walter talked to this morning, was shot by thugs a month ago. They were trying to steal a car and when the Nation rep realized what was happening and tried to run away, they shot him in the leg.

It seems everyone I talk to has a very recent crime story to share, sometimes two recent stories. Some of them say it’s just the way things are and I must accept the risks. Others say I’m doing the right thing by going home. It seems clear-cut. And I’ve made my decision. But I’m torn.

September 21, 2005

2006-01-16T17:00:00.000-02:00

I write my resignation letter to Dan, which I’ll turn in next Monday morning with a two-week notice. Walter Odede comes to the gate. He’s heard about my mugging from Tonny and he’s upset. He thinks it might be Victor, the guy who was stalking me after I first arrived, but I tell Walter it was just a random thief. Walter is asking me not to go back to the U.S. because of this, but I break the news that I’ve decided to leave.

He drops his head into his hands and makes a tisking sound. To brighten him up, I discuss ways I can continue working with Pambazuko from Atlanta. He told me a few days ago that the five orphans in Nyalenda sponsored by the Canadian medical students had school fees due and they couldn’t attend school until the fees were paid. So I go into my house and get 4,000 shillings, about $50 USD. It’s a good bit of money and it’s the last money I’ll give Walter, for I’ve been disappointed in his management of Pambazuko lately. Now is not the time to discuss with him, however, because there is so much going on related to my departure. But I will communicate my misgivings about Walter to him. Unless we clear up some of these things, I may not be supporting Pambazuko in the future.

The sun is bright, as usual, and the neighbors have tied their two sheep across the street, so they can nibble grass. But one sheep is standing in the road where cars are constantly passing. Walter unties the animal and secures him where he won’t be able to reach the road. I’ll miss Walter, I think, as he tends to the sheep. And I’ll miss animals on the streets, one thing I thought I’d never get used to.

In the afternoon, on her way home from work, Dina stops by to check on me. She’s with Pam, who parks her car across the street. They’re in a hurry and don’t have time to come in, so we stand in the Ruprah’s driveway and talk. Dina knows I’m thinking about going back to the U.S., but I don’t say anything in front of Pam. As we’re talking, Reverend Obondi drives by and parks behind Pam. He crosses the street and I’m very happy to see him, since he’s been away from campus all week. Reverend Obondi has heard what happened and he says what everyone else has said, “Pole sana, pole sana,” (Very sorry, Cindi, very sorry).

The Reverend is also in a hurry, saying he’s on his way to his niece’s house. It seems some thugs have been terrorizing her. Earlier in the week, they broke into her home while she was at work and held a knife to the nanny’s throat, demanding money. They were convinced there was money in the house and they took everything apart looking for it, even went into the light fixtures in the ceiling. This morning, they came into her compound and were hiding in the back, waiting for her to leave her house. But she saw them and called her co-workers, who came to get her. Funny she didn’t call the police.

“Why has no one told me to go to the police to report the robbery?” I ask the three of them. Their faces are blank and Dina says, “Why waste your time?” and Pam says, “They won’t do anything. Well, they’ll probably laugh at you.”

“I don’t expect them to find the guy and get my stuff back,” I say. But it seems the police would want an accurate picture of the crime in Kisumu. If people report crimes, then the police will know the types of crimes being committed, the victims, what’s taken, where it happens, time of day, etc. That would help them develop crime prevention programs.” They all just look at me like I’m crazy.

In Kenya and other African countries, there’s a thing called “mob justice.” It happens because the police are corrupt and won’t come to the scene of a crime when called. They’ll fill out reports and will investigate crimes if the victims pay them bribes. That’s why the Reverend’s niece called her co-workers instead of the police.

Residents across Africa have taken criminals in hand by passing out mob justice. If a thief is caught in public, the crowd will beat him or burn him, usually until he is dead. People do not want criminals in their neighborhoods, so they catch them and kill them. Just this week, one thief was shot in Nyalenda by an off-duty security guard after the crowd caught him stealing. Another guy stole a 15 cent toothbrush from a vendor’s shack in Nyalenda and they beat him to death. When these guys go to the hospital and the medical staff finds out they’re thieves, the staff give them very little care and attention.

It seems citizens use mob justice if the victim is Kenya. Too bad if the victim is white or Asian. The Indian ladies in town had been telling me no one assisted them in car accidents or muggings. Again, people with light skin are thought to be wealthy so the crime against them is considered to be victimless. Generally, uneducated Kenyans think crimes against whites are victimless because white people can, supposedly, easily replace anything that’s stolen from them. Except their sense of security and peace of mind.

This evening, as we stand in the driveway and talk, the Reverend is anxious to get to his niece’s house and move her to another place where, hopefully, the thugs won’t bother her. Amelia, his niece, is 25-years-old and has an adopted baby girl. Amelia, a college graduate working for an NGO, recently had visitors from the UK in her home. The thugs saw white people at her house, decided Amelia must have money and began their campaign of terror.

“Okay, now I’m getting scared,” Pam says. “I’m not going out tonight, I’m going straight home.”

Reverend Obondi, Pam and Dina leave. It’ll be dark in about 30 minutes. I walk back through the gate and Samuel shuts it, securing the padlock through the heavy chain. I feel somewhat safe. But if someone robs the Ruprahs and Samuel is harmed is any way, just because I live there, I'd never ever heal from the guilt.

September 20, 2005

2006-01-16T16:50:00.000-02:00

Today, I psyche myself up to take a boda boda into town, asking him to drop me at Dr. Sokwala’s office. Inside, a couple of medical sales guys wait to see the doctor, so I go right in. Dr. Sokwala sits behind her desk and I tell her I’m struggling with the decision to stay in Kisumu or return to the U.S. It’s weighing on me and I’d like to talk with someone.

“Do you provide couseling?” I ask.

“I do, but not during regular hours. This office is not the right environment. I usually like to go to lunch or dinner, and then talk in a relaxed environment, as friends.”

So we decide to meet at 12:30pm for lunch.

“I try to leave here at 12:30,” she says, “but sometimes it’s hard and I don’t get out until 1pm.”

I don’t tell Dr. Sokwala why I’m thinking of leaving Kenya. That can come later. But she senses the stress it is causing me and she says, “That’s a wonderful problem to have, isn’t it?”
I look confused, so she says, “Good things will happen whichever decision you make. If you decide to stay, you and I will get to see each other more and if you decide to go, you’ll be with your family or friends.” I was so grateful to her for framing the situation in the positive.

“See you at 12:30,” I tell her.

With two hours to spend, I go to the internet café. There’s one very important email that must go today, so I spend time crafting it carefully and discover, upon trying to send it, that the net is down. I look around and notice the owner at the front desk on his cell phone. They always call the service provider, which has its office in this shopping complex. Turns out the problem isn’t the service provider but the phone line. Soon, two men from the phone company show up saying a bill hasn’t been paid. This seems highly unlikely because the café’s business is dependent on phone lines. Why would someone who has a business dependent on phones not pay their bills?
People are leaving the shop because the internet is down. I have no way of saving the email so I’m desperate to get it sent. The phone company men argue with the owner as we all watch. If he paid the bill, then all he has to do is produce proof the payment went through the phone company’s account. He can do this by faxing the proof with a form. Good God!! This stupid bureaucratic bullshit. It’ll take him hours to produce the proof and fax it over.

I’m frustrated, not being able to send the note after spending so much time on it and not being able to save it, unless I want to save it onto a hard drive accessible by lots of people. I must leave to meet Dr. Sokwala, so I tell myself to take a deep breath. To let it go. The note will reach its recipient for I’ll try to send it later. These glitches occur regularly in Kisumu. Either the electricity is out or the phone lines are down. We must learn to be flexible.

Still slightly frustrated, I rush through the busy streets to Dr. Sokwala’s office, only to see the door closed and padlocked. My heart drops. A guy strapping vegetables to the back of his bike says, “She just left.” I must be late but can’t believe she’d leave me. Tears are working their way up as I cross the street in the bright sunshine. I feel like I’ve thrown my lifeline out and it wasn’t caught. But then I remember six months before when I left Dr. Sokwala’s office. She told me then not to be a victim. My head goes up. I’m not a victim. I wanted to speak with her, to get an objective perspective about my decision to either stay or leave Kenya. Because everyone else has a stake in what I do, I thought she could provide a neutral opinion. But deep down, don’t I already know what my decision is? Don’t I truly want to go back to the U.S. where I’ll feel safer and will be able to pursue other options, including continuing to promote TICH using reliable technology?

Yes, I already had my answer, I was afraid to bring it out into the light, for fear it’d look like I was running away. I now admit this truth and feel lighter. I go to another internet café and email Chris at VSO in Nairobi, saying I’ve made up my mind and I’ll be returning to Atlanta.
Walking through Kisumu on my way home, I’m not happy. I’m not thrilled. It feels like things are unfinished here. The hardest part about leaving will be telling the Ruprahs and my co-workers at TICH. It makes my stomach hurt to think about telling them I’ll be leaving Kenya.
At the top of Oginga Odinga Street, the main thoroughfare through Kisumu that ends at Lake Victoria’s edge, police are moving street vendors from the sidewalks. There is arguing and chaos as the vendors are packing up their wares. Boda Bodas, too, have been forbidden to congregate on the street where they normally wait to pick up passengers. Kisumu is cleaning up its image because a conference is coming to town and with it come top executives from sugar companies all over Kenya as well as ministers of parliament from several East African countries.

They’re painting the curb of Ogina Odinga and the curbs on the roundabouts in town. They’re sweeeping the street clean and are spraying for mosquitoes in all parts of town where the MPs might go during their two week conference. Milimani, the neighborhood I live in, is the nicest residential area, so they spray for bugs. I notice immediately there are no mosquitoes in my house, where before I had to burn a repellant coil just to be able to sit in my living room and sew or read without being bitten. Or I had to climb under the net to read free of bites. On average, while living in Kisumu, I’m bitten by mosquitoes about 10 times a day. But suddenly, there are no mosquitoes.

However, when Ed visits, I ask if he’s noticed fewer bugs.

“No,” Ed says, “as a matter of fact, there have been many more bugs lately. When they sprayed Kisumu, all the mosquitoes went to Nyalenda. The slums are two blocks behind our house. Typically, few people in Milimani get Malaria. People in Nyalenda are infected regularly. Because they’re infected, mosquitoes also become infected. It’s a nasty cycle, one that could be broken by residents of Nyalenda taking anti-malarials. Ed tells me two female volunteers from Holland arrived to work at his organization, Pandipiere, and both of them contracted Malaria within their first two weeks of being in Kisumu. That’s because Pandipiere serves Nyalenda, the slum area, and they insist on their volunteers living in the slums while volunteering. Being in Nyalenda puts them at greater risk of Malaria and Typhoid. Funny that the risk is so much greater in Nyalenda, a place separated from Milimani by two residential blocks.

As I watch the improvements taking place in town, to impress our very important visitors, I wonder why Kisumu doesn’t sweep the main street free of vendors and boda bodas all the time. Why don’t they clean the streets and paint curbs as a matter of city maintenance? It seems the appearance of being well-managed is more important to city leaders than actually manging the city well. They create illusions of city planning and an idealic place to live. When Priscah, the mayor of Kisumu, visited the TICH campus to pass out certificates at the end of the entrepreneur workshop, she gave a short speech on how great Kisumu is and how safe it is. She wouldn’t allow anyone to suggest things in Kisumu are less than perfect.

There are advantages to being positive about your work, but not if it means sweeping the true situation under the rug. And Priscah was sweeping Kisumu’s less palatable features out of sight. Like the unreliable city water plant that supposedly distributes safe drinking water but which no one drinks without boiling or filtering. And city water isn’t even piped into Nyalenda, where it is needed most to combat disease and other health hazards. And then there’s the issue of city sanitation. Street vendors sell food that is not monitored by food safety officials. Cars and trucks emit masses of pollutants. Street boys are beaten by the police. Everyone, individuals and businesses, are afraid of being robbed by “thugs.”

As I walk home from town with the sad knowledge I’ll be leaving Kisumu, the boda boda drivers call out to me, “We go, White Lady?” I just shake my head “no” and keep walking, wondering what it’ll be like to drive through town for the last time, headed for the Kisumu airport and London and Atlanta.

September 19, 2005

2006-01-16T16:38:00.000-02:00

Stress mounts. I send Chris an email to the VSO office, telling him what has happened, informing him the robbery is causing me to rethink my purpose for being in Kenya. I also tell him I want to work through the trauma of the robbery without losing time at work, but the stress is getting to me and I need to talk to someone. Chris tries to get through the one phone line at TICH without success and finally he calls me on the fax machine in Walter's office. He suggests the VSO counselor, but she’s in Nairobi and I absolutely do not have the strength to ride on a bus for six hours then switch to a taxi to find this woman’s office. Visiting VSO’s counselor would require a night’s stay in Nairobi and because of the high crime rate in Nairobi, I can’t imagine even being in the hectic city.

For the last few days, I’ve just wanted to be behind the gate at home or the gate at TICH. When I step outside those gates, even on a sunny day, I don’t want to see people on the street. Don’t want to look them in the eye. Don’t want them speaking to me. I resent them. They only want to take from me. They won’t help me. I can’t face them.

“What about Dr. Sokwala?” Chris asks.

“That’s perfect,” I say, having forgotten about her. “I’ll talk to her. She won’t let me get away with any bullshit.”

We agree I should take the rest of the week off to talk to Dr. Sokwala and heal. Chris is aware I’m thinking about leaving Kenya, but he wears two hats in his role as program manager for VSO. The first is to take care of me as his volunteer, to make sure I am mentally and emotionally well. His second role is as guardian of the VSO/TICH partnership, which I will put in jeopardy by leaving. But I mustn’t think about these things as I make my decision. Everyone has a personal stake in me staying, or going, so I can’t view things from their perspectives, I must do what comes from my head and heart. Toward this end, I decide not to tell any of my family or friends in the U.S. what has happened, until I make a decision.

It’s only fair that Dan, director of TICH, know where my head is these days so I go to talk with him. He listens while I tell about the robbery and my thoughts of going home, of needing to speak to a professional and take time to heal. He agrees graciously that I should take the next three days off. He keeps shaking his head and saying, “terrible, terrible.”

Wednesday morning, my first day off, I’m not strong enough to go into town. It would require walking or taking a boda boda, and being out among a lot of people and noise and traffic, which I can’t bear right now, so I plan to go the next day. This will be a free day and I’ll stay inside and sew and licks my wounds.

“Sandy!” Mrs. Ruprah sings through the open windows of my house. “Sandy, are you okay?” It always makes me smile to hear my name pronounced as “Sandy.”

“Yes,” I say and open the door.

“I’m going to my friend’s house. You come! It’s not far, we’ll walk and we won’t stay long.” She’s pointing toward the gate, toward the street. I’m scared.

“It’s not far?”

“No,” she says. “Come!”

“We’ll walk?” I ask, unsure.

“Yes, it’s very close.”

She’s so authoritative, I agree to go.

We walk about two city blocks and enter the drive of the house with the huge “B” painted on the front. I’ve seen this house many times and wondered about the people who would paint their initial on their home. Inside, three Kenyans tend to the yard, the gate and the poodles running around. Only Sikhs have pets in Kisumu. No one else can afford to feed pets they’re not going to sell or eat themselves. The poodles have tiny poodle puppies rolling over each other on the green lawn and they make me smile. I walk closely to Mrs. Ruprah as we go to the back of the house. It looks like a hotel with a deep verandah full of cushioned furniture. The kitchen is open to the backyard, too, and two young ladies whom I’ve never met are wearing jeans and t-shirts, with their dark hair in pony tails, as they tend to boiling pots. It’s a lovely surprise to see the elder Sikh priest here. Oh, and the younger priest, Lucky, is here, too. They’re going to read scripture over lunch.

I’m still feeling a bit raw. A bit open. I just want to melt into the background and watch the ladies interact. Mrs. Ruprah, however, immediately tells them about the robbery and they respond with logic rather than compassion. That’s okay. They tell me what I should have done differently. That’s okay, too. Mrs. Ruprah is talking and talking until a lady next to me says Mrs. Ruprah is worried that I will shut myself away in my house and become depressed and will want to go back to the U.S. She is partly right, this very smart, very caring lady.

They serve us sodas and snacks, handmade crackers which are delicious. When I comment on the tasty crackers, an older woman tells me cooking is the first thing a Sikh woman learns for her husband. The older women sit and visit while the younger woman, daugthers and daughters-in-law, serve us.

One young woman has sewn a gorgeous red silk jewelry case with white trim. It’s quite elaborate with a zippered pocket and a tube for holding rings. We admire her handiwork and Mrs. Ruprah wants to duplicate it, so they put the silk case in a zippered bag. It feels strange to sit under this lovely pavilion, with ladies serving us while Kenyans walk about the yard, carrying water, tending to the plants, unloading groceries from a truck. Five families live in this house. On the back wall hangs the usual giant picture of the original Sikh guru.

When it’s time to go, another visitor offers to drive us. Instead of going home, however, we drive to another house that looks like a hotel belonging to the Sokhi’s. Their name is on the gate and the garage. Inside, just beyond the open kitchen (where several ladies are busy cooking chappati), is a huge living room with a wide circular staircase. Three families live here and there are two small children, though the staircase has no hand rails. It’s just suspended pieces of lovely, dark wood steps. The living room is divided into six seating areas. Six! Like a hotel lobby, each seating area contains three couches facing in, a center table and a rug. Down the center of the room, large ceramic pots hold green plants.

Mrs. Sokhi sells fabrics sent by her Mother and sister from India. We look at the fabrics and everyone talks. Mrs. Ruprah tells them about the robbery. They tell me what I should have done differently. I’m starting to feel less sensitive about it, to let things roll off.

We return home and as I enter my house, Mrs. Ruprah says, “Come. Come. Help me make lunch. I’m going to a friend’s later. You come.”

“Okay,” I say and smile. “I’ll come.”

In Mrs. Ruprah’s large kitchen, with Grace washing dishes in a big plastic tub outside the window, she places a metal bowl in front of me. Opening a bag of meal, she tells me how to mix the chappati dough. I sprinkle water and knead. More water, more kneading until the consistecy makes the bones in my right hand work. Mrs. Ruprah is busy cooking rice and heating up stuffed peppers. I’m totally concentrating on mixing the dough, enjoying the process, noticing how content it is to be in the kitchen preparing food. Just like sick days as a little girl and staying home from school with Mama. I watch Mrs. Ruprah prepare the pans for cooking chappati and marvel at her ability to have three dishes going at once. Her goal is to have lunch on the table at 1pm when Mr. Ruprah and Raju arrive home from the workshop. Food is spooned into bowls and I carry them to the table. Grace has set out plates and small bowls for dahl and drinking glasses.

Mr. Ruprah arrives promptly at 1:00pm and sits next to the back door. Raju drives home in his own car and sits at the other end of the table. Food is passed and placed on plates. Chappati is torn to scoop up dahl and mixed vegetables of varying spiceiness. No one talks. By 1:15pm, Mr. Ruprah rises, takes two steps to the sink on the wall and washes his hands and leaves, returning to the workshop. After every meal, I try to clear the dishes, at least to carry them to the back patio where Grace will wash them, but Mama always yells, “no!,” even though she doesn’t speak English. It doesn’t feel right eating their food and not contributing in some way.

That afternoon, we visit Sikh friends who live only two blocks away. Nonni is very pretty and seems much younger than her husband. She came from India 14 years ago to marry in Kisumu. Their house is large, the living room immense with shelves containing wooden African sculptures, elephant figurines and photos of their children. Each chair and sofa section is covered by an embroidered doily, as are the chair arms. Very neat. Our hostess makes tea and brings in homemade crackers. She serves each of us one at a time, passing over the cup and saucer and offering up the crackers. They exhange cake recipes and talk in Punjabi. I enjoy the tea and crackers and imagine what life trapped inside this house would feel like. Not a good sensation.
It is often hard to watch the Sikh women in their daily roles. Their schedule is set around their husband’s work schedule. Rarely do the women work outside the home. They keep house, entertain guests, cook food, work on handicrafts and attend temple, where they cook for the entire group in the temple’s kitchen.

I went to temple with Mrs. Ruprah a few weeks ago. The building is square, taking up a city block. Mr. Ruprah’s father was one of seven men who laid the first stone during constrution of the temple, so his name is on a plaque as we enter. A flight of stairs leads to the temple itself. I must keep my head covered inside the sacred room. Mrs. Ruprah has loaned me a black and brown scarf for this purpose. At the top of the stairs, we stop at two sinks to wash our hands before entering the shrine. The elder priest sits in an altar setting, surrounded by candles and artificial floral arrangements, singing the prayers from the sacred book. The floor is covered in a soft matting, so we remove our shoes and walk to the preist, where Mrs. Ruprah signals for me to kneel, touching my forehead to the floor and placing 20 shillings in the offering plate. I follow and mimic her. She moves to the back of the room, against the wall, and sits with several women. They whisper for a few minutes while I check out the room. There are only perhaps five women at the back. No men. Suddenly, she says, “Let’s go,” and we rise and leave the room, replacing our shoes and washing our hands again, for we’re now going to the kitchen to help prepare chappati.

There are several workstationsin the temple’s kitchen. One group mixes the dough and smooths them into balls. The second group rolls the balls out into perfectly round and flat chappatis. The raw dough is then transferred to a large metal griddle where a gas fire is burning. Two Kenyan men stand next to the griddle, flipping the chappati and removing them. The final station is another large gas fire with an open grill on top. Ladies sitting in chairs place the chappati over open flames, until their slightly browned, then they take a pound square of butter in their fist and run it over each surface of the chappti. The round bread then goes into a large metal container lined with cotton cloth. There are hundreds of chappatis being made through this process.

Mrs. Ruprah and I first visit the rolling table, but it’s clear I can’t roll out a perfectly shaped chappati, and no one is laughing with me at my failed attempts, so I’m moved to stand between the rolling table and the griddle, picking up raw chappatis, flipping them between palms as I swivel to plop them on to the black, hot griddle surface. That’s all, just flip, swivel and plop the bread into an open space without overlapping chappati and without have them fold on themselves. With six women churning out rolled chappatis, I had a time keeping them moving onto the griddle surface. I dropped one once and got looks of disapproval when I giggled. Even the black men were serious about their duties and they didn’t smile or laugh. The food was excellent and plentiful, but it wasn’t a joyful place to be.

Many of the ladies bring a large, empty containers to temple, which they fill with dahl and vegetables, etc., to take home and feed their families for two or three days. Mrs. Ruprah always brings food home for lunch the next day.

Some of the ladies drive, but most are dependent on others to take them places. Their primary concern each day is feeding their husbands and children. Very few seek higher education or build careers. These women often do not fulfill any of their talents, skills or interests. Society is much the poorer from this lack of self-actualization. Expanding our view to include other cultures where women are not able to venture beyond their roles as wives and mothers and we see a large percentage of women the world over who could be contributing to research, business, medicine, the arts and many other areas of knowledge. But they don’t. Aren’t able to. In the U.S. in the 50s, it was called the feminine mystique, this strange ailment from which women suffered, this urge and desire to do more with themselves. They felt trapped and miserable, useless and depressed, and didn’t understand why. This is the life of a Sikh Indian woman in Kenya today. And the life of women in countries the world over.

Mrs. Ruprah cries often. She recently sat next to me on her couch as I ate the lunch she prepared. She was crocheting a black scarf for her daughter in London and she said, “I’ll make one for you. What color do you like?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I know how much work it is to make one of those. But I really like white!” I smile and she laughs.

“Would you really make one for me?,” I ask, still not believing how generous she is.
She says, “You are like my daughter,” and her eyes tear up and soon her whole face is red and wet.

“Ah,” I say and touch her shoulder. She puts the scarf and crochet hook in front of her face and cries. Then she removes my hand and says, “Eat! Eat!” She uses the ball of her hands to dry the tears. Every time I’ve seen her cry, she puts both hands to her face and strokes downward from her red eyes. It tugs at my heart.

Mrs. Ruprah is lonely.

September 18, 2005

2006-01-16T16:36:00.000-02:00

Should I stay or should I go?

It’s a question that wears me down. I go to work on Monday morning and end up fighting with Charles in accounting because we have two men waiting to be paid for work they’ve completed, work I’ve approved, and Charles wants to see more paperwork. I’m yelling, which is something I rarely do. And I’m yelling in front of others.

“Don’t you care, Charles, that these men are here to collect the money owed to them, money that’s been approved for payment?

“Yes, Cindi,” Charles says calmly, “I care, but we also a process here.”

“Well,” I shout, “it’s wonderful that you can hide behind your processes, Charles, while people aren’t paid and things aren’t completed.”

Walter stands next to me the whole time, speaking softly, interjecting reason between each of my angry statements. I walk out and leave him to deal with the situation. I realize the stress of dealing with the robbery, of not facing the deep decision of staying in Kenya, where I feel increasingly less safe, or going home, is getting to me. I have no desire to hear about issues related to IT and I feel incapable of managing the decision process.

I stop into Dan, the director’s, office to tell him what I’ve been feeling and thinking. He’s at his desk, but apparently busy with two people behind me also waiting to meet with Dan. I tell him I’ll stop in to talk with him tomorrow.

September 17, 2005

2006-01-16T16:35:00.000-02:00

8am and we’re in class, scanning the school for chairs for the students. I try to push away thoughts of the robbery, to set aside thoughts of leaving TICH, of leaving Kisumu, of getting on a plane and flying away, watching Lake Victoria recede into the background. How nice it’d be to see the London airport filled with white people with soft hair, or Schipol airport in Amsterdam, knowing with one more leg of the journey I’d be riding up the escalator at Atlanta’s airport, looking for my children’s waiting faces. But I love this school, these students, the work we’re doing and the thought of leaving because I’m scared saddens me. And tires me.

I tell no one what happened the day before. I’m still processing it. But class goes smoothly. We have several exercises where the students prepare short speeches and present. We go over pointers for preparing and delivering great presentations and speeches. We talk about how they communicate in their jobs and in the families, how their communicaiton can be improved using the techniques we’re discussing. The students are open and responsive and we make it through the day. I’m honored to have been a tiny part of the journey toward their degree and toward their career of making a difference for the many Kenyans living in rural poverty. I tell them this. I wonder if I’ll leave and not see them progress through their cirriculum. Mustn’t think about that, just get home and chill with no one making demands.

September 16, 2005

2006-01-16T16:30:00.000-02:00

8am and we’re in class. The students have helped me move about the school to locate enough chairs. Though we have only 12 students in class this morning, there are two workshops also running this morning and our chairs have been taken by those attendees. Dina is in class this morning, as is Elias, who is on our IT team and currently reports to me. Half of the students in class work for the CDC-Kemry (Keya Medical Research), so they have experience working on programs to assist rural populations. I give them an overview of communication as a field of study and we work throughout the day to narrow the focus down to rhetoric, or persuasion. In their work with rural communities, when our students are teaching new methods of farming or educating about health issues, they’ll need to understand how to communicate their ideas and gain compliance from their partners in the communities. That’s my job for today and tomorrow.

At 4pm, we end the day’s class and I take a boda boda to town to buy groceries. Being gone for two weeks, there is no food in the house. Once in town, I check emails and call Jaime from the internet café. Calls are 15 shillings per minute, about 20 cents, so Jaime and I can talk for 30 minutes at a cost of $5 USD. She sounds wonderful, though I wake her up. Hearing her voice makes me homesick and I worry she and her brother, James, may need me for things I’m not able to provide from Africa. It’s a recurring theme in our conversations…

“Are you okay, Sweetie,” I ask. “Do you have everything you need? Have you been well? If there’s anything you need, please tell me. There are ways I can do stuff for you, even from Africa.”

Jaime always reassures me she’s fine, James is fine and Frankie the cat is fine. My footsteps seem to spring after I’ve talked to my children. Because I want to be home before dark, I walk to Nakumatt quickly. On the sidewalk outside the store, I see Ned and two women approaching. I haven’t seen Ned in a few weeks and I smile and wave. He waves back. The women are very tall, much taller than Ned. I slow as they approach, turning to stop and talk. But Ned walks on, simply saying, “Hello, Cindi, How are you?” The women look at me suspiciously and they all saunter on. How strange that he didn’t stop and introduce me to his friends, who are surely Dutch volunteers working for a short period at Pandipiere. The Catholic center cycles through lots of young volunteers who come to Kisumu, live in the slums and work at the center for about three or five months. Ned gets to meet new volunteers constantly, mostly women, so that’s a nice social outlet for him. But I’m a little hurt he didn’t stop and introduce me to his new friends.

After rushing through the store, I decide to walk home instead of taking a boda boda. I need the exercise and there’s still plenty of daylight. I walk away from town, on a busy road recommended as the safest route. There’s a tiny, burgundy pocket of a purse with its strap over my left shoulder and the purse tucked under my arm. I approach an intersection and notice three boys coming from the left. There’s something unusual about them, making them stand out. Kenyans are usually very quiet and composed in public. These three young men are laughing very loudly and actually shouting. I calculate their pace and wonder if they’ll end up ahead of me or behind me. I try to slow so they’ll be ahead, but they stop at a tiny store. I walk straight, hoping they go another way. When I walk, I always look around, to make sure there are other people on the road. Today there are many people walking about, mostly men walking alone or in pair on both sides of the road heading in both directions. Plus, there are boda bodas passing regularly. I feel safe.

Normally when in town, I put my purse in the grocery sack, to avoid tempting anyone. Today, because there are plenty of people around and it’s still daylight, I walk quickly with my head up, the purse tucked, practically hidden, under my arm. With only three blocks to go, I look around to make sure there are other people on the road. Yes, many. And I don’t see the three boisterous young men. I’ll be home in time to clean up, cook dinner and prepare exercises for tomorrow’s class, which beings at 8:00a.m.

My thoughts disappear as I hear footsteps pounding behind me. This happens often, people running on the street to catch up to me, to talk. When I began living in Kisumu, people would run to catch up to me. At first, I told myself not to worry, that the streets are safe and people often run to catch up with me and talk. They want to be friends and most people are very kind. But a tiny part of my mind makes me stiffen when hearing running foostops, to prepare myself. For what? Not sure. Even if children we’re running up behind me, I’d think, ‘they’re not coming after me, they’re not coming after me” and usually that was true. If they were coming after me, they meant no harm.

As the footsteps pound harder, I begin to turn to the left, clamping my arm down over my purse, when I’m hit with such force, it knocks me off balance. The guy grabs the purse strap from behind but my arm is clamped so tight, it doesn’t budge. I’m still reeling from being hit and he’s pulling me further around, grasping the strap. My right hand swings out with the grocery sack, trying to keep my balance. I’m yelling, to alert people on the street. He hits me on the shoulders and chest, then grabs me by the arms and throws me to the ground, to the left. I tumble into a ditch and land on my head, my feet in the air. I’m still trying to keep the groceries from hitting the ground, though I don’t really realize that’s what I’m doing. My feet stay over my head for what seems like minutes. He bends over me, grabbing at the purse, and then I hear a rip. He has won.

It takes a few seconds to re-orient which way is up. I climb out of the ditch, still holding the groceries aloft, and looking around at the men on the street. The stand and look back.
“Help me,” I yell to them as I run. There are men behind me and men on the opposite side of the street. They all just stand, starring, as they stood and starred while the guy knocked me around in the ditch. My hair, clamped up high on my head, is now falling with the clip banging into my shoulder as I run. The theif wears a white t-shirt and he’s only 30 feet ahead of me. I’m running, wearing Chaco sandals and a denim sundress. And I’m yelling all the way down the street.

“Stop him!” I cry. “He stole my purse!!!” I’m yelling at the boda boda driver who has pulled up next to me and who’s peddling at the same rate of my run. He just stares at me as I run and yell. He can understand English. They all understand English. But they do not speak. Then another boda boda pulls up next to him and stares. I turn my sights on this new guy and plead, “Please stop the guy in the white shirt, he stole my purse!!” The guy speeds up and heads toward the thief. Can he catch him? Please, please, please, I say in my head.

When he gets next to the guy, he slows and the thief leaps mid-stride onto the back of the boda boda and they fly toward Nyalenda, the slums. I stop running and look around at all the men on the street, feeling very alone in the world. Then a gate opens and a Kenyan, about 35 years old and pushing his boda boda, comes out saying, “What has happened?”

“That guy in the white t-shirt on the boda boda stole my purse.”

The man immediately pulls his bike onto the road and says, “Twende, Twende!!,” which means, “let’s go!”

Not trusting boda bodas now, I say dejectedly, “You really think we can catch them?” And he’s says, “let’s try,” so I hop on, not really wanting to be chasing theives and preferring to be in my living room, listening to the BBC and quilting.

“They don’t normally rob people this early. It’s still daylight.”

“Yes,” I say, holding the groceries in my lap, trying not to think about everything that was in my purse. He’s flying, though, really putting effort into pedaling fast and we pass people on the street as he rings his tinny bell. I look at each boda boda, at each passenger, but as we near Nyalenda, the streets and sidewalks begin to fill with people. There are too many to see. When the road deadends into Ring Road, and the tiny shacks of Nyalenda spread out in front of us, stretching for miles in either direction, I feel overwhelmed. Night is beginning to fall. Dusk.

Embers light up from charcoal stoves where ladies are roasting corn on the sidewalk. A large fire burns next to the sidewalk. Vendors light kerosene lamps and place them next to their goods.
Points of warm light glow all over Nyalenda, but there’s no way we’ll find the two theieves. He turns right onto Ring Road, headed toward Pandipiere. As we roll past, I hear a woman scream and look behind the sidewalk, behind the hundreds of people walking in the street, and see a man grabbing a woman. He has her by the shoulders and she’s trying to break free. She screams but no one does anything. The guy hits her across the face and works to get a better grip as she continues to struggle, screaming, and people walk past without looking at her.

Fire leaps from lamp wicks and roasting corn embers while the woman yells and I think, ‘I’m in hell.’

“Please take me home.” I ask the man from my seat on the back of his bike, knowing we’ll never find the theives and feeling unable to protect myself, much less the woman being beaten by the man. I want to be home and will not feel safe until behind the locked gates with Samuel. My keys were in the purse, so I’m hoping the Ruprah’s have an extra key to the padlock on my front door.

“I want to give you something for helping me out,” I tell the driver. “However, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get into my house. Do you mind waiting a few minutes to see if I can get in and get some money for you?”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “But you don’t have to pay me. If you have the money, that’s fine. If you don’t, I’ll think of it as doing volunteer work.”

I smile in the lowing light behind his back. Volunteer work.

Inside the gate, Samuel tells me the Ruprahs are at temple, but Raju is home. He comes out and they’re dismayed to hear what happened. Samuel keeps shaking his head and tisking and saying, “So sorry this happened, very sorry. Pole sana.” Raju doesn’t know if there’s an extra key, but he gives me 20 shillings to give the boda boda driver. I return to the gate and thank him for helping me. Samuel thanks him, too, and shakes his hand. The driver gives me a copy of his ID card, complete with his photo. His name is Erick Otieno and I think he’s a good man.
Because I can’t get into my house, Raju invites me to sit with him and Mama, his grandmother. He tells her in Punjabi what happened and she’s visibly saddened, shaking her head and saying things I don’t understand. Her knee is bothering her so she doesn’t get up. Raju brings me a cup of tea, which is very thoughtful, and asks if I’d like sugar. I notice my knee is hurting and lift my skirt to find my knees raw and bleeding. Mama’s face scrunches up when she sees my knees and she calls to Raju. Soon, he’s bringing me cotton and disinfect. They take such good care of me as we wait for Raju’s mom, Mrs. Ruprah. Raju will pick her up from the temple at 9pm. It’s now just past 7pm, so they encourage me to sit back and watch TV. It’s on an Indian station and a soap opera-type show is playing. There is so much over-acting, I don’t really need to understand the words.

I get lost for minutes in the show, then I return to my reality in Kenya. I’m in Kisumu. I’ve been robbed. I’m sitting with the Ruprahs, the closest thing to family I have here. Tears flow and I turn so Mama won’t see. They took my cell phone, which I’ve had for less than a month. My blood pressure medicine was in the purse. Keys to the house and my office at TICH. About 1,700 shillings, or $21 USD, which is a lot of money to me. Most painful to think about is the memory stick, which held lots of precious documents and pictures. With the memory stick, I would write emails and blog posts at home and then spend less time in the internet café sending the messages and posting to the blog. But I don’t want to think about that right now and focus instead on the silly actors.

After a while, Mama starts talking to me in Punjabi and Kiswahili, which I don’t understand, but I know what she’s saying. She’s trying to comfort me. Raju comfirms this. Looking at my knee, it occurs to me I want to be back in the U.S. before it heals. I just want to run away, get out of Kenya, go to where it’s safe and there are people who love me, who would want to smash the faces of the stupid guys who robbed me. But I’m not in the U.S., I’m in Kisumu and I can’t even get into my house. When Raju does return with Mrs. Ruprah, she’s upset and anxious to make sure I’m okay. She looks in every cabinet and drawer in the house and we make several trips to my front door, trying various keys in the lock. No luck.

Well, she says, we’ll have to wait for Mr. Ruprah. He’ll be home around 11:30pm, she says. Mrs. Ruprah encourages me to take the lounge chair in front of the TV, in case I want to sleep before he arrives. I take the lounge chair and sit back against the cushions, trying not to get my dirty sandals on her furniture. Where’s Mr. Ruprah, I wonder. Oh, probably out drinking.

An Indian movie is on and it’s quite good, though I have no idea what they’re saying. There’s a strong, silent Muslim-type who wins the heart of a beautiful girl who has been used by men. They borrow a man’s car and none of them are aware someone has planted a bomb in the car. We watch, wondering when the bomb will go off and will they be in the car? He’s in the doorway of a jewery store where he’s selected a gorgeous necklace for the woman (did I mention he’s also rich and handsome?). He’s trying to entice her out of the car with the necklace and it works. But as she closes the car door, her long, gorgeous scarf gets caught and before she can free her scarf, the car blows up, annhilating her in the process. So for the rest of the movie, the strong, silent Muslim type lives with a Hindu family, where he has a contentious relationship with the wife and mother of the family, while he seeks revenge against the men who killed his girlfriend. And he does get revenge, but he dies in the last scene of the movie and by this time, the Hindu wife/mother has grown to love and appreciate him and she mourns and wails the loudest over his dying body.

The handsome, rich, silent Muslim type takes my mind off things for two hours. Then Mr. Ruprah arrives, bringing reality with him. I just want to be in my house, safe, where it’s quiet and I can think. Mr. Ruprah is drunk. He doesn’t have a spare key and has nothing strong enough to break the lock, so he decides to unscrew the padlock base, allowing us into the house.
So here we are on the patio at my front door; Mr. Ruprah, me, Samuel the guard and Mrs. Ruprah with Raju floating in and out of the scene. Mr. Rurprah can’t see well enough to handle the screwdriver, even with the candle Samuel is holding up for him. He needs another screwdriver, so he sends Mrs. Ruprah to the trunk of his tan Mercedes, instructing her to pull out a tool kit. It’s dark and she’s having trouble locating the kit.

“It’s on the left,” he yells across the compound. “Stupid woman! You can’t do anything right!”
“Hey, hey, hey,” I practically whisper while touching his arm. “She’s a good woman and a good wife. Don’t say those things to her.”

She finds the tool and brings it, but Mr. Ruprah is too drunk to operate the screwdriver and he doesn’t trust Samuel to do it correctly, so he hands the tool to me. Getting to the screws is difficult because the padlock is in the way. It takes pressure and concentration to turn the screw even the tiniest distance. Mr. Ruprah holds the candle so I can see, but he holds it directly over my hand so hot wax drips on it and I yell and push his hand back, telling him not to burn me. He’s saying, “Turn it, that’s it, unscrew it. Just unscrew it.”

“Okay,” I answer. But he continus to repeat it and the hot wax continues to drip on my hand. Mrs. Ruprah has a large knife with a wide blade. She thinks that if she can slide the knifeblade behind the padlock base, it’ll come out of the door faster. But first I must get the screws loosened and it takes awhile. I move from screw to screw while Mr. Ruprah tells me to “just unscrew them,” and Mrs. Ruprah occasionally sticks the knife behind the base.

“Don’t,” he yells at her, pushing the knife away and nearly burning me with the candle. I Unscrew some more while gritting my teeth. Samuel is behind us the whole time repeating what Mr. Ruprah says. Mrs. Ruprah inserts the knife, Mr. Ruprah yells and pushes it away and I try to keep from being burned by the candle.

“How long as these screws?” I ask in desperation.

“About two inches,” Mr. Ruprahs says.

Christ, they’re only out about an inch. Mrs. Ruprah slides the knife into place and twists it, to leverage the plate off the door. Mr. Ruprah barks, “Don’t do that,” and he grabs the knife from her, in front of my face, and throws it to the cement floor with all his might, just behind his right leg. The knife hits and the wooden handle immediately pops off. Mrs. Ruprah retrieves the pieces and takes them into the house. I just try to concentrate on the screws, knowing as soon as the door is open I’ll have a little peace andquiet. No locks. No security. But peace.

Finally, the screws will turn between my thumb and forefinger. The plate is loosened; the padlocked is off the building! They tell me the lock will be cut off the next day and replaced.

Goodnight.

It’s 12:15am. I shower and am in bed by 1am.

I don’t sleep, but instead think about the hot wax and Mr. Ruprah breaking the knife and how much I want to be in Atlanta before my skinned knees heal.

September 15, 2005

2006-01-16T16:29:00.000-02:00

I’m up before light breaks fully, completing the packing and wondering what time it is. I go downstairs to the reception area to look at the clock above the desk. The mattress is gone from the floor and the front doors are open. Electricity is back on and a small light reveals the time: 5:00am. The taxi is already here.

My flight is at 7:30. When we pull up in front of the airport, a line of white people and their luggage extends to the roadside. Kenya Airways and East African Safari Airways each have a flight leaving this morning. When I check in, the guy says 12 passengers have been bumped from the overbooked flight to Nairobi, including me, and we’ll be traveling to Dar es Salaam, then onto Nairobi. His manager comes over and explains the process, apologizing. A sharply dressed young man, the manager handles my ticketing and baggage himself. Since my flight from Nairobi to Kisumu isn’t until 5:30pm, I don’t mind the re-routing. When I approach the immigration desk, on the way to the departure lounge, the officer tells me there is a $25 fee to exit Tanzania. Crap. I didn’t know about an exit fee. I was in Tanzania last December and didn’t pay an exit fee.

“Well,” I say to the guy as I pull out my wallet, “I don’t have $25 and my flight leaves in 30 minutes.”

The big guy next to him says, “Borrow it from a fellow traveler.”

“I’m traveling alone and I wouldn’t ask a stanger for money,” I say.

I pull out the 1,300 Kenya Shillings. “This is all I have.”

They point me to the exchange desk and say I may be able to use my bank card to get more money. I go to the exchange window, which is only five steps away, and a large, disagreeble man with 5 o’clock shadow at 5:00 am says the Kenyan money is worth $19 USD and he can’t get money from my bank card. He points out of the airport and says the bank opens at 8:30am.
Jeezus, will they keep me in the country because I don’t have the money?

I find the helpful East African Safari manager and tell him I don’t have the money to get out of the country. He walks over and talks with the immigration officer, then returns to me and tells me to give the officer the Kenyan shillings, which I do. He places a clearance stamp on my boarding pass and stamps my exit visa. I’m free to leave Zanzibar!!

Our plane holds exactly 12 people. We take two steps from the tarmac into the plane and I’m on the back row, by myself. Just in front of me sit a young couple, perhaps Scottish, and the woman has been in a wheelchair all morning with her head propped up as through she feels horrible. Now, she has her head on his shoulder. I snap pictures of the island and the shoreline as we ascend. The view is perfect and I have access to both sides of the narrow plane. It takes 20 minutes to arrive at the Dar airport. The airport is rather large. As we enter the doors, a man and a woman from East African Safari meet our group. The man takes our passports and gets our boarding passes for the flight to Nairobi. There are three Arab men and a couple from Australia on their way to Mauritia, but they must go through Nairobi first. I tell the airline employee there is another couple with our group and the woman is in a wheelchair. The couple rolls around the corner so the airline employee gets their passports, too.

We all sit and wait and talk, getting to know each other. None of us ask about the woman’s health, though we’re very curious. Could be a water borne disease or malaria. When the man returns with our boarding passes, he escorts us to our gate, where boarding starts immediately. We’re all impressed with the efficiency of the Dar airport and are soon on our way to Nairobi. Unfortunately, clouds cover much of Kili this morning so we see only a tiny portion of the ancient volcano’s brownish peak.

Once at Nairobi’s airport, sitting in the departure lounge, I’m excited about being home. I text message Vitalis, the driver, about a ride from the Kisumu airport. My flight gets in at 6:30pm. He texts John, the other driver, and they assure me someone will be there to pick me up. After being away from Kisumu for two weeks, I’m anxious to get home and to settle in. I’m teaching class tomorrow. Beginning at 8am, I’ll be instructing students in communication and public speaking.

It is raining when we land in Kisumu and as I stand under the edge of ariport’s roof, waiting for the guys to pull the luggage cart out, John runs through the rain and stands next to me. How wonderful to see a familiar face. There’s TICH’s brown van in the first (and only) parking row. I’m very grateful to John for picking me up and dropping me home in the nighttime rain.

It’s good to be home.

September 14, 2005

2006-01-16T16:25:00.000-02:00

At breakfast, we talk with a German man who has brought his grown daughter on vacation. A bright, spunky and very tall German guy updates us on his plans for the day. He’s backpacking across Africa and arrived with his girlfriend, who was with him when we first met them at the Annex Malindi. She had to go home, though, to return to work, and he’s continuing on the adventure alone. But always with a smile on his face. Over the last two days, this tall, happy man has easily made friends with everyone at all three resorts. After breakfast, I pack and go to the office, to meet the shuttle that’s due at 10am. A Swiss couple also climb on board and they’re anxious to make it back to Stone Town by Noon, before the bank closes. Otherwise, they have no way to get or exchange money for their trip.

We stop at the adjacent resort and onboarding passengers fill every seat. Everyone speaks English though they’re from all over the world. I feel very lucky that English is so widely spoken. We’re all friends by the time we reach Stone Town and the couple does make it to the bank on time. When I return to Annex Malindi, pulling my suitcase through the rocky doorway, Tanika accepts my offer of 8,000 shillings for the night. Yippee! Now I have enough money to buy water and a snack this afternoon and dinner at the barbecue this evening.

Once settled in and rested, I decide to walk through Stone Town, taking different routes and photographing the architecture. I stroll, really examining the buildings from every angle. A cemetary catches my attention. Though it’s behind walls, glimpses of tombstones peer through holes and breaks in the wall. As I look and ponder certain shots, three pre-teen boys surround me. Not wanting to appear afraid, I smile at them. One boy holds his hand out and says something. Though I don’t know what he’s said, I do know he’s asking for money. I shake my head “no” and walk on. I don’t have any money on me, so I say, “hapana pesa.”

The boy then asks me to photograph him. I don’t really like to photograph locals because they often ask for money. I hesitate. He then insists, so I snap his picture. Again, his hand comes out and again I say, “Pole sana, hapana pesa.” This translates in English to “I’m very sorry but I have no money.” This angers him. The boys walk a few yards away and pick up rocks, which they begin throwing at me while shouting, “Fuck You!” “Fuck You.” They’re pronunciation isn’t perfect, but I understand clearly what they’re saying. Unnerved, but trying to remain clam, I spot a view of the cemetary wall and Indian Ocean I’d like to shoot. Just as I get ready to snap it, the boy sticks his head around the corner to shout at me again. He is accidentally caught in the picture. “Nooooooo,” he screams angrily.

I turn toward a busy interior road, to get away from the boys, when three teenage boys approach me on the path. They’re walking with their shoulders back, kicking trash in their path, trying to appear big and important. I take no notice of them, just hoping they’ll pass without incident, when the first guy kicks a box that hits my right shin. They bend over laughing and the second boy kicks a glass soda bottle, which knicks my ankle.

They move away, in the direction the younger boys had walked, still laughing and still trying to look big and important. This outward hostility is interesting to me. I wonder if it’s the way all Zanzibaris feel toward tourist, but only the children have the courage to demonstrate their animosity. Most locals are not kind or warm or respectful. They’re attentive when trying to sell something, but otherwise we get the cold shoulder, as though we’re not wanted. Yet, Zanzibar is the richest, nicest place I’ve visited in Africa and tourist dollars pouring in with every planeload of white people has brought this prosperity to the island.

Michelle and I were wrong to think we could come here and let our guard down. In fact, being on the island been much more stressful than living in Kisumu. I’m really looking forward to going “home.”

Back at Annex Malindi, after showering and packing for tomorrow’s flight, I hear Suzuki’s happy voice ringing up the stairway and reverberating in the center courtyard. He finds me in my old room. “Ah, you made it back. Excellent,” he says.

“Yes, and you’re still here,” I say.

He spent Monday and Monday night at an archaealogical dig on the island, meeting with scientists and then having beers with them at a shack bar. He’s excited about the dig and tells me if he had seen the dig a year or two before, he would have become an archaeaologist instead of an Indian Ocean Trade Historian. We go to Freddy Mercury’s bar to watch the sunset. Suzuki reveals his boyhood dream during the 70s was to be a wrestler, like Dusty Roads. He watched wrestlers from the U.S. on TV, imitated their moves and dreamed of traveling the world where he’d wrestle in exotic locales, like Zanziba. But then, one day, Hideaki realized his height was a hindrance. He doesn’t need wrestling, though, for he is like an anthropologist, the way he’s interested in cultural practices. I tell him about the Luo tribe live in the Lake Victoria region. I tell him about the Luo customs that increase the rate of HIV/AIDS.

“Like what?” he asks, leaning in over his beer.

“Like wife inheritance, where a widow is ‘inherited’ by a male member of her dead husband’s family. But before she can take the new husband, she must be cleansed by having sex with someone from outside the family. And usually the guy from outside the family is HIV positive, which means she becomes infected, too, if she was’nt already infected by her husband.”

“Oh,” says Suzuki.

“And….” I say, studying his face to see if he can handle what I’m about to say, “if the woman happens to die before she’s been cleansed, then someone has to sleep with her body before she’s buried.”

“What?!!!” Suzuki jumps in his seat. “You can’t be serious.”

“Listen,” I tell him. “I heard about that practice and didn’t believe it until I asked a very close friend, who is Luo. I trust him. He said some Luo still follow this custom of sleeping with the dead, but only those who are in remote rural areas, who haven’t been exposed to other cultures.”

“But, how?” Suzuki is just as stumped as I was when I first heard of this.

“Okay,” I say to Suzuki. “My friend said he knew of a woman who died and her family wanted her to be cleansed. She actually lived in Nyalenda, the slums of Kisumu, which is how my friend knew her. He lives in Nyalenda. So they asked around and could find no one to do it. Then, they talked to a guy who wasn’t quite right in the head. He was easily convinced to do the deed. But my friend said that afterward, the poor guy was never the same again.”

“How did they know it was done,” Suzuki asks.

“That’s exactly what I asked my friend. I mean, the guy could spend the nighttime with the body then simply say it was completed. But, no, they put two other men in the room with him, to watch.” Suzuki’s face says it all. His nose is curled up like he’s just smelled something rancid.

“Tragically,” I tell him, “the guy who performed the custom was practically ostracized by community members and his life went downhill from there. Though he wasn’t quite right before the deed, he definitely declined mentally afterward. At least that’s what my friend said.”

Because Suzuki is interested in cultural practices, I tell him about the Luo fishing culture in Lake Victoria. There are no large, commercial fishing fleets in Kenya’s part of the lake. Fish are caught by men using poles or nets. These men will wade out into the lake and stand on rocks, casting their lines. A typical fisherman can handle four lines in the water at a time. But really good fishermen can mange up to six poles at once. They hang a plastic bucket around their neck filled with bait. The line strung with their catch floats off a belt loop.

Soemtimes, three or four men will crew a wooden boat, about 18 feet long, and they’ll go out early, early in the morning, before the sun comes up, and they’ll return with a boatload of fish. But these men who fish do not take the fish to market. That’s a woman’s job. And the woman gets a supply of fish because she is on the fisherman’s “list.” He has a list of women who have sex with him regularly. Those are the women who get the fish to take to market. If someone new comes into the fishing community, whether it’s a man or woman, they are assigned to a mentor of the opposite sex. This person indoctrinates them into the fishing business and becomes their sex partner. Many of these men fish early and have all day to lounge around, drinking. This practice amongst the fishing community spreads HIV at a rapid rate.

Polygamy also spreads HIV because a husband can spread it to all his wives. I tell Suzuki many of the men also have girlfriends in addition to their wives. And most women, even if they’re married, also have boyfriends. Plural. More than one girlfriend or boyfriend. And they are usually sexually active with each partner. For Kenyans, having multiply sexual partners is an engrained part of the culture. Even education on the spread of HIV isn’t powerful enough to fight these cultural norms. If all of these people are having unprotected sex, then the likelihood they are transmitting HIV is very, very high, especially in Western Kenya, especially in Kisumu, where the rate jumps to double the national average and sometimes to eight times the national average.

Funny, for a culture that’s so sexual, you’d never know it by watching them on the street. People dress conservatively. The men hardly ever wear shorts. It is uncommon to see a woman wearing tight pants. In public, men and women do not touch. Even those who are married do not hold hands. Men hold hands in public. It’s quite common and quite natural for men to show each other affection by walking down the street while holding hands. But men and women do not show affection in any form while in public. Behind the scenes, however, sex rules much of what the Luo do. Of course, it’s not just the Luo with these practices. Most tribes practice polygamy and have sex outside of marriage. That’s not to say everyone in those tribes do these things. Many people exposed to other cultures often cease such practices, such as selling their daughters into marriage by demanding a dowry from the groom’s family. Others are even standing up against wife inheritance. There have been changes. And there will be changes, but certainly not fast changes.

Suzuki finds Kenyan culture fascinating. Of course, he’s interested in cultural exchanges across the Indian Ocean between East Africa and India and Arab countries. Naturally, Suzuki wants to learn about cultures inland. Not just indigenous tribes but sub-cultures like the Sikh Indian community in Kisumu and other Kenyan cities. But the sun has set and we leave Freddy’s to walk through the seafood stalls, selecting barracuda, shark, white snapper and chips (fries) for dinner. Afterward, we stroll by the merchant stalls and talk to a friend of Suzuki’s, Jumas. He has a rack of shawls (pareos) and printed kangas, the two large squares of cloth women wear wrapped around their upper and lower body. Suzuki is interested in buying kangas. He negotiated with Jumas earlier this week and I was able to buy two brown and block kangas for 2,000 shillings, or about $2 USD, before my funds began to run too low. I plan to use the brown and black kangas as the backing for the pinwheel quilt top I’m currently sewing.

Tonight, Suzuki is shopping for kangas to take back to Japan. Jumas models the pieces for us, wrapping his very skinny frame in a black-and-white patterned kanga. Then Jumas wraps Suzuki in a black and turquois set. They look very smart (and totally adorable, eschewing concerns of looking manly in this ancient patriarchal culture). Suzuki buys both sets.

The shawls are gorgeous and feel silky, though they’re woven of cotton. Of course, I’ve spent all my money on dinner, with reserve for the ride to the airport tucked in my room. I also have 1,300 Kenyan shillings in my wallet, about $19 USD, but I didn’t convert it to Tanzania shillings because I’ll need some Kenyan currency when I re-enter the country. Suzuki says, “Pick a shawl for you, Cindi. I’d like to buy one for you.”

I’m touched by Suzuki’s generosity because I really do want a shawl to take to Kisumu. Of course, I protest. He insists, earnestly, and we look at the shawls, stroking them and inspecting the color of their weaves. Suzuki has a genuine interest in all things, including people, and I so enjoy being with him and watching him interact with the Zanzibaris, speaking Kiswahili flawlessly. When he walks me back to Annex Malindi, I’m rather sad our time together on the island is over. We exchange email addresses, so we’ll be in touch. I leave tomorrow morning and Suzuki will leave in a week’s time to do more research in Oman. Then he’ll travel to Bangkok for a week’s vacation (I tease him about the “research” he’ll be doing in Thailand) and finally return home to Tokyo.

When I enter the building, the electricity is off. Candles illuminate the reception room where the young man on duty has placed a mattress in the center of the floor, complete with a sheet and a pillow. He jumps up to welcome me and hands me a candle, leading the way up the stairs. His English isn’t very good, but somehow we always manage to communicate. He has placed a candle at the top of the stairs and it brightens the entire central courtyard area. I leave it burning on the stone step after he’s returned downstairs.

There’s a mosquito in my net, biting me regularly, and I have difficulty locating and killing him. The taxi will be here at 5:30am and I have no alarm clock, so I sleep lightly.

September 13 2005

2006-01-16T16:23:00.000-02:00

We’re back at the restaurant anticipating breakfast. They bring us five slices of bread about two-inches square. Butter and jam are on the table, so I slather both of these on thickly. They also serve unlimited coffee and offer eggs cooked to order. It’s not a huge breakfast, but it holds us over.

Michelle finds a spot in the sun with a book and I take a hammock under the eave of the restaurant. It’s so comfortable and in the cool shade. Music is always playing here, like James Taylor. Soothing. I read a book called “Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World” by Niall Ferguson, with a special interest in Britain’s colonization of East Africa. Not light summer reading, but perfect for this trip.We are surrounded by Swedes, Germans, Italians, Dutch, Aussies and Brits. The come and go, perching on rope chairs and lathering on sunscreens. Groups of them come to the water’s edge and climb into boats, on their way to snorkle or dive or parasail. I enjoy the minor sway of the hammack and often drop the book to my chest, enjoying the view of the blue sky melting into blue water sitting against white, white sand.

A Rasta dude comes up, gives me his hand and says his name is Wiseman. He has a boat tour if I’m interested. I’m not, I tell him. We talk about the island and I tell him I live in Kenya. He has lots of questions and begins to tell me how hard it is to drum up business. Also, his favorite soap opera is about to start so he needs to head home to watch. He doesn’t like missing a single episode.

“Wow,” I say, “You have a TV.”

“Sure,” he says. Wiseman must be doing well.

Mid-afternoon, I risk losing the hammack by rising and taking a walk down the beach, past the next ultra-fancy resort. It’s about a mile and a half walk and I’m not far into it when a young man walks up and strolls next to me. He asks the usual questions: What’s your name; where are you from; when did you arrive; how long will you be here; do you want to visit my shop and look at souvenirs? His name is King Soloman and he walks the entire way with me. He talks the entire way. I answer his questions but don’t ask a lot back, though I learn he used to live here but now lives in Dar. King Soloman travels around Tanzania buying handmade crafts and sells them throughout Tanzania, including Zanzibar. He tells me I’m African, he can tell, because I have a quiet confidence about me. I leave him at the spot where he first joined me and find a hammock unoccupied.

Ahhh, shade, James Taylor and a good book. No lunch, but that’s okay. Not hungry.

At dinner, Michelle orders the Flounder dish and a glass of wine. I order the soup again, poatoe and leeks. It’s served with pompado, a thin Indian bread that’s usually spicy. When the soup comes, again the bowl is barely half-filled and the pom is only two small pieces. I don’t want Michelle to know my funds are limited because she would then feel obligated to loan me money. And I don’t need it really. Breakfast tomorrow will be free. I’ll be back in Stone Town tomorrow evening. I’m sure if I ask Tanika, the receptionist at Annex Malindi, she’ll give me a room rate of 8,000 instead of the usual 10,000, which will give me an extra 2,000 ($2USD) to eat dinner with.

After dinner, Michelle and I tuck under our mosquito nets and try to fall asleep with a music war going on between our restaurant and the next door restaurant. Somehow, falling asleep comes quickly.

September 12, 2005

2006-01-16T16:22:00.000-02:00

Michelle and I are up, not wanting to miss the shuttle to Nungwe. We’re told by the guest house staff that someone will come for us. And they do. We follow them back through the narrow streets to the main road, where we climb into the van. The trip to Nungwe, we’re told, will take about two hours. A dalla dalla could take us as well, but they stop frequently and the travel is lengthened. By hiring this van for 3,000 Tanzanian shillings (approximately $3 USD), we’ll be taken to the village itself to look at lodging options. If we decide we don’t want to stay in the village, the van will then take us about 5 km futher north to a resort called Kendwa Rocks.

The road leading from Stone Town is paved but soon turns to dirt. We travel on the dirt for quite awhile and then turn off into scrub bush, eventually entering a village with mud houses on the perimeter. We pass through the center of the village and exit on the other side where we see, as if by magic, brick and steel buildings, even shops with glass doors and signs that say “Yes, We’re Open” in the windows. What a contrast to the red mud huts just behind us. The beach is about 500 paces away.

Michelle and I check out the rooms but the lowest rate is $15 per night and that’s way more than we had budgeted for. We hop back into the van, the only remaining passengers, and take a very bumpy ride through what seems like nowhere until we pull up to a gate. When the doors are swung open by the guard inside, we see the little “resort.” The office building is tiny. We speak to a large woman through a tiny window and she hands several keys to a guy, instructing him to show us the dorm and the bandas. We pass the bath house, which has four combination shower/toilet rooms. They’re unisex. The sink area is out in the open with one mirror and one deep sink for all resort guests. The dorm room is large and priced at $10 per night. At least 15 people can fit into the room. The banda is a small room with a deep, thatched roof and a small porch with two chairs and a table. Two beds with nets make up the furnishings. This is $12 per night, a little more than we had expected, but it’s better than being in the dorm when we don’t know how many other folks will be there (the dorm is also unisex).

Other bandas and little cottages sit on tiers leading down to the sand and beach. A restaurant made of wood and thatch serves Kendwa Rocks guests. We’ll eat our free breakfast there each morning.

Michelle goes down to lie out in the sun. I pull out my money and count. I take away the $24 for the banda for two nights. I set aside 10,000 shillings for a room back at Annex Malindi in Stone Town. I then remove 5,000 shillings for the return van trip to Stone Town. That leaves me 5,000 shillings for the next three days. I have about a pint of water and determine to make it last. Water must be bought in bottles, not taken from taps, so I set aside 450 shillings for buying water in Stone Town. With approximately 4,500 shillings ($4.50) for food, I’m grateful breakfasts are free. That only leaves lunch and dinner to buy. I rest for awhile then walk down to the beach.

Most of Zanzibar is untouched by development. Local ladies patrol the beach, wrapped from head to toe in their kangas (rectangular pieces of cloth printed in colorful patterns. One piece wraps the top part of the body and the other wraps around the waist as a skirt cover), asking female guests if they’d like a massage or henna paintings. Local men also walk up and down the beach, visiting the three resorts in this area, offering to take people on dhow rides to Nungwe village or on fishing trips. Guys also walk by selling everything from toasted cashews to neckties. I play in the water and walk as far as possible both ways. Soon they’ll be serving dinner so we head to the banda for a shower.

Because the bath area is unisex, I again take my swimsuit with me to the shower, using shampoo as soap, and walk back to the room wearing my bathing suit with shorts. At the restaurant, a blackboard announces entrees. The food sounds wonderful. Red snapper with garlic sauce and Flounder with white wine sauce and rice. But each dish costs 6,000 shillings. That’s only about $6 USD, but I only have 5,000 shillings for the next three days. The cheapest item on the menu is soup at 1,500, so I order the soup, crème spinach, served with chappati, flat bread adopted by Africans from Indians. I am heartened to see chappati served with the soup because it is filling.

However, when our dishes arrive, the soup bowl is filled only a little more than halfway and next to the bowl sits two small triangles of chappati. Normally, when chappati is served in Kenya, we get the entire round chappati, which is about the size of a Mexican tortilla. Two tiny triangles!! My appetite hasn’t really returned since being sick so the soup is plenty and enables me to take another dose of antibiotic.

Museum Mama

2006-01-14T14:49:00.000-02:00

Zanzibar Island
September 11, 2005

Monday morning. Michelle and I decide to walk through the narrow streets of Stone Town, to explore the city and photograph its architecture. We enter a part of town constructed specifically for wealthy tourists. It's a bit of a mindplay to see Italian and French restaurants and hotels on the water's edge furnished with beautiful, antique furniture. We walk through hotel lobbies with our jaw's dropping, following tapestry carpets to the seaside patrestaurantsnts, wondering what it's like to stay at such a luxurious place. Though these families are spending between $150 to $200 or more per night, we're spending only $10 each night. Along these same streets are tourist shops complete with huge, glass counters of Tanzanite jewelry, shelves of African shawls and materials and racks and racks of clothes. There is air conditioning. It is like being in a U.S. mall and the store is packed with both men and women and children, all looking for the perfect souvenirs. We recognize many of the people from the spice tour or from Freddy's sunset crowd. It feels strange to be in a tourist spot when we're actually residents of African countries.

Michelle and I decide to lunch at the China Plate restaurant, where we're seated on the top floor with a view of Stone Town harbor and the busy streets below. We're the only customers besides a single, Asian man across the terrace. For 3,000 shillings (approximately $4 USD) we choose from amongst four entrees, meat or fish served with rice and a ginger dressing salad. It's truly delicious. After lunch, Michelle goes to the beach to read and I go the national museum in the House of Wonders building. The center of the building is opened up through all three stories, though a roof has been added in modern times where one did not exist when the building was constructed. This place is huge. Lots of space not used efficiently. Dark wood stairs, about 20 feet wide, lead from floor to floor. One feels like a member of a royal family ascending and descending such massive fliMaritimeMartitime history is displayed on the ground level and artifacts from the Swahili culture are displayed on the second level. As I walk and read, two men also visit the exhibits. We pass, stepping out of each other's way, until I finally say, "There doesn't seem to be a logical system for displaying these items." The older man of the two, who has dreadlocks and a beard and appears to be in his early 50s, says, "You expected to find logical displays?"

"Yes," I say, "at least organized by locale where the objects were found or by dated periods. These things are from all periods and all locations, jumbled together."

They eventually agree and for the next hour the three of us stand in one spot and talk. And talk, without pause and without awkward silences. The older man, Bill, is a retired doctor from the U.S. He's of average height and build and seems very normal, except for his rasta hair. The younger man, Toby, is his son who's living in Southern Tanzania for three months to study a tribe of wood carvers for his bachelor's thesis. Toby is at least 6' 4" with bright red hair and a large, football player build. Bill is visiting Toby for three weeks and they've just spent time in Dar es salaam, which they affectionately and hiply call "Dar." I'm curious what Bill's assessment of Africa is. In the past, he tells me, he donated his medical services for short periods of time in third world countries. He understands the health needs of rural people. Bill has seen the health needs of Africans on this trip. He remains optimistic about healthcare access increasing in Africa and other developing countries, but says he couldn't live in the third world for any length of time. Handing me his card, I notice Bill is now a dance caller.

"Like calling a square dance?" I ask.

"Yes, precisely," he says.

A couple passes us, led by a guide and we half listen to what the guide is saying about the ceremonial dress display. Soon, Bill, Toby and I realize we must complete the tour, so we part with a handshake. As we amble through the rest of the exhibit, Bill and I pass. He comes close to me and says, "You do not know how much I've enjoyed our conversation. It's been a delight to meet you," and his eyes show his thirst for stimulating conversation in one's own language. I understand this need exactly, for I've felt the lack of intellectual stimulation while in a developing country, where everyone who speaks English does it brokenly or with thick accents. And where books of modern thought are practically non-existent. Where museums may have hand-written notices next to displays.

Bill then leans in and hugs me tightly and I hug him back, grateful, as he is, for a mind and heart connection in a foreign land.

The third floor of the museum is empty, though it supposedly contains a library. Some books on mathematics and engineering are stacked willy nilly in a wall niche, reaching from the floor to well above my head. But there is no library. The floor does open out to a deep, covered porch that wraps around the entire, massive building. So I spend time just watching the people in the square, on nearby streets, the boats in the harbor. There's a single, plastic chair in one corner of the railing. If I'm not sitting, I walk around the entire perimeter and take photos from every angle. For more than an hour, I'm on the third floor, studying Stone Town from a bird's eye view. With reluctance, I leave the museum and go back to Annex Malindi.

We spend sunset at Freddy's, watching the men play soccer and the boys practice gymnastics in the stand. They do handstands and handsprings and run up the wall and flip back onto their feet. It's quite amazing to see such dedicated athleticism from boys wearing torn and dirtied clothes. At the next table, two women and one man also watch the soccer game. Because they refer to the game as soccer instead of football signals to Michelle that they're from North America. She narrows it down to Canada and them must find out, so she asks and they are from Canada, from Toronto. They've just arrived in Zanzibar after climbing Kili. Michelle must get the skinny on the climb from them since she plans to scale the mountain in two week's time.

When people ask me how the climb is, I'm careful not to make light of it. While it's not a technical climb using ropes andespeciallyrnesses, it is physically challenging, epescially because of the risk of high-altitude sickness and the extreme cold. When on a mountain in 10 degree weather, there is no running into the hotel or the lodge, getting warmed by the fire, then going back into the elements. On Kili, climbers are in the elements 24 hours a day. It isn't easy to get warm in a sleeping bag in a tent. This is what I tell people who ask. If you can simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other, which means someone else is preparing your food and setting up your toilet, then you have a great chance of making it. Bring along lots of warm clothes (especially a face cover and gloves), drink lots of liquids and be sure to take Diamoxx to ward off altitude sickness. But I would never encourage someone to do it unless they truly want to.

It seems Zanzibar is where most folks go to relax when their climb is over. Or on safari. Or both. We meet people from all over the world who have just come down from Kili, then went on safari at Ngorongoro Crater or the Serengeti. Michelle is gathering more and more info about Kili from the people we're meeting, so she's feeling a little more secure about the climb.

We walk our usual route through the harbor barbecue and stop at the table where Suzuki has done such a great job of negotiating the price down. As we insist on the same prices with the crew, I hear someone calling my name. Looking back at the rickety picnic table, I see Bill and Toby. We join them, though they're just about finished, and I introduce them to Michelle. We also see the Japanese volunteer from Ethiopia.

A young, British couple sit at the table with us. They are very attractive and kind and appear to be newly-weds. A local walks up and kneels next to the young man. The local has a kerchief tied around his head and he says, "My name is Tupac and I'm going to kill you." We're all caught by surprise, especially when we realize Tupac is not quite right in the head. But the young man is frightened by the words "kill you" and he freezes, as does his wife. Those of us who are older just ignore the guy, which seems to be the best method. But he's not kneeling, peering into our faces, telling us he's going to kill us. Michelle is upset about the young man being frightened. She calls over a guy from the food crew, asking him to make the guy leave. It's apparent, however, that the food guy is scared of Tupac. He won't talk to him.

Tupac sings a little song and repeats his name over and over, which is frightening. The young man turns his face towards us all and says, "I'm afraid." His eyes are pleading. So we all stand, since we're done, and prepare to leave the table, thinking if we act normal and destroy Tupac's audience, he'll move on. He does, thank goodness.

We walk the harbor and run into Suzuki. I tell him Michelle and I are taking a van to Nungwe tomorrow morning. Nungwe is the village at the northern most tip of the island and Suzuki has been there before. Michelle is staying on in Nungwe indefinitely, but I'm returning to Stone Town on Thursday to fly back to Kisumu on Friday. Suzuki says he'll stop by the Annex Malindi on Thursday evening to find me, in case I stay there again.

Toby, who thinks he's running a fever, drinks three large glasses of sugar cane juice. Bill, Michelle and I laugh at his method of self-medicating when he has a real doctor for a father. As we stand and tease Toby, a man comes up to him and asks for money. He speaks to the guy in Kiswahili for a few minutes and finally the guy leaves. Then another man comes up to Toby with his hand out. Strange that they fixate on Toby and none of us. Perhaps because of his size. Even though Toby is large and often awkward, he's a very sweet guy with a soft heart. Maybe that's what the beggars sense.

Once the second guy leaves him alone, a teenager comes running, screaming, from the crowd, brushing past us followed by Tupac, who's fast and catches the guy, tackling him from behind. They tumble, rolling on the grass under a tree, then the guy is up and running away. Tupac stands and begins running after another teenagers who's just lingering in the park. Though there are hundreds of people in the park area, Tupac screams like a predator and chases men through the crowd. But there's something about his face as he gets up from tackling a guy. He seems perfectly lucid. He's there, in his eyes,frightenede strange void in his eyes when he was kneeling as Tupac next to the frigthened guy.

"I don't think he's really crazy," I tell the other. "His eyes just showed his true character coming through and they didn't look possessed."

"I saw that, too," Bill said.

So it's all an act. To entertain? To instill fear so he can get away with taking money from folks? Who knows, really? The guy himself probably doesn't understand what drives him. One thing is for sure, though. He really does look like Tupac.

Spice Tour

2006-01-14T14:43:00.000-02:00

September 10, 2005

Zanzibar was the oceanic portal through which an estimated two million slaves from East Africa moved on their way to the Middle East. Arab slave traders traveled inland and bought slaves from warring tribes, bringing them to the African coast, then to Zanzibar, where they would be sold at open markets and loaded onto ships. But Zanzibar is also called Spice Island, because after the slave trade was abolished, spices supported the economy. Monday morning, following a night of deep sleep, Michelle and I join a spice tour starting at 10:00am and scheduled to return to town at 4:00pm. While we are waiting in the spice tour office with the Muslim men who run the company, we meet Heidika Suzuki, a young man from Japan who’s in Zanzibar to research his dissertation. For eight weeks, Suzuki works every day, researching at the local library, pulling, photocopying and studying old slave trading documents. His weekends are spent going to beaches on other parts of the island. Today, he’s taking the spice tour.

Our spice tour group fills two white vans and we drive out of Stone Town, visiting small houses and large groves of various spices to see the plants up close. Ginger, cloves, nutmeg, coriander, cumin, vanilla, black pepper, cocoa, coffee, jackfruit. We learn about the uses of the spices and fruit and the part they played in Zanzibar’s history. Many of the roads we travel are unpaved. All along our routes, tables line the road and are heaped with small, colorful packets of spices. Everyone in our group is white, except for one young man who wears a Kenya t-shirt. He looks to be around 30 years old. I finally ask him if he’s from Kenya and he says, "Yes, and I’m proud of Kenya. That’s why I’m wearing this shirt!" I ask where he’s from and he says, "Kisumu."

"I live in Kisumu," I say to him.

"Oh, so you speak Luo," he asks and laughs.

"Hericamano," I say (which means "thank you") and we both laugh.

His name is Seba and he is from Kondele, an area of Kisumu near the provincial hospital. We talk about Kisumu because he now lives in Tanzania and hasn't been home in a year. Seba is accompanying an older German woman on the tour. She looks to be at least 65 years old and is very nice. It is apparent Seba is her date for this trip to Zanzibar. Over lunch, they tell us they have spent time in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania's capital city on the coast. She’ll soon go home to Germany, but will return again, to visit Seba. This is her second trip to Tanzania. Older European men and women spending time with young, attractive Africans happens quite a bit on the coast of Kenya and Tanzania. She seems a bit timid, but her shyness may be because her English is not so good. The two of them sometimes hold hands on the tour.

When we’ve visited a location where lemon grass grows, which is our last stop on the tour, our guide gives us the option of going to the beach or going back to town. For those going to the beach, we’ll stop at a slave-holding cave on the way. More people chose to go back to town than to the beach. We take a wide dirt road lined by tiny houses and pine and coconut trees. Along the way, trucks pass us and their large beds are filled with locals dressed in bright green and yellow t-shirts. The national election is coming up next month and campaigning is in full swing. The truckloads of young people, dressed in green and yellow and shouting slogans, are seen all over the island. As in Ethiopia and other African countries, elections are times of instability. While we’re in Zanzibar, it is the beginning of low season, simply because the upcoming elections make it risky for tourists to be on the island.

In addition to campaign trucks, we are surrounded by dalla dalla on the dirt road leading to the beach. At times, there are three lanes of cars, trucks and our van heading in the same direction. We raise quite a bit of dry, red earth as we race toward the coastline. I notice the clouds of tiny dust particles settling on people in their yards, leaving a mask of dirt on the banana trees and other vegetation. The dirt floats easily into their homes and coats their furnishings. They breathe it in most of their lives. I can’t help but recall a health news item that ran on BBC World last week, saying people who smoke only four or five cigarettes a day have a higher chance of heart disease than do those who smoke two or more packs a day. The study also found patients who breathed in particulates from their environment were also more likely to die of heart disease than those who smoked regularly.

Africa is dusty, mainly because very few roads are paved. Roads, both paved and unpaved, are traversed by vehicles operating free of emission testing. These vehicles are old and rattling and falling apart, spewing clouds of black exhaust. Even in Kisumu, most cars are older and most trucks are poorly maintained, which means they do not operate efficiently. On the contrary, every matatu, transfer truck and even most family cars would not pass a standard U.S. emissions test. Of course, it’s so expensive to own a vehicle in Africa resulting in fewer cars and trucks on their roads. Cars and trucks, not surprisingly, do not last long because most of the roads are not roads at all put dirt paths full of ruts, grooves and rocks that jolt a car to death over a short period. Even in town, many highly-traveled roads are unpaved.

Only major roads between cities and within cities are paved. Hit the outskirts of town and red dirt roads are everywhere. The amount of daily dust and exhaust assaulting Africans is a crime. But dust is a minor annoyance when compared with their daily quest to find water, make the water safe for consumption, and locate food for their children. It doesn’t occur to them that the dirt kicked up by wind and cars is detrimental to their health. They have more pressing matters to think about.

So we fly down the wood-lined road and I regret the amount of dirt sailing into the homes we pass. Our guide closes all the windows and turns on the air conditioner. Sometimes the dust kicked up by the flying dalla dalla is so thick, we can’t see the kids in the back of the truck that’s four feet away.

We race down this dirt road for nearly 30 minutes before we turn right. It’s not a road, really, but a dirt path with two tire tracks and a line of grass down the center. We pull up to a fence and park next to three other vans. This is the slave cave. The structure is not a natural cave but two rooms dug into the ground, perhaps 15 feet deep. These to chambers are topped by a shell/cement roof that protrudes from the ground about two feet. A single stairway in the center is the only entrance and exit. The stairs are deep and narrow with nothing to hold as we descend. It’s a little scary just climbing into the hole on a bright day. Hard to imagine the terror of being herded into the darkness in a rush.

A sheltered placard tells the story of this locale, how slaves were brought here in the dark of night when slavery became illegal. Men were crammed into one room and women into the other. They were not fed or cared for and many died in the sunken caves. This, the slavetraders believed, was a way to weed out the weak, leaving only the strongest for trading. The exposed shell roof is only about 200 feet from the Indian Ocean. We walk the path the slaves took, though we are free while they were shackled around their necks, wrists and ankles. The path leads through the throny shrubs and onto a narrow peaking mound from which a drop of several yards ends in the rocky ocean’s edge. Again, it’s hard to imagine being led to the water through the darkness. Access to the beach made it easy for the slaves to be put into boats and paddled out to awaiting ships.

From here, we go back to the racing dirt road and follow it to a clearing in the coconut trees. There are two other vehicles parked under shade trees and we back into a spot. It’s not a real parking lot, just a sandy, open space at the end of the road. It feels very much like the wooded spots next to rivers and lakes in South Georgia where we swam as children; a place discovered by kids but not yet known to adults. A short walk through the bush and we’re all catching our breath at the sight of the turquoise Indian Ocean and ancient, black volcanic cliffs. A few people are already in the water so we venture to the shade of a cliff and select our spots on the rocky ledge. A guy sits on a cooler and I point and say, "Smart guy!" He smiles.

"Is that yours or are selling those?" I ask.

"I’m selling," he says and stands to open the lid. Inside, nestled in pieces of large ice, are glass bottles of Coca-Cola, Sprite, Fanta Orange, and Tusker beer. It’s so hot, I get a Coke and relax, watching Suzuki and Michelle buy their beers and sip the cold beverage in the African heat.
But we must swim before it’s time to return to town, so we all stand and begin stripping our clothes, to reveal our swim suits. Everyone who had been in the water when we arrived is now on shore, soaking in the sun. So we enter the water and bob around, enjoying the rhythm of the waves and the cooling effect of the water. Michelle and I bob next to each other while Suzuki dives nearby wearing goggles, looking for fish.

"Seba is very attactive," she says. "Men in Ethiopia do not look like that."

"Michelle," I say, as though tormented, "all the young men in Kisumu look like him. They have beautiful builds and handsome faces."

"Gee, I’m jealous," she says, "All I see are tiny Ethiopian men and you get to look at this all time." We’re both facing the shore and watching Seba as he talks to his girlfriend. Then he stands and removes his Kenya t-shirt. Michelle and I look at each other.

"Oh, dear," I say as he begins to unbutton his pants. While I find Kenyans beautiful to look at, especially when their builds are as perfect as Seba’s, I am not attracted to them. Perhaps my lack of "drive" toward Kenyans comes from knowing AIDS is so prevalent, especially in the Kisumu region. Perhaps my lack of "drive" comes from the cultural differences that make it almost impossible to communicate without misunderstandings and misinterpretations. Which is why I find it interesting that Europeans don’t mind coming over here and having "relationships" with Kenyans. Of course, I’m determined to remain celibate because of the high HIV infection rate, so it’s relatively easy to not be enticed by handsome Kenyan men. Michelle feels much the same way, but this doesn’t stop us from watching Seba step out of his pants. He is now only wearing a boxer-like swimsuit that shows off his six-pack and his long, muscular thighs. His shoulders aren’t bad either, we both agree before turning away and staring out to sea.

Soon, Seba is amongst us, wearing Suzuki’s goggles and looking at fish just below the surface. I float away from the group slightly, not wanting to be alone with Seba. But he follows and asks me where I’m from in the U.S. I tell him and he says, "Will you take me to the U.S. with you?" I laugh, but I’m thinking, ‘no freakin’ way, Dude, you’re pimping yourself to an old German woman.’ Well, that’s not the only reason I wouldn’t be interested in Seba. But he seems confident of his charm and never once appears embarrassed to be with an older woman. Every few minutes, as we all bob and enjoy the feel of the sun baking the tops of our heads, he calls my name and asks me questions. Nothing to do with Kisumu, everything to do with the U.S.
We climb out of the water, Michelle, Suzuki and me, and sit on the sand a few hundred yards down the beach. Somehow, Suzuki and Michelle produce dry cigarettes and a lighter. They enjoy a smoke, Michelle sharing a cigarette from Ethiopia and Suzuki sharing a cigarette from Japan.

Zanzibar.

Turquoise water with pure white caps. Scenes from travel brochure everywhere we look.

Ahhhhh.

Then our guide begins rounding people up, saying it’s time to return to town, and that’s just what we do. Wet, but wearing dry clothes, our van speeds through the dust clouds, air conditioner blasting. We’re dropped in town around the corner from our guest house and Suzuki says he’ll come by to get us later.

We shower, rest and eventually hear Suzuki in the lobby, talking Kiswahili and laughing with the staff, making his way up the narrow stairway to our floor. He brings the bright sun with him and we all venture out, wondering where we should watch the sun set this evening. It becomes routine, walking toward Stone Town’s harbor around 5:30 each evening to watch the sunset. On any stretch of beach, there are locals dividing up into two teams, playing soccer in the angled sunbeams. Tonight, we choose Freddy Mercury’s bar. Freddy was born in Zanzibar but later he moved to England before becoming well-known as the lead singer for Queen.

Freddy’s bar/restaurant is always busy and a magnet for white people. We never eat here for the food is expensive by Tanzanian standards, but we sit at tables on the deck's edge and talk and drink beer or soda, waiting for the sun to be gone completely before we walk the two remaining blocks to the nightly barbecue, where we can feast on the freshest of seafood for very little money. Before we go to the barbecue, while Suzuki is on his third large beer and Michelle isn’t far behind, Suzuki tells us about his research on the history of the East African trade routes. Then he mentions Sir Captain Richard Burton, how Burton was the first European to set foot in Harar, in Ethiopia. A slave-trading town, Harar was a walled city protected by its Muslim inhabitants. Any white man who ever entered the walled city never left it alive. But then came Burton, who spoke Amharic and Arabic flawlessly and who appeared Arab when he let his dark hair grow long. By the time Burton arrived in Harar, he had already penetrated Mecca, disguised as a Pathan, where he participated in the sacred annual ritual with Muslim "pilgrims" of circling the stone three times. Burton's lingusitic abilities were extensive and he learned to speak more than 30 languages and dialects fluently.

Oh, dear, what it must look like when an energetic Japanese man and an excitable American woman discover they worship the same idol! We talked non-stop about Burton and Lamu and Lake Tanginyka (which Burton "discovered") and the Mountains of the Moon. Poor Michelle. Our revelations about Burton were directed at her, as though Suzuki and I HAD to inform her about this great man or we’d fail as fans. Poor Michelle. She was interested in the part about Harar in Ethiopia since she lives near there, but her attention soon drifted and Suzuki and I didn’t notice because our enthusiasm nudged us on. "Oh," I shout, "Did you know he visited Salt Lake City in the U.S. and interviewed Brigham Young to learn more about the Mormon’s practice of polygamy?"

"No!" Suzuki says, so I must tell him about my hobby of studying Mormonism, how I wrote my master’s thesis on the Book of Mormon, and when I found Burton’s book, which intersected two of my favorite subjects in the world, I simply floated around Georgia State Univeristy for several days. "And I own the book now!" I exclaim. "I have many of his books, reprints of course, including his books on swords."

"Is it good?" Suzuki asks.

"I don’t know," I reply, "I haven’t read it. But I will, because I’ve packed away all of Burton’s book until I return home."

"I have many of his books, too," Suzuki tells me. We just grin at each other across the blue and white tablecloth, in the golden colors of the sunset. We just grin like happy idiots.

I was elated in Lamu to learn Burton had been through there, on his trek for the source of the Nile, and to know screens from the movie, "Mountains of the Moon," had been filmed in Lamu. But meeting Suzuki and hearing about his research and discussing Burton with him was an unexpected joy. Two fans meeting in Zanzibar and discussing our hero over beers at Freddy Mercury’s bar. I could have talked all night. Eventually, however, Suzuki and I reigned in our enthusiasm and changed the subject, hoping to bring the shine back to Michelle’s eyes.

In the harbor square, we strolled the path between tables of seafood and Michelle and I watched Suzuko charm the food crews. They all knew him for he’s been here most nights for the last few weeks. He talks them down to a ridiculously low price and then we move to the next table, eventually making our way around the entire complex before returning back to the first table, where he normally buys his food. While they grill our selections, we move behind the seafood and sit at a rickety picnic table, next to the harbor wall that holds back the ocean. Across the table sits a guy who also looks Japanese. We speak to him and learn he’s a volunteer who lives in a remote village in Northern Ethiopia. He’s in Zanzibar, as Michelle and I are, for a little rest and relaxation and access to good food and a few of the luxuries unavailable in Ethiopia.

After dinner, we stroll the harbor park with the two men from Japan and talk about development issues and volunteering and the Swahili culture. It’s hard to say goodnight, but we do.

2005-11-01T13:38:00.000-02:00

Downtown Kisumu

2005-11-01T13:37:00.000-02:00

Oginga Odinga: Kisumu's Main Street

Back in the U.S. of A.

2005-10-23T12:56:00.000-02:00

Thanks to everyone who has supported me in this transition from Africa to Atlanta! I arrived back in the states on October 12 and have been busy re-acclimating and catching up with family and friends. I've bought a house in Warner Robins, the town I grew up in about two hours south of Atlanta. I've also started my home-based business, Wanderlust Communication, and am working to build the website and get the venture off the ground. Part of my heart is still in Kisumu with all my friends at TICH. I continue to communicate with everyone in Kenya and am working in my spare time to promote TICH in the U.S.

Posts on traveling to Ethiopia and Zanzibar have been added below and I hope to catch up soon with posting all that's happened. If you scroll down far enough you'll see photos of the going away party in Kisumu and lots of pics from Ethiopia and Zanzibar.

I'm also currently working on a book about my adventures in Africa. I've learned a great deal about what to do and what NOT to do when working in development. This will be included in the book, which will be published (if work remains on schedule) in the Spring of 2006. I'll keep you posted on its progress and print date!!

It's soooooo good to be home. Let me know what you've been up to. I'd love to hear from you.

2005-10-08T13:39:00.000-02:00

Dina, Stephen and Bernard

2005-10-08T13:36:00.000-02:00

Bernard and Tonny in the Bug

2005-10-08T13:35:00.000-02:00

Bavon and I Dance at the Going Away Party

2005-10-08T13:34:00.000-02:00

John with Chicken and Ugali

Lastest Update

2005-09-29T09:40:00.000-02:00

Wow.

It's been a while since I've posted. The idea was to return from Ethiopia and Zanzibar, write up the adventures and post the fantastic photos from Addis Ababa and Stone Town. Well, I was sick in Ethiopia and went to the doctor twice before beginning to recover, so there aren't many photos from Addis Ababa. There are, however, tons of pics from Zanzibar, including images of Stone Town, the old Swahili capital, and the island's beautiful and untouched beaches.

My time in Africa was cut short, however, because the day after returning to Kisumu from Zanzibar, I was attacked and robbed (during daylight) while walking home from town. This incident caused me to rethink my personal safety and weigh the risks against the work I'm doing in Kenya. After much agonized consideration (and hearing story after gruesome story of the real dangers in Kisumu), I've decided to return home to Atlanta.

It's very hard, leaving TICH, for it's an excellent organization doing phenomenal work in development. I love the people here at TICH, love their drive and commitment and senses of humor and warm hearts. But I simply cannot stay in Kisumu. Leaving is bittersweet, for while I regret separating from TICH, I'm longing to hold my children once again and see family and friends.

2005-09-16T14:12:00.000-02:00

School Boys in Stone Town

2005-09-16T14:09:00.000-02:00

Zanzibar Harbor Through Decorative Glass

2005-09-16T13:48:00.000-02:00

Suzuki, Juma and Rasta Friends Show Off Kangas in Zanzibar

2005-09-15T14:13:00.000-02:00

Boys Playing on Boat in Indian Ocean

2005-09-15T14:11:00.000-02:00

Our Banda at Kendwa Rocks "Resort"

2005-09-15T14:09:00.000-02:00

Stone Town Harbor

2005-09-14T14:15:00.001-02:00

Windows

2005-09-14T14:15:00.000-02:00

Shutters

2005-09-13T14:14:00.000-02:00

Carved Wooden Door Frame

2005-09-13T14:10:00.000-02:00

Annex Malindi Reception

2005-09-13T14:08:00.000-02:00

Cat in Cemetery

Woman Washing Dishes

2005-09-12T13:13:00.000-02:00

Freddy Mercury's Bar in Zanzibar

2005-09-11T13:11:00.000-02:00

2005-09-11T06:02:00.000-02:00

Indian Ocean from Slave Port

Seafood Feasts and Sugar Cane Juice

2005-09-10T13:23:00.000-02:00

Kili from 30,000 Feet

2005-09-10T13:09:00.000-02:00

Zany Zanzibar

2005-09-10T11:23:00.000-02:00

Michelle and I fly into Nairobi at 5:30am and hang out at the Java House watching CNN coverage of New Orleans. We contemplate sleeping but there’s no sleeping in the hard plastic seats. Our flight to Zanzibar takes us over the top of Kili and we get some great photos through the plane window. Michelle is shocked at the barren summit and the sheets of ice. She questions why she’s climbing the mountain in two weeks. Looking down on the mountain feels strange to me, like I’m looking at home. I’ve spent time there, I think, like it’s my old stomping grounds. We get to Zanzibar at 9:45am. It’s Saturday and we arrive on a plane loaded with white people. Only white people. All the planes coming to Zanzibar are full of white people from all parts of Europe and Australia.

Michelle and I are both anticipating a week of relaxation, where we can let our guard down and not worry about Africans leeching off of us because we’re white. Oh, boy, are we mistaken.

A visa to enter Tanzania costs $50USD. We get our visas at the tiny airport and exchange our money into Tanzania shillings. Knowing we’ll be spending about $10/night, I’ve budgeted approximately $100 for our seven-day stay; $60 for six nights and $40 for food/souvenirs. I’ve become accustomed to living off very small amounts of money, watching what’s spent on food and buying only essentials.

The minute we step outside the airport doors, a crowd of men rush at us asking if we want a taxi. We’ve already decided that instead of spending $10 USD on a taxi to town, we’ll spend about 20 cents and take a dalla dalla. The dalla dalla is the bus system on Zanzibar island and gets it's name from "Dollar, Dollar," which is what it costs to take the taxis to other parts of the island. A dalla dalla is a truck with a covered back, fitted with a ledge for sitting around the perimeter. As we look for the dalla dalla stand, men get in our faces and won’t back away. Even when we say no, they follow closely, bending to put their faces in our line of sight.

We enter a small office at the front of the airport, labeled TOURIST INFORMATION, where an air conditioner spits out humid air. The guy points to the covered dalla dalla stand across the street. We pull our bags in the direction as a taxi driver in a striped shirt latches onto me and another, seemingly crazy guy, latches onto Michelle. We’re having difficulty pulling/carrying our luggage across the dirt parking lot and seeing where we’re going, so it’s rather annoying to have these two men on us. The guide book warns about men who get a kickback from certain hotels, so we are aware their advice may not be in our best interest. We tell them we know where we’re staying and do not need their help, but they do not back down, only insist on knowing where we’re staying. Michelle and I have studied the city map in the guide book and feel if we head toward town we can easily find our way to the Annex Malindi Guest House, the first place we’ve decided to check out. The annoying taxi driver finally leaves us because his taxi is at the airport, but the crazy man is still with us, climbing into the dalla dalla.

“We do not want your assistance,” I tell him rudely in front of the other passengers. “So if you’re getting on here and going to town because of us, we don’t want your assistance.” He assures me he is going to town for his own business. Right.

People crowd into the back of the bus until we're smashed against each other. A woman on my left in a burka presses into me every time the bus brakes. Because I’m against the cab of the truck, the entire line of people on my side lean forward as we brake and their total weight presses me into the cab. When we stop to pick up passengers, I lean forward into the open center space to relieve the pressure. This seems to piss the woman off. Well, I’m pissed at her and the others, who seem to do this intentionally. We also get no direction or advice from the conductor of the bus, who rides in the back and takes money. When we ask about the best place to get off, everyone is vague or acts as though they don’t understand English. Finally, Michelle and I just pick a place and pull our luggage down from the roof. The tall, crazy guy climbs out, too, and tries to assist us with our luggage. We refuse his help.

But where are we? It seems town is back a certain way and we’re not quite sure how to find it. The guy keeps saying, “this way, follow me,” and while we don’t want to, because he’ll want money for his guidance, we follow him slightly. We walk along sandy alleys then come upon a main road, congested with traffic and market stalls, tiny shack stores and gas stations. None of the pavement is smooth, as though the entire island is unpaved, and dragging the luggage is a chore. There’s noise and people staring, trying to sell us things, cars honking and the crazy guy towering over us. At one point, Michelle turns and walks away from the main road to get rid of the guy. We end up on quieter city streets, but he’s still with us.

There’s a small police station sitting under huge, spreading trees and surrounded by green lawn. When we approach the building, the crazy guy drops back for a block, watching us from a distance. We sit on a bench under the roof’s edge and ask a man if he knows where Annex Malindi is. He attempts to give us directions but consults with the police woman behind the counter. We tell them the crazy guy is following us and won’t leave us alone. They point us toward town and we again set out with our heavy luggage. The crazy guy soon rejoins us.

At one point, we turn into the maze of streets that make up Stone Town, with the stone buildings and houses creating twisting paths of narrow streets. Michelle is so exasperated, she walks up to a man relaxing outside a store. She’s seeking refuge and assistance. When he stands up, his striped shirt seems familiar. Then I see his face and we both realize it’s the taxi driver from the airport, the one who wouldn’t leave us alone! How can it be that with the thousands of people in town, we had to approach this guy for help? We quickly retreat.

This time we follow the crazy guy's directions. The streets are so narrow and there's no way to see ahead, to know where we are. He leads us straight to the Malindi Guest House, where two men run out to greet us and take us inside. Everyone on Zanzibar is anxious to get the attention and business of whites. The rate is $15 per night, which is higher than we had anticipated. They offer to show us Annex Malindi, which is just around the corner and only $10 per night. After vieiwing both places, we choose Annex Malindi and settle into our rooms.

The guest house is in a stone Swahili building, which means it has mangrove poles as ceiling braces throughout. China bowls are inset into the walls in the fashion of Swahili culture. The walls are thick and the ceilings exceedingly high. The staircase leading to the three upper levels is narrow and the steps are deep and uneven. Typical Swahili style also provides a courtyard in the center of the building which is open to the sky. On the roof are tables and chairs where we will eat our free breakfast each morning. The Indian Ocean is only a few blocks away.

Keys in Africa are huge, like the large keys in old horror movies. They're used in houses and hotels and even on my office door at TICH. Annex Malindi leaves the keys dangling in unused rooms, so are able to go from room to room and pick the one that suits us best. My room is in the corner with two shuttered windows. As with most buildings in East Africa, there are no screens or glass in the windows. Two beds line the walls, both with mosquito nets. A chair sits next to the door, at the bottom of the deep step into the room. A ceiling fan helps to keep the mosquitos from alighting and to keep the room feeling somewhat fresh in the humidity.

At Annex Malindi, the bath is communal. Each floor has two baths. These are large rooms with a shower head in the corner, a toilet and a sink. Part of the wall is tiled, but the floor is raw cement throughout. One bath has a switch for heating shower water. There is no soap, no towels and often no toilet paper. Travelers in Africa should always carry these basics. I have the travel toilet paper roll, but no soap and no towel. I improvise and use shampoo for soap. Luckily, the weather is warm so a towel is not needed, but I shower in my bathing suit, so I can move from the bath to my room without showing too much, and then use a t-shirt to dry off. Living in Africa, I’ve learned to get by periodically without electricity, to spend a week or more without water and to not bathe or wash my hair regularly. Since electricity is sketchy, I do not invest in a blow dryer while in Africa. Just comb through my wet hair and allow it to dry naturally. I grow used to not putting on makeup in the mornings. It’s a freeing way to live, as long as everyone else is also unable to bathe and shampoo, too.

After resting, Michelle and I walk to the main harbor in Stone Town where vendors set up nightly barbecues. Walking the path through the city’s main “square,” means walking past table after table piled high with seafood. Each table has a hot grill waiting, a jiko with hot oil for frying chips and a crew to make sure your food is prepared and served promptly. Crew members call out to those walking by and those taking a peek, competing with the crew at the next table for customers.

Shark, Barracuda, shrimp, lobster, squid, red and white snapper, tuna, mackeral and other fishes are cut into pieces and skewered. Crab claws are stacked next to Octopus tentacles. The food is beautiful and especially alluring lit by kerosene lamps placed on the tables. Each skewer, which contains about eight to ten pieces fish, costs 1000 shillings, which is $1 USD. Though sometimes they’ll drop the price to 800 shillings when negotiating. Two skewers of fish and chips costs about 2,500 shillings, or $2.50 USD. And it’s delicious. Set amongst the tables of food are sugar can juicers. The men run foot-long pieces of sugar cane through the press about four or five times, until the cane is dry and splintered. They add a slice of lime to the glass. It tastes almost like lemonade but isn’t overly sweet. One glass costs 200 shillings, or about 20 US cents.

We pass through the crowd and are amazed at how many white people there are. Still not used to seeing white faces, Michelle and I find them exotic and interesting. Beyond the tables of seafood are rows of booths where vendors sell cloth, jewelry, shawls, original oil paintings (Tinga Tinga) and batik (cloth hand-painted with African scenes). These vendors are aggressive and sometimes desperate, so we walk through and avoid making eye contact.

During the day, all these booths and tables of food disappear. The harbor park is a grassy expanse with a central, round pavilion. Facing the harbor at the grassy edge is the House of Wonders, a massive, restored building that once housed the sultan of Zanzibar. Now a museum, the building is devoted to the maritime history of Zanzibar and explores the Swahili culture found here and along Kenya’s coast.

2005-09-10T06:01:00.000-02:00

Zanzibari Sunset

2005-09-09T13:18:00.000-02:00

Last Day in Addis

2005-09-09T05:14:00.000-02:00

Michelle wants to leave work early today so she can pack for her three-week trip. She asks me to wait to go to the hospital until she’s off work. That will allow her some quiet time at home to pack without my intrusion. I’m a little depressed because I imagined the minute we got to the office today, the driver would take me on to the hospital. But I can wait a few more hours.

Getnesh, a lively and lovely co-worker of Michelle’s who handles the finances for RaDO, makes a phone call to the guy who maintains RaDO’s website. His name is Ramseret and he is so nice, asking for feedback on his web design. Ramseret is paralyzed from the waist down, which is why he wants to be RaDO’s webmaster. After discussing possible changes and suggestions with Ramseret, it’s time for lunch.

Getnesh insists on taking Michelle to lunch since Michelle is going to be gone for three weeks. Getnesh chooses a traditional Ethiopian restaurant at the Lalibela Hotel around the corner from RaDO’ office. The furnishings are authentic Ethiopian with handcarved chairs and wooden, carved pictures on the walls. The table is a large woven basket. When the lid is removed, a gorgeous, wood table top is exposed. A metal tray, the size of the tabletop, sits on the wood surface and is filled with food. The baskets are handwoven by women and they incorporate bright colors into the weave. The shape is distinctive, getting larger in the middle and coming to a point at the top. Many people use these basket/tables in their homes. When the top is on the table, fitted crocheted covers, the exact shape of the basket, are placed over the basket, acting as decorative dust collectors. They make beautiful, functional additions to any home. Unfortunately, we do not have time for the coffee ceremony, a ritual revered by Ethiopians.

Getnesh orders for us and the food is served from a multi-tiered "tree" hung with many small containers. The large table top is covered with a giant Injera, about 2 feet in diameter, and the waitress spoons out the various meat and bean-based dishes on the Injera. Ethiopian food is quite spicy so I taste for the lumps of food with the least spices. It’s a beautiful meal, but I still do not have an appetite. And because I’ve been nauseous for days, I’m beginning to associate Injera and the meat sauces with nausea. And it’s truly unfair because Injera and the sauces that go with it are tasty and healthful. I’m still not feeling well and while it’s a great meal with truly warm people, all I can think about is getting to the hospital. Soon.

Thomas, a RaDO driver, drops me at St. Gabriel’s. I’ll walk to Michelle’s when I leave. Just like the first visit, they move me through the process relatively quickly and soon I’m facing a new doctor, one who asks a lot of questions but doesn’t give me time to answer. At least he looks into my sinuses and ears (do you notice hearing lose in your left ear? He asks) and agrees I need antibiotics!!! I want to do a jig of joy but haven’t the energy. So I grab the medicine from the pharmacy and call Michelle. We arrange to meet in one hour at a college. She has drawn me a map on a sticky note. The walk takes only 15 minutes but I want a little extra time to look for authentic Ethiopian shawls in the shops along the way.

It’s nearing the end of the rainy season, so I carry Michelle’s rather long umbrella, using it as a walking stick. I’m feeling tired and weak. I don’t walk quickly. Just stroll. I have the sticky note with drawn map in my left hand. As I stroll, I pass masses of marked goats, being tended and kept motionless by men of all ages. There are men with cars the size of shopping carts, giving driving instruction and they playfully call me over, offering to teach me to drive. I keep strolling. A homeless guy who mumbles to himself walks next to me. Some people know him and speak, others turn away from him. As small children come out to beg from me, I don’t increase my pace. Just look at them. Eventually the mumbling man will tell them to leave me and they do.

As I near what looks like the college, a very tall man comes up behind me and speaks to me in Amharic, though he appears to be enjoying some pre-New Year’s libations. He also appears to be mentally unstable. He is talking to me and I look at him as I continue to walk slowly with my umbrella walking stick.

The man is very tall and bigger than most Ethiopians. He’s also making noises that do not sound like any language. His skin is light brown, as are his eyes, and he has them locked on me as I search the street for the college. When I don’t pay him any attention, he grabs my left wrist and tries to read the sticky note. His grip is strong and I don’t pull away or yell, for fear he’ll react irrationally. I keep moving with him at my side, holding my wrist and making strange noises. People on both sides of the street are looking. Then the grabs my arm above my elbow and pulls me so I turn toward him. I resist and keep moving down the street. He pulls me again. Suddenly from five different directions, five men step onto the sidewalk at the same time, placing themselves between the man and me. There is yelling and gestures. The man doesn't retreat right away but I am very grateful to the men who have intervened and am sure it shows on my face. It’s probably good that I am sick and not myself, that I don’t resist or fight back, because the guy is unpredicatable.

Each man who stepped in on my behalf is extremely apologetic. They make the man move away from me and two of the men insist on walking me to the college. They confirm he has been drinking and is crazy. These men did not have to step in and I’m very grateful they did!

Michelle meets me at the college and we walk back to her place, down the side streets flooded with rainy season showers. We step on rocks and dodge mud all the way. Michelle is packed, sort of. We go through her clothes, choosing the best ones for Kilimanjaro, where the temperature can be close to zero degrees fahrenheit. She has lots and lots of stuff, but only two backpacks as luggage, so we unpack and then pack again so everything fits.

We are ready for our flight to Nairobi, where we’ll have a layover for the flight to Zanzibar. But our flight doesn’t leave until 2:50am. We walk from Michelle’s place to a hotel just across the expressway from the airport. It’s 10:00pm. We eat dinner and chat and then, at Midnight, start crossing the highway and walking the mile or so to the airport. Michelle and others tell me Addis is safe. Women can walk alone any time of the night or day. We have no trouble whatsoever as we walk about town after Midnight.

That’s certainly not the case in Kisumu where everyone is in their homes by 8:00pm.

Oxen Plowing

2005-09-08T12:55:00.000-02:00

Michelle and I meet two friends of hers, Faskia and Mesele. They are brother and sister (their father was a polygamist so they have different mothers) and have started a farmer's cooperative as part of a non-government organization they've formed. Fasika is a teacher and she's taken the day off to go to the rural farm with us. We meet at 7:30am and take a matatu to a taxi stand. In Ethiopia, they call their van taxis "Line taxis." In Kenya, we call them matatus. Michelle is craving coffee so we stop at a small cafe-type place. But I'm not hungry or thirsty. The infection creates sinus drainage that makes me nauseous, killing my appetite. I've felt so badly for so long, even while consistently taking Panadol to relieve the pain, that I'm beginning to get used to walking around like a zombie. No energy.

From the cafe, we take a regular taxi to the main line taxi stand. We wait for the bus to fill before we head out of Addis, toward Nazareth. Fasika and Mesele grew up in a village built by a sugar cane company. The company operates the mill and provides housing for its employees. The village also has stores, everything the families of the employees might need. It takes about two hours to reach Nazareth. We get on a large bus crammed with lots of people. Religious beads and artifical flowers create a shrine around the bus driver. A large painting of mother Mary looks at us from the front. Their village is 20 kms outside Nazareth.

The road is barely a path in some areas and the bus bounces and jolts us. We drive alongside a lovely, curving river until we get to a checkpoint. We are officially entering the sugar cane village and everyone must get off the bus and be searched. For what? No one is sure. As we move away from the bus, trying to avoid falling into the river where people are pushing and shoving, I feel a hand move from my upper back, down over my butt and onto my thighs. Very strange. Turning, I see a female guard and understand this to be the search. Back on the bus, we enter the village built by corporate funds in rural, poor Ethiopia. We pull in front of a few wood and tin stores, stopping in the dirt parking lot.

There are very few white people in Ethiopia. In the rural areas, there are fewer still. As we stand in the dirt parking lot waiting for a line taxi to take us to the farmers' plots, all the people in the village stare. Especially the children. Some come up and touch us on the arm and run away giggling. Others touch my hair. Sometimes I tire of being a sideshow. But being sick, I have no energy to react, positively or negatively, and just stand, moving as little as possible, as adults and children near and far notice me and Michelle.

We climb into a line taxi and head into the bush over rough roads. After driving for about three miles, we pass a line taxi and stop next to it. Mesele has a conversation with the driver and suddenly we're leaving our taxi and climbing into this new one. They disgorge their passengers and make them take the taxi we were in. It seems this new taxi is driven by a of friend Mesele's and they had arranged for the friend to take us to the farmers' plots. They still charge us for the ride, but supposedly less. In addition, the driver waits for us at the site, as we walk the fields and meet the farmers.

Granted, Fasika and Mesela are like many Africans who start their own NGOs to help their fellow countrymen and women. They think white people have money and means. Michelle has been working with the pair, helping them write proposals for funding. Now that I'm in town, she wants to expand their network by plugging me into it. That's fine, but I'm not at all sure how I can help them. This is common, though, because we simply cannot know how we can assist until we learn more about what they do. I think of Pambazuko's work in Nyalenda, the slums of Kisumu. Can I support more than one organization? I also recall how I've become disappointed in Walter's behavior recently. Will I continue to support Pambazuko? How? What can I do for any of these people and what's the most effective way to contribute?

By the time the taxi stops, we are deep into Ethiopia's rural land. Mesele explains how the farmers' cooperative works. There are 20 families who have joined together, under Mesele's guidance, to help each other farm their plots. It is difficult for a single farmer and his family to own all the tools and knowledge necessary to cultivate crops. If the farmers pool their resources, they are able to cultivate their land and share techniques to increase crop yield. Alone, it's very difficult. Together, they can accomplish much. These farmers have rented plows and other equipment. They take turns using the equipment and share oxen in pulling the plows. They're also able to buy seed and fertilizer at reduced costs because they're buying in bulk. They help each other in tilling or weeding or harvesting if there is illness.

As we walk the freshly plowed fields, we meet the young men of seven farming families. While we're there, three young men relieve each other from leading the oxen as they pull a large, metal plow. Mesele shows us a large, circular hole that's been dug nearby. The hole will capture rain water, which will then be used during times of drought to water the crops and the animals. They're growing teff, a thin, grass-like plant that's used to make Injera.

The sun is intense while we walk the land. Soon we leave the farmers and take the line taxi to Fasika's house. Fasika and Mesele's father is an employee of the sugar factory and they grew up in this house. Waiting for us are 25 orphans and their guardians. These children have been selected by Fasika and Mesele to receive assistance in the form of food, school fees, school uniforms, shoes and medical care. These children, just like millions of others in African countries, lost their parents to AIDS. Many of these children are probably HIV positive themselves.

As we enter the gate, the small yard is full of children and the women who have accompanied them here. Not knowing when we would arrive, they've been waiting for us for five hours. Michelle has brought bubble gum, lollipops and balloons, but before we take photos and pass out the goodies, I suggest each child tell us his or her name. It's an opportunity for us all to meet on a personal level since the language barrier and the size of the crowd makes it difficult for us to interact. Each child steps forward or stands up and says his or her name. Some of them speak English. Most of them are confident. A few are shy but speak up so the whole crowd can hear. Their Amharic names are translated into English for us; Joy, Peace, Hope, Strong, Justice. They smile and we smile. Mesele speaks and they hang on his every word. I'm moved by their respect for him and Fasika.

Once the speeches are over, we realize we should head back to Addis, so we can arrive before night falls. Fasika pulls a Pomegranate from a tree in the back yard and offers sections to me and Michelle. Not quite ripe, it's slightly bitter. I give Fasika $5 USD. Ethiopia will be celebrating their New Year in a couple of days and she wants to cook a big meal for the children. I don't have a lot of money and regret it's in dollars and not birr, but the $5 should buy two chickens for the meal. I know Fasika was hoping for about $25, enough to buy a goat for slaughtering, but I don't have that much on me and didn't really plan to give anything today.

The last few days, all over Ethiopia, we've seen men watching over groups of nearly 100 goats. Many goats are marked with green or red on their forehead. Or their horns are wrapped in color-coded scarves. Ethiopian New Year is a huge celebration. Everyone gathers with their families for traditional meals, which they begin preparing the day before New Year's. Some men, we notice, have already started celebrating by drinking the local brew. There were a few on the line taxi that brought us into the sugar cane village.

In addition to the men who were drunk, there were also men and women in the taxi carrying produce and livestock for the local market. One man sitting next to me, facing me, had a chicken with it's legs tied together. He had to keep the chicken facing him so it's head wouldn't protrude into my face. The chicken was protesting somewhat and he and I grinned at each other. He was a very lean old man with a thin jacket and he exited the taxi with others carrying potatoes, grains and handmade goods to market.

We left the small house in the sugar cane village and returned to Addis via bus and line taxi and regular taxi. We had left at 7:30 in the morning and arrived at Michelle's house at 8:00pm. It is a long journey and I can't believe Mesele and Fasika travel the long route regularly while running their NGO.

When we're settling in for the evening, I tell Michelle I'm going to the doctor again the next day. Popping pain relievers before sleeping, my spirits are buoyed somewhat knowing I'll get medicine the next day (I hope!).

2005-09-08T06:58:00.000-02:00

Ethiopian Landscape

2005-09-08T06:00:00.001-02:00

Michelle with Ethiopian Orphans

2005-09-08T06:00:00.000-02:00

Interior of Ethiopian Bus

2005-09-08T05:59:00.000-02:00

Fasika, Michelle and Mesele (from Left) with Farmers

2005-09-08T05:58:00.000-02:00

Farmer with Oxen

2005-09-08T05:57:00.000-02:00

Farmer's Hut

Sick as a Dog

2005-09-07T04:50:00.000-02:00

The next few days, unfortunately, are a blur to me. Because I’m feeling so badly, I just want to curl up and sleep all the time. I have no energy, find it hard to talk and am practically unable to smile. We go to Michelle’s office and she’s up and down, in and out of her office. Her co-workers are so thoughtful and they boil water, bringing it to me and instructing me to place my face over the bowl and breathe deeply, to open up my sinuses. Esther constantly walks quietly to my desk and sits down a cup of strong tea or Macchiato, knowing the warm liquids are soothing to my throat and sinuses. Yiberta, Getnesh and the others wonder if it’s the altitude, if it’s the flu. I tell everyone it’s a sinus infection and I just need antibiotics, but they don’t really listen because I don’t say it with energy. I just want to sit very quietly, very still and let time pass. Because with every minute, perhaps I’m healing and on the way to feeling better.

Today I look over a printed copy of RaDO’s website. I edit the copy, which is in English, and make suggestions for additional info and pages to be added. I read through their annual report and research papers and other literature documenting their programs. All of this info will help to sketch a marketing plan.

Michelle is busy tying up loose ends because she and I will be flying to Zanzibar this Friday night. After we spend a week in Zanzibar, Michelle is going on Safari in Tanzania and will climb Kilimanjaro. She will be away fron RaDO for three weeks and she’s feeling pressure to put things in place before she leaves.

Doctor, Doctor, Give me the News

2005-09-06T14:39:00.000-02:00

We ride to RaDO’s office with Yiberta and meet Michelle’s co-workers. They’re all very lovely and kind. RaDO stands for Rehabilitation and Development Organization. The organization was founded to provide physical rehabilitation to people with disabilities. They set up rehabilitation facilities in several Ethiopian hospitals, providng both the equipment and trained personnel. Government-run hospitals in Ethiopia did not have rehabilitation services until RaDO started their program. RaDO soon expanded into providing prostethics for people injured by landmines. Recipients of prostethics include refugees from the Sudan and Eritrea where wars have been fought for years.

Eventually, RaDO created a landmine education program for people living in or near war zones. Many of these landmines and explosive devices aren’t buried, as most people suspect. They’re often found lying on the ground, near water sources and in open fields. When an adult or child finds them, they often do not recognize it as an explosive. Some are made inside wooden boxes or metal containers, looking like delightful play-things to children. Plus, metal is hard to find in the rural areas and many people pick up the devices so they can re-use the metal.

RaDO has produced brochures using illustrated warnings, with big, red arrows pointing to the dangerous devices in each scene. There are no words in the brochures or on the posters, for many of the rural people are illiterate. RaDO has several cloth posters they put up during training and these posters are painted with the various types of bombs. After meeting the people at RaDO, and learning more about what they do, Michelle and I go to lunch at a nearby restaurant.

The “diner” is really just a nice-sized room made of plywood with a tin roof and tables and chairs. A TV plays a local channel. We wash our hands in a large sink outside then take a table inside. Michelle orders Tywat for me, a beef stew poured over Injera. A guy at a nearby table is eating a soup that looks delicious so Michelle orders the soup, as a change to her usual lunch. The soup is yellowish (saffron?) with potatoes. When they place the bowl in front of Michelle, I notice a row of small, regular white dots protruding from the soup, some with sharp edges. Looking closer, I realize they are teeth and I tell Michelle. But she doesn’t hear me. When I ask her if they are teeth, she puts her spoon into the soup and elevates what looks like a lower jawbone, split down the middle, with the teeth explosed from the back of the jaw to the front. She eats the soup and potatoes but does not touch the jaw. We later learn it's from a sheep.

A RaDO driver drops me at the VSO office, where Tracy writes a letter authorizing me to use their medical care services. I walk the half mile to the hospital and am impressed with their efficiency. They are not friendly, but they build a file on me and I'm sitting with the doctor very quickly. He is about my age and earned his medical degree in Poland. Though his English isn’t that good, and I know no Amharic, we’re able to talk. He asks me about the U.S. and my volunteer work. I tell him my complaint is a sinus infection and I simply need antibiotics. I have a headache and feel awful, tired. He doesn’t look at my sinuses or my throat or ears. Simply writes out three perscriptions. I’m feeling better already knowing healing pills are so close at hand.

When I get to the pharmacy window, just down the hall, they pass through the tiny window a bottle of antihistamine (which I avoid at all costs), claritin and panadol, a pain reliever like Advil in the states. I’m so disappointed to see the antihistamine and feel deflated there are no antibiotics. Damn!!

I walk back to the VSO office, feeling worse by the minute, and take the medicine right away, hoping it will help. I save the antihistamine for bedtime because it always knocks me out. That evening, Michelle and I meet up with other VSO folks at Pizza Del Roma. The pizza is good. Jimmy is from Uganda and volunteering in Addis. Jeanta is on the VSO staff. She’s originally from Britain but lived in Canada before coming to Ethiopia. Jeanta has given notice of her departure and she’ll return to Canada in October. Jimmy has brought a friend, Betty, who works at the Tanzania Embassy in Addis.

Before bedtime, I take the antihistamine and am reminded why I never take them!! They cause my head to stuff up and I cannot breathe. Not only am I weak from feeling so badly, I now can’t breathe or sleep. It’s cold in Addis and Michelle has given up her very comfortable bed to me. She’s sleeping in the next room on the living room chair cushions and a sleeping bag. She and I argue over the sleeping arrangement but I soon become too sick to raise my voice and have no energy to fight with her. Tonight I’m extremely grateful to Michelle for this cozy bed and the warm blankets.

Sick Day

2005-09-05T04:37:00.000-02:00

It is Monday, but instead of going to RaDO to work, Michelle spends the day at the VSO office facilitating a capacity building workshop with VSO staff. I stay at her place and read and sleep and feel somewhat better but then begin to feel worse. If I don’t get antibiotics, the infection will not get better. Over a scrumptious dinner of Salmon (from Vancouver), sauteed zucchini, sliced tomatoes and avocados and Stove-Top Stuffing (which Michelle has been saving for a special occasion), we decide I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. VSO has great medical coverage for all volunteers. St. Gabriel’s Hospital in Addis is where volunteers get medical treatment. All I’ll need is a letter from the VSO office confirming I’m a volunteer in Kenya.

Visiting Lucy

2005-09-04T16:23:00.000-02:00

Sunday in Ethiopia. Michelle and I enjoy a relaxing morning with great coffee. She boils the coffee grinds in water then strains the juice. Rich and delicious. Not many people drink coffee in Kenya. Tea is the drink of choice in East Africa but coffe is, hands down, my favorite beverage on the planet.

In the afternoon, Michelle and I walk through town to see the sights. Addis is a large city in every respect and it does have its poor population. When we begin our trek, I tell Michelle I normally ignore anyone begging (even children) and I hope she isn’t offended by such behavior. She tells me she does the same thing. So we walk and talk along a new, wide road into the more properous parts of town. We pass a hotel and Michelle says there was a shoot-out in the lobby of the hotel in May, during the national elections, and several people were killed. For a week during the elections, Michelle and other VSO volunteers were told to stay home and not go to work. Most people in Addis avoided going out because of the potential for election-related violence to erupt. But violence of this sort, related to politics and elections, is common in developing countries where ongoing political instability prevents these countries from developing.

It’s a lovely day and we walk for five hours, trying hard to ignore the very tiny children who run beside us with their hands out. At least many of them are offering purse-size packs of tissues, instead of begging outright. Not so with the very ancient men and women who approach us. There are many people with disabilities begging. More than in Kenya, where most people who ask for handouts are young and healthy.

Ethiopians have small builds. I’m larger and taller than most of the men. Years of malnutrition hasn’t helped. Small children, begging, seem even tinier, as do the old, old men and women. As we walk, we get used to people calling out to us because of our white skin.

Michelle and I have collected three children as we walk about town. We decide to stop mid-day for a meal. We chose a restaurant called Dashen and enter with the children following. The waitress shoos the children back out the door where they wait for us. A TV in the corner, just over my left shoulder, shows the New Orleans flood damage from Hurrican Katrina. While everyone around us is speaking Amharic and eating Injera, the traditional pancake-like Ethiopian food, I’m fascinated by my fellow Americans who fill the TV screen. They seem so foreign to me in this foreign country.

Michelle orders and soon a large, oblong plate is set before us. On top of the Injera, which is folded in half, sits a bowl of what looks like ground beef in a tomato sauce, with a hard boiled egg's smooth white curve peeking from the center of the bowl. Michelle unfolds the Injera on the large plate and pours the contents of the bowl on top. She instructs me to rip off a piece of Injera and scoop up the meat sauce, using only the right hand. It is very similar to pinching off ugali and using it to soak up meat with sauces. The Injera is gray and spongy and has air holes like a not-quite-done pancake. It is tasteless but takes on the flavor of accompanying dishes and dips.
We drink orange soda poured from a glass bottle and I sip it conservatively because the Injera sauce is slightly spicy. Michelle then orders a second dish, this one with chicken poured over Injera. We complete the meal with small, strong shots of macchiato. The total is 24 birr, or about $2.40 USD.

We walk a few blocks to the National Museum where we visit Lucy, the 1.1 metre tall skeleton unearthed in the Hadar region of Ethiopia. She’s tiny, this skeleton that is part actual bone and part reconstructed bones. This miniature woman, only three feet tall, is just a replica, the sign tells us, for the real bones of Lucy are locked away in the basement of the museum. A sample of primitive australopithecines, Australopithecus afarensis, Lucy walked essentially erect approxiately four million years ago. She's the most complete early hominid skeleton yet recovered and she shows postcranial features that permitted her to process judgments about early hominid (bipedal) locomotion. Well, that's a fancy way of saying her brain allowed her to walk upright, on two feet.

As Michelle and I bipedal ourselves home, I being sneezing and my nose is running. Not sure if it’s from the dust particles in the air, from the high elevation or just a cold coming on. But it worsens as the evening goes on and when I wake the next morning, feeling headachy and stuffy, I know it’s a sinus infection. I get them regularly and normally take a 10-day course of Amoxicillin, which halts the infection. I had planned to bring Amoxicillin on the trip, but the bottle of pills is on my kitchen counter in Kisumu!

Kisumu to Addis Ababa

2005-09-03T15:56:00.000-02:00

Kisumu airport is tiny, with a front waiting room where a TV is showing a Ghanaian reverend preaching about how Afrian blacks value whites more than themselves. I move to the departure lounge on the other side of a glass wall and watch our plane land. People disembark in the beautiful, windless sunniness. Our luggage is piled high on a walled cart and two men push it to the two-prop Kenya Airways plane. We follow and climb the steps from the tarmac to the plane. When I find my row, a fat mama has taken my window seat. She knows she's not in the right seat and I say nothing. She's so big, she keeps bumping me and takes up some of my space. She won't speak to me, though, even when I nod and say hello.

The short flight takes 50 minutes. Kisumu is quite lovely from the air. Lake Victoria is massive. When Kisumu ends, there are green fields leading to the hills of the Great Riff Valley escarpment. At least that's what I see in the tiny landscape view obstructed by the large, inconsiderate woman.

We land at the Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi and though it's not yet 10:00am, I go to Ethiopia Airlines, hoping to check in and relax. But a flight just left for Addis and they're not checking in for our 8:00pm flight until 5:00pm. Instead of going to the international concourse, where there are duty-free stores and a Starbucks-like coffee shop, I must wait in the ticketing area for hours.

Soon, passengers for a flight to Saudi Arabia fill the space. The women all wear burkas, with only their eyes showing. Their hands are painted with henna in two or three colors, their fingertips coated solid. While the women sit or stand in groups around their luggage, the men hurry to and fro getting their families checked in. Children push luggage carts into each other and run and climb noisily, unless they're running to fetch water for the women.

The large group has brought food. The men put a tray of assorted dishes on top of a luggage rack and they stand in a circle, eating with their right hands from the same tray. Some of the men wear slacks and western-style shirts while others wear white tunics to their knees (with slacks underneath). Several men wear a full white, dress-type robe with a white scarf draped over their head. One old man, accompanied by a thin Arab in a Western-style suit, has a black cord tied over his head scarf, like Yassar Afrafat. At the end of the terminal, six men stand shoulder to shoulder forming a diagonal line and facing a wall of windows. They're facing Mecca. One man stands in front of them and leads their afternoon prayers. They stand, then knell, putting their foreheads to the floor. Their prayer takes a while and people walk around them on their way to the restrooms.

At 5:00pm, I stand at the Ethiopian Airlines counter and a young man walks to the next console, preparing to open. Suddenly, a woman with a teenage boy and a man approach and begin to push their tickets in his face. He takes the man's ticket and the woman, who feels she should be helped first, says something in a perturbed tone. I say, "I've only been here since 11:00am waiting to check in." The airline guy smiles and says, "We'll get you ticketed." He hands the woman her tickets and she moves out of the way. I step up the counter. She asks the man where gate nine is and he asks to see her ticket again. He notices she's exceeded her travel time on the return trip. She becomes frantic and pushes back to the counter, knocking me out of the way.

"Let me take care of her," he says to the woman while motioning to me, "Then I'll look at your ticket." She doesn't move, leaving me to stand between counters. Sarcastically, I say, "I'll just stand over here." Of course, my sarcasm has no impact on the woman. In all my months in Africa, I can never get over the irritation of how people push and shove and cut in line and stand very close when there is no need to stand close. Men do not give women courtesies such as allowing them to walk through doorways first. Not even if the woman approaches the door first. The men will pass through with power, leaving anyone less forceful in their wake. I never get used to such rudeness. But the airline guy does ticket me soon enough, with a smile, and I'm free to relax until the flight.

Entering the international concourse, I'm a little overwhelmed by the shops with their fancy goods. It's much like shops at Heathrow or Atlanta or Amsterdam airports. When I go to the restroom, however, there is no water for flushing the toilet or washing my hands. The restroom attendant confirms the water is not available throughout the airport. A reminder that even though we're surrounded by fancy shops and lots of people waiting to fly to Dubai, Zanzibar, London and Mumbai, we're still in third-world Kenya.

I go to the Java House coffee shop at gate 14 and buy a macchiato and large brownie, both of which are delicious. There are mostly white people in the booths, watching CNN on several overhead screens. Two white women, who seem to be American, take the table next to mine and I notice one is carrying a bottle of Rwenzori water. I cannot resist asking her where she got the water. Uganda, she says. I tell her about the boys in Rwanda calling out from the roadside for empty bottles. She asks if I'd like to join them, so I do. They live in the American South and are both married with children. Both of them also worked as volunteers in Africa when they were younger. The three of us are about the same age.

They're in Kenya and Uganda to check out programs set up by their church to feed orphans. I tell them about TICH's newest program to feed orphans in Western Kenya. I also tell them about TICH's upcoming nutrition workshop that will focus on nutritional needs of people living with HIV/AIDS and promise to get info to them about the programs. Talking with the women is energizing. It's rare that I get to be around people from the U.S. I have no idea of the time and only realize, once we've parted, that my plane is already boarding. The plane is new and extremely comfortable. Ethiopian Airlines' inflight magazine says the airline gets calls from clients asking if there will be food on the flight.

It's been a while since I've been on a big plane with a TV. They show episodes of Home Improvement with Tim Allen. Wow. America. Americans. I sometimes forget what it's like to be around my fellow country men and women. Most of the time, I'm surrounded by Kenyans who speak English with accents. All I see are black faces and all conversations are passed through cultural filters. I work hard to avoid misinterpreting their words or meanings and and work equally hard to ensure they won't misinterpret mine. Also shown during the flight is a travel piece on Zanzibar, which is extremely helpful and puts me in the mood for visiting the island.

We arrive in Addis Ababa, at their lovely glass and steel airport, at 9:00pm, though getting a visa takes nearly an hour. Michelle is there to meet me, accompanied by Yiberta, the director of RaDO. It's a little cold in Addis because the elevation here is approximately 8,000 feet. We take a quick tour of Addis, through the relatively empty streets, passing the Italian Piazza. Mussolini invaded Ethiopia in 1936 and wasn't driven out until the early 40s. In the interim, he stole many of their cultural artifacts, like the mysterious obelisks constructed centuries ago. But with the help of the UN, Ethiopia is now regaining those obelisks, which are being shipped from Italy and reassembled in their oringinal locales.

What the Italians left behind in Ethiopia that few other African nations have is excellent, excellent coffee.

Yiberta drops us at Michelle's place, which is a very nice two-bedroom, one-bath townhouse with a tiny courtyard and a guard. Yiberta lives four houses down across the lane. Michelle and I stay up late talking about our experiences as volunteers. We discuss the cultural differences and getting used to new languages and new foods. In Ethiopia, the official language is Amharic. Some people speak English, but not many. Because East Africa (Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania) was colonized by the British, English is one of the official languages and is taught in schools, along with Kiswahili. But English is not an official language in Ethiopia. The few people who speak English speak very broken English. But Michelle seems to have caught on to many Amharic words and is able to communicate efficiently.

Out of Office: Going to Ethiopia and Zanzibar

2005-08-28T06:21:00.000-02:00

Saturday, September 3, I’m flying to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, to visit Michelle Strong, a fellow VSO volunteer. We’re going to spend the week at Michelle’s workplace, Rehabilitation and Development Organization (RaDO), which focuses on women with disabilities. Michelle is a marketing advisor like me and we're going to compare notes and share tips for our respective organizations. RaDO also has an education program about landmines, since landmines are a serious problem in Ethiopia.

On September 10, Michelle and I are flying to Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania, for a much-needed vacation!! We’re so looking forward to seven days of relaxation and swimming in the Indian Ocean. Zanzibar is much like the cities on Kenya’s coast, heavily Muslim with a cultural mix of African, Arab and Indian influences. I’ll be writing about the trip and posting it here, along with photos. If there’s nothing new here for awhile, just because we're traveling without access to internet (Michelle says internet is sketchy at best in Ethiopia). Expect to see the Ethiopia/Zanzibar trip here by September 18 or so. In the meantime, Take Care!!

Feels Like Art

2005-08-28T05:49:00.000-02:00

Quilts Under Construction

My maternal grandmother was always sewing and quilting when we were young. She’d spread fabric across her dining table and lay the tissue paper patterns on top. Instead of straight pins, Grandma would lay butter knives around the edge of the pattern pieces, to hold them in place while she cut the cloth. I have two quilts Grandma made. Pieced of inexpensive cotton fabric, they’re fraying at a seam or two. But that’s easily fixed. Well, once I’m back in Atlanta and have retrieved the quilts from storage.

When my Uncle Richard was a boy, he’d hang out with his grandmother and other female relatives as they sat around a frame suspended from the ceiling. Expertly, the ladies would quilt detailed designs on the quilt stretched in the frame. When it was time to start cooking, the frame would be hoisted to the ceiling until the next quilting bee brought it down again. At last year’s family reunion, we visited the Foxfire Museum in North Georgia. In the grassy yard of the log cabin museum, under a tent, was a gorgeous quilt in a frame. A woman in 17th century costume encouraged us to sit and try our hand at stitching through the layers. I sat next to my uncle as he described being a young boy and learning to stitch from his grandmother. Richard showed me how to stitch, exactly as my great-grandmother had shown him. We stitched away in the July heat, intent on making perfect, uniform, tiny stitches.

I’ve been quilting here in Kisumu. It’s not easy, quilting in Africa, because they don’t know what a quilt is. They’re not familiar with the concept of piecing scraps of cloth for the blanket top, nor do they have batting. Ah, in the US and elsewhere, batting comes in lovely sheets of varying thicknesses. Simply unroll it, sprinkle the wrinkles with water, allow it to dry flat and then place it between the quilt top and backing. In place of batting, I’m substituting three layers of thin white cotton fabric. It doesn’t have the fluff, but adds a little bit of weight and structure. Stitching by hand means I’m not dependent on electricity, which has been unstable in Kisumu this week. The lights went out at 7pm the other evening, the time it gets dark here, and so I had to stitch by candlelight.

What they have lots and lots of here is material. Beautiful Royal Wax from West African countries (I bought the fabrics for the two quilts in the above photo at a shop on the Kenya-Uganda border), Kukoi from the coastal Muslim communities and tons and tons of Maasai fabrics, the bright red and royal blues in checks and stripes. Oh, and lots of gorgeous Indian fabrics (yesterday, while Trish and I were in town looking at fabrics in two Indian shops, I asked the tailor --who had made my suit-- if he could save fabric scraps for me. He said yes!!! But he doesn’t speak English, only Punjabi and Kiswahili, and the shop attendant, who’s Kenyan, asked him for me and I’m not sure how good her English is to translate into Kiswahili —so we’ll see if he totally understands what I was asking for. When I tried to explain to them why I wanted the pieces, they looked puzzled and laughed at me).

In place of a machine, I’m hand-stitching the pieces. My first project attempt is a total experiment. It’s not really a quilt, more like a lap quilt or wall hanging. I measure each piece, mark sewing lines, baste to ensure alignment and iron throughout the process. Unsure of how to quilt through all layers, I simply place a coordinating button smack dab in the center. Not bad, I think. The results are quite pleasing.

Turns out Trish, who’s also from Atlanta and also in Kisumu for two years, has intentions of learning to quilt (we're threatening to start a weekly Quilting Bee). A few days ago, Trish loaned me two of her books, “Zen and the Art of Quilting” and “Amish Quilting: Discover the Beautiful Art of Amish Quilts.” And they are beautiful, those Amish quilts with their solid, dark colors and intricate quilting designs. While reading, I discover the seam allowance on quilts is ¼ inch, not 5/8. I also learn everyone has trouble with the binding. But most importantly, I realize with my first attempt that placing a single button in the center of the quilt totally leaves out the true process of “quilting,” which is to sew through all layers of fabric and batting (or cotton layers in my case). Duh. The binding is already on, which will make quilting slightly difficult. But I will quilt it through all the layers. First, I’ll practice on the second quilt I’ve pieced, a bubble gum pink and white diamond quilt for my lovely, adorable daughter Jaime (since the photo was taken this morning, I've added the inner cotton layers and the backing).

I’m learning as I go and mostly learning not to regret mistakes. Just cover them up somehow. Cloth is sometimes forgiving and always comforting to hold and pierce as its being pieced. Exactness isn’t necessary. One exquisite by-product of making quilts is the meditative state achieved through concentration. I want these to be beautiful and art-like, because each stitch is made with love. When I think of the people who will receive the quilts, who’ll throw them across their couch or across their laps while watching TV, I feel close to people and close to home. Feels like I’m creating art and creating love, stitch by contemplative stitch.

New (Used) Phone, So Call Me!

2005-08-26T06:03:00.000-02:00

I have a phone again!!! It’s the same number as before: 0723 686 455. If you’re dialing internationally, Kenya’s country code is 254 and you probably don’t need to dial the “0” at the beginning of the number. This is a used phone which Tonny, my co-worker, found for me. Seems the teenagers here, like elsewhere, want to buy the newest, sleekest styles every six months. So this phone, a Motorola, is relatively new and cost 3,000 shillings, or about $40 USD.

Nearly everyone in Kenya has a cell phone (or mobiles, as they’re called here). Landlines are expensive and unreliable. But cellular systems in Kenya are top-notch, allowing folks to text message inexpensively (a text message can cost anywhere from 2.5 to 10 shillings, depending on its length—that’s about 4 to 12 cents per message). Plus, landline phones here typically cannot dial cell numbers. So folks need cell phones to communicate with other cell phones. Even at TICH, there are less than 10 phones jacks through our PABX system. This means each department has one phone shared by the entire group. The phones cannot dial internationally. In the US, we’re used to having our own phone on our desk. Here, that’s just not going to happen. So people use cell phones for personal and business purposes.

Another difference between the Kenyan phone system and those in the US is that everything is pre-paid. There are little, one-person shelters painted bright, spring green all over town. One sits just outside our gate at TICH. They dot the slums and downtown. From these little shelters, people buy credit for their Safaricom or Celtel phone lines. These are either scratch cards, where scratching off the coating reveals a PIN Code, or they’re simply cash register receipts with the PIN code printed on it. Credit comes in denominations of 100, 200, 500 or 1000 shillings. Plus, most major stores in town and every little “general store” along the roadside sells scratch cards and credit. You dial “141” on your phone and a female voice politely asks you to enter the PIN code. After a second, the credit is confirmed and you hang up. Then you’ll receive a text message from some satellite somewhere giving you the new balance on your phone. No monthly bills to pay.

I’m cheap. My philosophy is to text message at all times!!! I can go a week or more on 100 shillings. But the minute a call is placed, yikes! It’s about 24 shillings per minute for a local call, so the credit is eaten up very quickly. Oh, and it doesn’t cost anything to receive a call, only to place the call. So I’m a rather passive phone person, waiting for folks to call me and only using the phone to text messaging (I am a volunteer, after all!). Okay, enough about phones in Kenya. Call me!

Love Actually

2005-08-23T06:08:00.000-02:00

Trish (friend who's also from Atlanta living in Kisumu!) brought her copy of the movie Love Actually to me. I love the movie, actually, and saw it three times in an Atlanta theatre when it came out! Not having a TV, I sometimes watch movies on my laptop’s DVD player. But I haven’t watched a movie in a while because it always reminds me of being home, while sitting in the middle of undeveloped Africa, which can play with my head sometimes. But I watch Love Actually on a Friday night while quilting and crying all the way through. Then I watch it again the next night, without crying so much, but getting used to being in London, where the movie takes place. I was getting used to being in London and not in Kenya.

I watch the movie again Sunday night, not wanting to leave London. Not wanting to leave the characters. There are several scenes cut from the movie on the DVD. I watch these to prolong the visit. The director explains each scene before it plays. The final two scenes that were cut, he says, were filmed in Kenya!! What?! But we’re in London, I’m thinking, I don’t want to go back to Kenya, which is just outside my window.

In the scenes with Laura Linney’s character at her desk, there are two huge posters hanging behind her. One poster shows two old mamas carrying bundles of sticks on their back, tied to their forehead (which is how women here carry things if the object isn’t sitting directly on top of their head). The women are in a field and the text on the poster says something about helping them to help themselves. The second poster is a man standing next to his field of dead corn. In the scenes cut from the film, the camera closes in on these posters and the characters come to life. The director says they wanted to showcase a foreign country, like Kenya, because most people might think life in these countries would be so hard, people wouldn’t have time to think about love. Hmmmmm?

The two mamas come to life and they’re chuckling as they walk side by side across the field, talking about one woman’s daughter who has fallen in love with an inappropriate young man. They’re speaking Kiswahili with subtitles and I’m able to catch a word here and there. The friend remarks that everyone thought her husband was inappropriate for her, too, years ago. They laugh and move out of the frame. The young man next to his corn field comes to life and he’s lamenting the drought and crop failure. His wife walks up and tells him to come inside. He comments on not being a worthy provider, fearing she won’t love him anymore. She tells him as long as she can see the goofy grin on his face; she’ll be by his side. She also says they should think about moving and remarks, “I hear Paris is lovely this time of year.”

Well, there are so many things wrong with these scenarios, though I’d like to believe in these Kenyan characters created by the director of the movie I love so much. First, love can be the catalyst for most marriages in Kenya, but other factors are considered as well, like paying a dowry to the woman’s family by her future husband. He’s buying the woman as property. In Kiswahili, the word for “husband” means he’s marrying a woman. The word for “wife” means she’s being married. The woman can never marry, but she is married.

Having multiple wives is common in Kenya among many tribes, even among my co-workers. Many of them have fathers who are polygamists. I’ve met several men who have two wives. The men here giggle that polygamy is necessary because the have such strong sex drives, one partner isn’t enough. Whatever. In Kenya, and especially within the rural Luo communities surrounding Lake Victoria, women do not decide if they'll use birth control. The man does. He tells her what type she can use. He tells her when they’ll have sex. He’ll tell her when she’s had enough children or should have more.

Progressive couples, those who are educated, are often more equal. But education and awareness of other cultures does not lead to modern couples being fully equal. Men can take a second wife if they please, even without their wife's consent. My enlightened, educated male co-workers know alternative ways of relationships, but they believe in the plural wife system without question. Love may exist in new marriages, but more often it's a match made to ensure security and procreation.

As for the man looking at his dead corn, well, it’s the women who farm the land. The men go off their land to look for work, or they hang out under a tree with other men, chewing miraa or drinking the local brew. It’s the woman who tills the earth with a hoe. It’s the woman who plants the seeds and waters the rows and pulls the weeds, usually with a baby strapped to her back and another little one playing at her feet. She also keeps the chickens and goats and cooks the food, which she has grown or which she has walked to the nearest market to buy. Men may help with harvesting, but not always. What I saw in the cut scenes from Love Actually was a Western philosophy of love superimposed on Africans. It was very strange to watch. Plus, most rural Kenyans do not know Paris, do not know it’s in France, do not know France is in Europe. Many people here think Canada is somewhere in Europe. When I say I’m from the US, they automatically think I’m from the UK. I’ve learned to say America instead, but they still ask me about my home in London. Kenyans are too busy hoeing the soil, irrigating, looking for work, wondering where their next meal is coming from or standing in line at hospitals with sick children to think about countries and cities far, far away.

I love, love, love the movie “Love Actually.” Love it for its western slant, love it for the characters’ troubles, which aren’t really troubles compared to what a rural Kenyan lives with, love it because it recognizes love, in all its forms, as existing everywhere. Love Actually is everywhere, even in Kenya. But it doesn’t look like western love. It’s much more life-and-death and much more quiet and certainly even desperate at times.

Moving on Up

2005-08-19T10:52:00.000-02:00

Before I leave for the Congo, Dan, TICH's director, asks if I’d be interested in managing the IT team. “Well,” I say, “could we call it more a coordinator role than a management role?”

“Why?” he asks.

“Don’t you think they may feel like I’m an outsider coming in to tell them what to do?”

“But you’re not an outsider,” Dan says, “You’re an insider.”

“Well, I like to think I’m an insider and I feel like an insider, but I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”

At the next meeting of the IT/Research/Marketing team, Dan announces I head up IT. Immediately following the meeting, Tonny and Elias, our IT specialists, tell me how thrilled they are. It seems current management has been slow to push projects through. Well, not slow exactly. He simply fails to push anything through. So we’re all rather heady with ideas and dreams of making the e-center, our school’s computer lab, optimal for students and staff.

We’re also anxiously excited about purchasing a new file server and getting either a satellite connection or new wireless system for our internet access. That’s lots and lots of US dollars and we want to make the right choice, getting the right company who’ll provide technical support, etc.

I also want to clean up the computer lab. Imagine two rows of hodge podge CPU’s hooked up to monitors of all sizes, some with working CD roms and disc drives, others without working anything. Also imagine, at the back of the room, more than 200 monitors, CPUs, printer bodies, keyboards and broken pieces of this or that all stacked and piled and making an eyesore. Add in reams of “research” papers and it’s a real messy mess. Now it’s my messy mess.

My vision: two rows of computers with all components working optimally, all computers linked to both the internet and our internal network so folks can print and research on the net. Imagine all the computers sitting neatly on the tables, their wiring embedded in the console and hidden from view. Imagine consoles free of soda bottle caps and scraps of paper, a computer lab cleaned and mopped every day, not twice a week.

Three women here maintain vast amounts of vital and sensitive data on their computers. But their memory is so low, it takes 10 minutes for their computers to power up and five minutes for docs to open. They need new memory and new hard drives. And we’re going to get it for them!! We’ve also ordered a CD writer so Elias can go to every computer in this school and back up all content on CDs. Right now, we’re flirting with disaster in case the drives fail on any of our units. All our rural community research, stacks and stacks of data entered to SPSS, would be lost!! All our mailing lists and university policies and confidential docs, lost. Holy Cow!!

My dream for TICH is to have a computer on every staff member’s desk and have that computer connected to the internet all day long. Right now, we’re on dial-up. The more people logged on, the slower the system runs. So staff is discouraged from getting on the net. We are severely limited in accessing our partners and sister universities around the world. But all that will change.

I have dreams. The IT team sees these dreams. They’ve had these dreams for two years. Next week, we’re sorting the junk at the back of the computer lab. Some pieces will be discarded, some pieces will be donated to community-based organizations and some pieces will be stored for later use.

You’d be amazed at the junk that gets sent to Africa. Donors seem to use Africa as their dumping ground. For instance, a German organization donated 17 computers to TICH, but no monitors. And the computers were outdated. Frank, a fellow VSO volunteer in Ndhiwa, about 200 kms from Kisumu, said he found a secret room at the hospital where he works. The room was sealed and when maintenance opened it, the room was stacked with unusable stuff sent by donors. Stuff like a B3 Hammond organ, for instance. And two microfiche reading machines. We’re not even sure microfiche exists in Kenya.

It’s a new IT day at TICH. I’m still marketing and communication advisor, but now I get to learn about the world of Information Technology. This opportunity would have never existed for me in America. There are many opportunities that would not be available in the US. Of course, in the US, I’d have the opportunity to fill my belly with peanut M&Ms while drinking caramel macchiatos from Starbucks, things I'm missing like crazy. But in Africa, I get to fill my head instead.

Twisted Sister

2005-08-17T10:32:00.000-02:00

My sister Jan is crazy in a very good way. She’s petite and feisty and has a heart the size of Georgia, Alabama and both North and South Carolina combined (including the outer banks of North Carolina and Georgia’s string of barrier islands). Jan adores animals and has rescued and loved approximately 1,615,927 cats, dogs, ferrets, birds and one mouse named Algernon. And she loves, loves, loves our Mom’s coleslaw (of all things. What about the Divinity candy, the 3-layer Italian Cream Cake and the Strawberry Pies?! Jan isn’t a lover of sweets—but vegetables she puts on her wish list.)

When Jan read my blog about Dervla Murphy, she searched the net and found Dervla’s autobiography, “Wheels Within Wheels.” The original copy printed by Penguin Press!!! It arrived today taped and wrapped and taped and wrapped some more, encased in a USPS international mail envelope, which arrived surprisingly fast and for not much money. Less than $8 US to send the envelope. I love this book and the thought behind this book being wrapped and taped and wrapped some more by my “big sister” (she’s only 14-months older than me and won’t let me forget it).

I miss hearing Jan’s jokes and the way she laughs at her own jokes with total abandon, her face mirthful from forehead to dimpled chin, eyes alight. Perhaps if I make her some coleslaw she’ll share every joke in her repertoire (even the twisted ones, even the raunchy ones) when home for Christmas. That’s the first item on my wish list.

Clean-Up Showdown

2005-08-15T10:37:00.000-02:00

This past Saturday I had to retreat from the world of Kenya and relax at home. After working the last two weekends (preparing for the agrishow and traveling to the Congo), I was ready to withdraw and recharge. Walter planned a clean-up day for Nyalenda, which I didn’t attend. He was assisted in the planning by the most energetic woman I’ve ever met, Anna. She’s from Portugal and is in Kenya for six weeks. When her original volunteer project fell through, a friend brought Anna to my office and asked if I knew of an organization she could work with during her six weeks in Kenya. Do I know of an organization? I immediately told her about Pambazuko and Walter Odede. They hooked up and made plans. First, Anna would teach the widows of Nyalenda how to make jewelry (mostly earrings) using copper wire and beads. With very little outlay of funds for the supplies, the widows can make and sell the jewelry.

Second, Anna helped organize the clean-up. I was busy with the show and then busy preparing to leave for the Congo, so Anna and Walter traipsed around Kisumu mobilizing pambazuko members, speaking to the mayor of Kisumu, visiting the offices of both newspapers, the Standard and the Nation. The city of Kisumu even loaned them a truck for Clean-Up Day to help haul away debris.

On the big day, nearly 200 people from the community showed up. Anna had arranged for music. Tools were borrowed, like shovels and rakes and wheelbarrows. The stream, Nyalenda’s main water source, was raked clean of all the nasty plastic bags and consumer goods packaging. The press showed up and talked to Walter and took photos and hopes are high they’ll report on the clean-up.

That was Saturday. On Sunday, several people defecated into plastic bags and tossed the bags into the newly-cleaned stream. Of course, being densely populated, people can’t toss feces-filled bags into clean streams without someone seeing them. So, knowing who the offenders were, Walter went to the village chief. Village chiefs have great influence over what goes on in their communities. Nothing can really happen in a community unless the chief is informed before hand. Otherwise, any programs or efforts put into the people will fall flat, it is stopped before it starts if the chief feels slighted or left out of the process. So Walter has kept the chief of Nyalenda (and the chief's very progressive wife) informed of all pambazuko events. This time, when he tells the chief about the nasty folks sabotaging efforts to clean the community, the chief does something unconventional. He contacts the police. Usually, chiefs like to handle things within their power and not go “outside” to police.

Littering is against the law. Of course, it happens every second of every day in Nyalenda and no one ever enforced the law before. But now, littering with malice catches everyone’s attention and the police are given the names of the offenders and we’re expecting arrests to be made. Imagine. These subversive attitudes, that harm people rather than make their lives better, are why development is taking so long in African countries. Not only is there corruption at the top drawing monies away from the people who need it, but there’s attitudinal distrust from the people on the ground. Jealousies over who’s making things happen and who doesn’t like to see change of any kind, even very good change.

I heard on the radio yesterday that Kibaki, president of Kenya, is in Japan this week accepting donated monies from the Japanese government totaling nearly $2 million US. And again, another news report said the US is providing about that much money for water projects in Western Kenya, where I live. I want to shout out to all the governments around the world and say, “Don’t send your freakin’ money to the Kenyan government!!!! It’ll be spent by individuals at high levels on houses and cars and travel to Europe and fine dining (well, the finest dining Kenya has to offer) and will never reach the poor Mama in the rural community who is suffering from arthritis (from years of back-breaking work) and cataracts, who’s raising four orphaned grandchildren and who owns only one goat and a semi-permanent house, whose only water source is rain water collected from the roof or a nearby river, if she’s lucky. Poor Mamas. They bear the responsibility for maintaining the day to day existence for themselves and many others, yet the government overlooks them and donations never trickle down.

Even when the monies go to major projects stipulated by governments donating the funds, corruption causes the projects to stop mid-course. You’d be amazed at the number of incomplete, empty buildings around Kisumu. Why are they incomplete? Because the builder stole the monies along and along and when the money was gone, construction stopped—before windows could be inserted, before electrical wiring and plumbing could be installed. Shells, skeletons of shelters with windows like gaping black eyes. Grotesque monuments to corruption. There’s one right around the corner from TICH. I walk past it every day to and from work.

So what’s the answer to aiding development, to increasing the economic prosperity among nations of the third world (or the South as it’s referred to in the development field)? Give the money to the mamas. Many organizations have discovered this powerful truth. When you give money to the mama, she uses the money for the household’s good. She buys chickens and vaccinates them and sells the eggs and her family is able to eat. Give money to the mama and she buys a plough and she farms her plot and raises food for her family and for selling. And she shares her plough with neighboring farmers. Give the money to the mama and she starts a small business, perhaps raising honey bees to market the honey, or growing soya beans to process soya milk. Give the money to the man and he uses it for personal things like local brew or women. I’m not making this up. These are things discussed amongst Kenyans and volunteers in Kenya. The men spend the money on personal pleasures with nothing to show for it.

And the monies do not have to be “given” to the mamas. Many, many micro financiers have had tremendous luck loaning money to the mamas and the mamas repay with extraordinarily high rates. Something like 97% of all mirco loan payments are made on time. Quite remarkable in a place where money is scarce. We’re talking about original loans of $30 or $50 to each mama. Hey, US, give your money to the mamas! Japan, Germany, UK, Holland, give your money to the mamas. They’ll use it wisely for everyone’s sake. And they’d never defecate in a plastic bag and toss it into a newly-cleaned area where families collect their drinking water.

Development will come. Eventually, slowly. Maybe not in my lifetime. But when the world catches on about the powerful truth of assisting the mama to assist the family to assist the community to assist the district, province, region, then we’ll see development take off economically and politically. We’ll see health for all, not just the few who can afford it. And we’ll see clean water sources, free education and all buildings complete with glass in their windows and electricity in their wiring.

Like the governor of Goma’s province in the Congo said in his speech at last week’s graduation, until developing countries value their women, empower their women, elect their women to parliament and other offices, development will never arrive.

This Week's Screensaver

2005-08-13T10:12:00.000-02:00

This gorgeous red flower is blooming just outside my front door. I shot a photo series of these blooms for an adorable Super Friend who appreciates such beauty, but saved this one photo for the screensaver. When the screen loads each day, I’m astounded anew by the brilliance of these red beauties.

2005-08-08T15:17:00.000-02:00

Ugandan Rice Fields

2005-08-08T10:56:00.000-02:00

Bad Ugandan Roads

2005-08-08T10:55:00.000-02:00

Typical Rural Ugandan House

Home Again: Back from the Congo!

2005-08-08T10:39:00.000-02:00

Oh, what good spirits we are in, knowing we are headed home. When we reach Kenya’s border and have been stamped to return home, Ogutu stands amongst the crowd and exults his return to his native country. He puffs up and says, with conviction and volume , “I’m home. I’m a big man here. No one can displace me or shove me. I rule this land and I rule my life and Kenya is MY country.” He is certainly feeling patriotic.

“Let’s go shopping,” I say to Sister Margaret and Maureen. We all turn back to Uganda and walk across the border (people on foot can move easily between countries, even without a passport) on a fabric-buying mission. I told Sister Margaret that if I see something I want to buy, I’ll signal her so she can buy it at the local rate, not the mzungu rate. She says she must ask Maureen to do the same for her because when people see a Sister, they automatically think she has lots and lots of the church’s money.

Bavon is looking for a computer bag and Lily spots some shoes and a denim skirt she likes, very fashionable. I buy some gorgeous Royal Wax material, authentic African fabric of the highest quality. Sister tells me the fabric I bought at 450 shillings (about $5 USD for 5 yards) would cost at least 1300 shillings in Kisumu. We’re all feeling quite luxurious with our time today since we’re only a two hour drive from Kisumu.

After shopping, we pass into Kenya and Julius directs us to his favorite restaurant. We’re in Busia, a city which straddles the Kenya-Uganda border. We eat fish or stewed chicken and chug Kubwa (large) Cokes in glass bottles. We’re nearly home, our bellies are full and we’ve all bought some goodies we’ll treasure and give as gifts. Buying fabric and a pair of Sandals at the border (total $24) is the only money I’ve spent on this six-day tour.

Later, when we come over a rise and see Kisumu spread out along the lake's shore, everyone says, "Ahhhhh."

We arrive at TICH at 5pm and are pulled into the director’s office, where everyone gathers and welcomes us back with hugs and kisses and a prayer. Dr. Ariga says, “Did you hear about the show, Cindi?”

"No," I say.

Dr. Ariga says, “TICH won First Place for our exhibit.”

“What?!! You’ve got to be kidding!” and all of a sudden my exhaustion flees and I’m holding Dr. Ariga’s hands and bouncing up and down and grinning like an idiot. He takes me to see the trophy and then I photograph the director with the trophy, still not believing our exhibit won when I doubted we’d even place. We beat out several other institutes, including Maseno University, a well-respected school that’s been around for nearly 100 years, the place where most of Western Kenya’s contemporary leaders were educated. It’s just too much to take in, returning home safely, knowing how much everyone (in Kisumu and the US!) prayed for us and thought about us and finding out a month of hard work has won us the show prize we coveted.

Plus, at the end of our trip, the night we stayed in Kampala, we all agreed we had each done things along the way we should probably apologize for. I thought about my screaming fit at the gas station. Because we each had things we could apologize for, very human things we’d said and done, we decided none us would apologize. Instead, we’d simply forgive each other and move on with our friendships and our missions. We’d move on unimpeded.

So after a long and fruitful journey, we simply forgive each. And we move on. Unimpeded.

2005-08-08T10:30:00.000-02:00

Director Dan Keseje with Agri Show Trophy

2005-08-07T13:47:00.000-02:00

Curving Stretch of Road in Rwanda

2005-08-07T12:39:00.000-02:00

Steer on Rwanda-Uganda Border

2005-08-07T10:45:00.000-02:00

Rwanda: Land of a Thousand Hills

2005-08-07T10:30:00.001-02:00

Richard and Lily Relaxing During Refueling

Left, Right, Wrong?

2005-08-07T10:30:00.000-02:00

We leave at 5:30, in the dark, and the brakes feel more solid. We’re waved through by the police and climb our way away from Kigali, toward Kampala, Uganda. The sun rises over Rwanda in a way that makes us glad to be alive. We twist and turn until we find ourselves back at the rutted part of the valley, where I must drive at 2 mph to navigate deep pot holes and steep road edges. This is where the boys yell, “Rwenzori,” and where we all search for empty bottles. This time, however, we're moving so slowly we are able to hand the bottles to the boys. Someone hands out bread. Three young men, aged between seven and 11, it seems, run beside us in their bare feet and shabby gray clothes, their eyes shining as they reach for the bottles. They thank us in their native tongue, Kinyarwanda. I remember a bottle in my bag with a little water left and I dig it out with my left hand while steering clear of holes and boys with my right and I hand the bottle to the smallest boy, who’s out in front. He’s joyful now, as are the others, as are all of us in the van so that when the road clears and I can pick up speed, we all wish we had more bottles and more food to hand over.

The boys are yelling thank you and still running and jumping up and down, holding their bottles close to their chests, until we’re out of sight. Until they’re out of sight.

We get to Uganda in a couple of hours. Bavon leaves the vehicle to call his wife and I’m left to drive the car through the border. “Here’s the paperwork,” Bavon says, shoving a file folder at me and slamming the door. So I pull up and wait and wait and a guy looks at my papers and asks for Form 87AC2, an A4 size. I have no idea what he’s talking about. He makes me pull to the side, out of the way, and points to a tiny building with a tiny, grilled window. I wait for Bavon but he doesn’t come, so I walk over the window. Then Lucas shows up and Bavon shows up and they talk to the guy behind the grill and figure out we have to fill out another form and pay more money before the car can go through.

The gatekeeper has now poured himself a large cup of coffee and is sitting, relaxing. It’s still early morning and a mist hugs the ground and the nearby hills. This border valley is lush with grasses and crops and those steer with the remarkably huge, slightly curved horns. They’re horns are sometimes two or more feet long. Magnificent. A few cows loll on the other side of the fence, where the gatekeeper is facing. I approach and he asks if I’d like a cup of coffee. Very generous of him to offer and I should have said yes. Instead, I ask if I can take photographs of the fields and cows. I promise not to photograph any immigration buildings. They’re all very touchy about that. He says sure, and if anyone questions me, send them to him. I photograph the mist and the fence posts made out of tree branches that have taken root and sprouted tiny, leafy appendages.

Once the paperwork is in place, Bavon shoves the file toward me once again, tells me to drive through the next border, Uganda, that he’ll be right back. So I pass the friendly, coffee-drinking gatekeeper and roll toward the next gate. I’m waved through, but then the guy runs over and demands a pass of some sort which doesn’t sound familiar. He tells me to park and go see a policeman sitting up the hill. I’ve given my passport to Sister to have it stamped. My friends are all in line with a hundred other people to get their passports stamped and I’m alone with our vehicle, outside the border, facing a mile-long line of double parked transfer trucks, mostly petrol carriers. What if they all decide to move through the gate and squash our car? Who’ll watch our bags if I go speak to the policeman up the hill? I’m a bit undone as to where to park and how to visit the officer. So I pass into Uganda and move past the trucks, hoping to find a hole to park in, but no luck. I drive a mile, turnaround and drive a mile back, to the front of the truck line, almost. I get out and lock the doors and a man passing by, an aged man with a scowl, tells me to park elsewhere and I curtly tell him, “they told me to park here.”

Luckily, Gertrude, Richard and Sister are headed to the car and I’m free to visit the cop, who interrogates me about where we’ve been and where we’re going and he smiles flirtatiously while asking me about the U.S. Ugh. I sign the book and get a pass the size of a postage stamp and then we’re all free to move into Uganda.

“Who’s going to drive in Uganda?” I ask Lucas.

“We’ll keep the same driver,” he says with a grin. I think about it. Left side of the road. I’ve been in Kenya riding on the left for six months. “Okay,” I say and we’re off.

‘Keep left. Keep left,’ I say to myself. And it’s fun being on the left. No longer do the guys in the back flip out when someone passes us. In Rwanda, when cars first passed on the left, they all jumped, thinking we would crash. This is how unused they were to being on the right. I drive on the left for about 50 miles into Uganda, until we reach Mbale, where Jack the driver is waiting. We pass through town, turning here and there, moving through roundabouts and intersections with no confusion. Gee, this left side thing isn’t so hard after all. Then we see Jack sitting on the patio of his “hotel.” He’s so happy to see us. We’re happy to be here by 10, early enough for breakfast.

I tell Jack about the brakes, so he can decide if they should be looked at or not. He sensibly decides to have them checked. We all order breakfast. Now that Lily, Bavon’s daughter is traveling to Kisumu with us, and now that Jack has rejoined us, we number 12. We all order breakfast—eggs, toast, fruit, coffee, tea—and keep the staff hopping. When the bill comes, it’s about 13,000 Uganda shillings, or about 150 Kenya shillings. 12 of us eat breakfast for less than $2 USD.

Jack picks us up. The black stuff was just grease, so the mechanic lubed the wheels and we are good to travel. Uganda is huge. Just look at it on a map and marvel at the distance from Kenya’s border and Rwanda’s border. Jack soon takes the 80 khp cap off the engine, which also disables the speedometer and odometer, and we’re cruising through the countryside. I’m sitting up front between Jack and Bavon and am surprised to see Bavon instructing Jack exactly the way he’d instructed me. Made me feel better, knowing the navigation wasn’t gender-inspired. But poor Jack. By the time we reach Kampala in the evening, he is truly worn out and stressed.

We spend the night in Kampala at the Sports View Hotel overlooking the Mandela Stadium. This is the most expensive place we’ve stayed during our trip, paying nearly $20 USD a room (of course, we doubled). We look at a guest house across the street which is very comfortable, but the toilets are communal and everyone in our group is convinced staying at the Sports View will be better. It isn’t. Even though we run the hot water for 20 minutes in the shower, as the receptionist instructed, it never warms up. Another night of sponge bathing. The bathroom tiles are loose, the sink is hanging away from the wall and the toilet has no seat. Our rooms face the highway and across the highway is a nightclub with pumping music and many, many very loud young partiers. And below our window is the hotel’s own sports bar with loud, pumping music. The window to the balcony has no glass, so when a transfer truck flies past, grinding gears, it sounds like we’re on the side of the road. I swear I can feel each truck’s breeze.

The nightclub stays opened until 4am, the music consistently blaring, but we all agree we were so exhausted we slept well and were only awakened occasionally. But we lose an hour, moving into Uganda's new time zone, and morning comes quickly.

2005-08-07T09:08:00.000-02:00

Coffin Shop Common Sight in Africa

2005-08-06T14:58:00.000-02:00

University Choir Performs at Graduation

2005-08-06T13:50:00.000-02:00

Sister Margaret and Kalindi During Graduation

TICH Graduates

2005-08-06T10:51:00.000-02:00

TICH Students Receiving their Certificates (Julius, Ogutu, Sister Margaret, Gertrude, Kelvin, Richard and Maureen)

Pomp and Circumstance

2005-08-06T10:12:00.000-02:00

7am and Janine’s calling my name from the courtyard. It’s time for our walk to the Karibu Hotel, one of the nicest hotels in the city. We’re a five minute walk from Lake Kivu, which looks like an ocean. Most people are sleeping as we walk to exit the university’s gate, where we greet Rose slipping in. “Where did you sleep last night?” Janine asks. Rose ignores the question and says good morning to me. “They’re young,” Janine says when Rose has gone. The quiet morning is cool and gorgeous, the lake is like a mirror and occasionally a lone man in a boat casts a line. As we walk the hotel complex, UN vehicles adorn each building. Karibu Hotel is one of the most expensive places to stay in Goma.

Today is graduation day, so we all go to the university, where the ceremony will take place in the school’s courtyard. We breakfast. The ceremony starts at 10, but as of 9 the podium floor has not been completed and the sound system gear is lying in a heap on the gravel. The students are taken away with their gowns to a room to wait. I’m guided to the tent where the dignitaries sit and I’m seated next to Vincent, the man who owns the Karibu Hotel. He’s slick and good-looking in a Middle-Eastern kind of way. Then the Rector rushes over and signals me and says in really bad English, “We together must,” so I stand and follow him to where the heads of each college have collected. They ask me to wear a gown, so I get one from the van and return. We go to the Rector’s office and wait to be called out, to enter the procession. The crowd is huge. All chairs are filled. Two white women sit under the dignitary tent.

The older woman, who looks to be 80 or so, is quite dignified with her white hair caught up in a bun atop her head and her 4-strand pearl necklace matching her earrings. She’s the benefactress for the university’s new Science and Technology wing. She looks every bit the part. Next to her is a woman, perhaps her daughter, in her 50s with wavy, free hair. Including me, there are three white people present.

They’ve placed TICH's group on the front row, center. The Minister of Higher Education is on hand to confer degrees and give a speech. The provincial governor is also present. His speech is all about gender equality and he speaks in very plain language (once Bavon has translated it from French, of course) about the dangers of valuing men over women, especially when the country/continent is working to develop. I loved his speech and grew to love the man, who had a powerful build and a thoughtful, but serious, face. So many people gave speeches. Even Lucas gave a speech written by Dan, TICH’s director, which Bavon had to translate into French. Two and a half hours into the ceremony and our butts are dead asleep and they finally start conferring degrees. Janine sits next to me and on her other side is Professor Karafuli, head of the theology college. Both are women. Of the 121 students who started the law program, only four made it through to their degree. All four are women. As they advance to the podium, Janine lets out the African yippee call. It’s hard to describe how women in Africa shout their approval. Something like a high-pitched “Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi” that goes on and on. She does this for every woman. Janine does this throughout the governor’s speech on the value of women. Every time she calls out, videographers spin around and zoom in on her. She is probably the most photographed and filmed woman of the day.

Students go on the stage, receive their diploma, accept the Minister placing their mortarboards on their head, and then they return to the area in front of the prodium. As a group, the Rector confers their degrees. While this is going on, security men stand across the aisles holding hands, keeping relatives from rushing toward the graduates before their degrees are conferred. Mostly women, the relatives push and shout and shov and try to bite the security guards. The women ignore the security guards and enter the center and make fools of themselves, embarrassing the graduates. Photographers also run wild, standing in the center of everything, blocking views, crowding the podium. Though they try, the university can not maintain decorum.

I am irritated with the photographers, who block picture-taking from the front row. The perfect spot from which to photograph and these guys are in the way. So Janine, shoos them with her hands while saying, “Si vu plais, Monsieur.” (or however "if you please" is spelled n French). Finally, the guards move the photographers from in front of us, but then the women rush through the barricades and are shouting and pushing and falling onto to us in the front row. One large woman steps on my toe and I immediately push her big ass off my foot and she doesn’t look around. The crowd is so large and rowdy, I begin to fear for our safety. Some people spray cans of a snow-like material all over the graduates and guards. Trying not to look disapproving, I sit, watch the crowd and very much disapprove of their behavior.

Our students are the next group to graduate. It goes smoothly, I took lots of photos and then Lucas says, once he returns from the podium, “Let’s go.” So before the ceremony is complete, at 3pm, our group walks out. The black robe baked by the sun has made us all very uncomfortable. When we reach our van, we rip off our robes and climb in. Folks in the back of the crowd watch, and they especially watch me since I'm getting into the driver’s seat. The university packed lunches for us, so we grab them and pull out right (but first we stop near the gate to take on 200 kilos of beans in sacks that crowd the van’s floor).

We stop for fuel and to check the water and oil levels. When we pull into the station, I ask which pump is diesel. Bavon is telling me to just pull up this way and then back that way, etc., but I have no idea where he’s sending me. I ask, again, which pump has diesel. Then everyone in the car and two ladies under the shelter all begin to tell me how to turn the wheel this way and back up that way. It’s too much. I’ve reached my limit with them telling me how to get somewhere without telling me my final destination. So in a manner I do not like and am not proud of, a manner taken by many white people who become frustrated due to language barriers and cultural misunderstandings, I throw out my arms and tell everyone to shut. I repeat the command to the two women under the shelter.

I yell to them all, so everyone hears clearly that “I know now to drive! If you just tell me which pump has diesel, I’ll figure out how to get this van next to it!! I cannot drive according to your instructions when I do not understand where my final destination is!!!!” And they all said, “Yes, you can drive.” “Yes, Cindi, you’re a very good driver.” And this type of consoling has a way of making me laugh at my anger and feel ashamed for losing my temper. I never lost my temper in the U.S. (well, only very rarely). Bavon ever-so-gently asks the ladies which pump has diesel and they point without words and I’m able to get the gas tank next to the pump so that everyone is happy.

We munch our packed lunches while the fuel pumps. Chips (French fries), chunks of mystery meat dropped amongst the chips and, in a separate pouch of tinfoil, shredded cabbage (salad), which I eat hungrily with my fingers as men ride and walk past, staring. Some days I think I'm used to constantly being stared at and other days I wish for an invisible cloak.

We want to reach Kigali by night, about a four hour drive away. Skirting the police stops, we hit the border, where we are delayed with a baggage check and a wedding party made up of 30 vehicles honking and shouting across the border. I’m anxious to hit the open road, to be in control again.

We reach Kigali as night calls and when we pull up to the guest house, the brakes smoke so badly Maureen yells out, “Something is wrong with our tires.” I assure them it’s just the brakes overheating, but I worry about the black streaks radiating from the hub. Grease or brake fluid? No matter how much I tried to use low gears coming off the Rwandan mountains, the brakes were still necessary. Toward the end, the brakes felt fluid, which scared me. But the guest house is too expensive for us and Bavon and Lucas want to check out another one. I tell them I do not want to drive the van any more. That I don’t trust the brakes. They call a former TICH student who lives in Kigali, a man of about 55 years, and he leads us to another, more affordable, guest house. He climbs in between me and Bavon and to my chagrin he directs my driving just as Bavon does. Now there are two of them. He asks Bavon in French if I’m a good driver. I know he doubts my ability and know what he is asking because I hear him say “madam” and “chauffeur.” Bavon replies without hesitation, “Oui, Tre bien.” (or however "Yes, very good" is spelled).

They direct my driving so closely that as we’re riding down the road and it curves to the left they tell me to go left. Each of them has their hand up, pointing left and smashing into the windshield as they hit it again and again, making sure I understand we must go left. “Are you sure I can’t go straight?” I say just to be a smartass because clearly there’s no road straight ahead, just grass and rocks. “No, no,” they answer seriously. Sarcasm is not something commonly found or understood in African countries. “Go left, go left.” I take a deep breath and remind myself we’re almost there and soon they’ll both be out of my cockpit.

The guest house sits on a cliff overlooking Kigali. It looks as though all the stars have fallen into the city, into the crevices and round parts of the hills, smashing into millions of pieces and twinkling brilliantly where they lay. The van is parked on a slope with a 20 foot drop-off 20 feet behind. I make sure the emergency brake is set and push aside thoughts of the van rolling back. I’m tired. We’re tired. It’s now after 9 pm and it’s been a long, ceremony-filled day. I just want to crash on a bed. But the guest house doesn’t have food. They want to drive somewhere to get food and in my irritability I tell them I won’t drive, someone else can, because I don’t trust that 20-foot drop at night, don’t trust the brakes and don’t trust my judgment under such fatigue.

Julius is concerned about me and he’s insisting they get me a Coke and they get me a place to sit. “If our driver isn’t rested and cared for, then we simply won’t get home.” Someone steps outside the guest house compound and returns with a loaf of bread and drinks and we all stand under the moonlight and chew and drink as our energy slowly returns. They find us rooms and we drop our luggage. Maureen and I are placed in a room with five bunk beds and cold water. Once revived, I tell Lucas I will drive to get food, but they’ve already called Bavon’s daughter, Lily, who was waiting for us in Kigali. She’s been staying here with her cousin and his wife. These three beautiful souls bring us food. They arrive in an hour’s time with three plates, three pieces of fish (not three fish, three pieces of fish), rice and ugali. There are 11 of us. But we divide the plates and form in groups and pick at the fish and dip ugali chunks in the tomatoe (masala) fish sauce. Kelvin turns a pot lid upside down and fills it with rice and masala sauce. Amazingly, like the bible episode, these few pieces of fish satisfy our appetites.

We all drag to our rooms and wash in cold water by candlelight, for the electricity has gone out. It’s midnight and we’re meeting at 5am.

2005-08-06T10:05:00.000-02:00

Gertrude, right, Celebrates her Master's (Lucas is behind the podium and Bavon is in green, translating into French)

2005-08-06T10:02:00.000-02:00

Me Driving the Matatu in the Congo

2005-08-05T15:59:00.000-02:00

Volcano in Goma, Democratic Republic of the Congo

2005-08-05T11:00:00.000-02:00

Lava Field in Goma City: New Buildings Going Up

Short Arm of the Law

2005-08-05T09:56:00.000-02:00

Lucas and I drive from Ishango Hotel to the university, to meet our group for breakfast. We pass along the shore of Lake Kivu. There is no water in town this morning so the lake’s beach is packed with people carrying yellow jerry cans, waiting patiently to get their water so they can return home to cook and wash. The roads are lined with children and adults, all carrying jerry cans, some filled, some empty, on their heads.

We meet our group at the university. The restaurant is made of plywood, painted white, with open holes for windows covered in lace panels. The ceiling is low and women out back cook over jikos (coal stoves) in the open air. We breakfast in a back room, set apart from everyone by a thick fabric “door.” Breakfast is large slices of bread, butter and tea. Afterward, we take a tour of the campus and meet a law professor, Janine, who’s originally from Cameroon. She takes an interest in me for some reason and it’s soon apparent she’s something of a feminist. I like her immediately.

We then visit the university Rector (equivalent to a U.S. university president. The rector is a happy, charming man who cannot speak English though he understands us very well. He’s so kind, his manner suggests he’s someone’s secretary rather than the head of the university), the chairman of the board (who is 4 foot tall, looks like a black German officer and speaks only French) and the head of academics who likes to practice his English with us. Kalindi joins us in this last meeting, which means we’ve now met with the top four men of this university. They treat our students like royal guests, taking time to chat with us when they have a graduation to prepare! The rector is printing a copy of the ceremony’s agenda when the electricity goes out. The generator will kick in within ten minutes, but we can’t wait. The agenda is in French anyway. Everything at the university is in French, all class lectures and all their marketing materials. Luckily, we have Bavon as our interpreter.

There’s a little time before lunch at 1pm. Most people want to drive to town, to look around, maybe shop. Ogutu is marrying soon and wants to buy his “wife” a diamond ring. (In Kenya, people call their partners “wife” and “husband” even before they’re ever married. Ogutu has been with his “wife” for 12 years and they have an 11-year-old daughter.) I’d like to take photos of the lava flow, the way it divides downtown, so that we must drive up the edge of the lava, about eight feet, to reach the higher elevation.

Bavon navigates by telling me exactly what to do. “Stop!” “Pull up!” “Go here, go here!” as he points into the windshield, over and over again. Even after I’ve signaled, even after I’ve said, “Okay,” and “I’m stopping,” he’s still directing me. Sometimes it gets on my nerves and I must remind him that I know how to drive. So we’re headed to town with Bavon giving me very detailed instructions, especially when we approach the traffic police. In Kigali, Rwanda, the police men on the side of the road would pull us over, walk to my window saying, “Bonjour,” then they’d wave us on. Sometimes they even called out, "Safe journey!" as we pulled away. Bavon marveled at how they simply looked in the window and waved us on. He attributed this to my white skin and it made him laugh with delight. Today, as we approach the congolese policemen and women in their bright yellow shirts, Bavon reminds me to slow down in case they flag us to the side of the road. Which they do.

I pull over and wait while they speak French. The officer is short and has the cruel face of a criminal. He’s intense. They talk and talk. Finally, Bavon tells me to show my license. The guy says our insurance sticker on the front window is not valid in the Congo, it’s only valid in countries belong to the African Association of Something or Other. As Bavon and the short man talk sternly to each other, I hear the guys in the back discussing what they’d like to eat for lunch.

30 minutes later, Bavon and the guy are still talking sternly. The officer frequently shoos away peddlers and small children who walk zombie-like toward the van to stare at me. “Bonjour, Mzungu,” they all shout. Seems the officer is saying my driver’s license is not international. He wants to see “internationale” written on it somewhere. Finally, the guy walks to Bavon’s side and climbs in. “Go,” Bavon says and I go, having no clue where we’re going. It’s a lot of work for Bavon to have a conversation with the cruel officer and to interpret for the rest of us. So we sit quietly. A matatu passes us so closely the officer leaps forward and throws up his arms, as though we’re going to crash. But he doesn’t get on to me. We drive for 10 minutes then stop. Bavon and the officer and Lucas go inside. We wait for 30 more minutes. Everyone is hot. We’re tired. We just want to see the shops downtown and to eat lunch.

The road is crowded with walkers and vehicles. A small truck passes with a butchered cow in the back. The bed is full of hind quarters and ribs with the skin intact. The cow’s hide was a gorgeous, solid black. On top of everything, held in place by a man riding in back, is the cow’s head. Soldiers ride by. UN soliders and Congo soldiers. Guys pass us on two-wheeled, handmade wooden bikes. They carry strapped-on vegetables, gas cylinders, bags of potatoes, sugar cane, other riders, long metal poles and fire wood. Women carry these same items on their heads, with babies tied to their backs. The women dress in colorful, bold graphics, the fabrics flowing to their ankles and wrapped and knotted into elaborate headdresses.

Finally, our guys emerge from the building holding a scrap of paper on which the police chief has written a pass, officially stamped with his name and title. This pass tells any officer who stops us to let us go, that it’s okay for us to be in town through Saturday. Bavon says he paid a “fine” of $20 USD. But don’t we have to go buy the insurance they were talking about? Not really. Now that we have this piece of paper, we can pass through all police checkpoints. But what about the insurance, in case we have an accident? Not necessary now that we have this piece of paper. It’s not clicking with me, but I leave the logistics to Bavon, who is from the Congo. These police folk in bright yellow shirts earn a salary equivalent to $5 USD per month. Not much at all, which is why they supplement their income by looking for the tiniest offense for which to extract a bribe. And the government is the orchestrator of this flawed system.

As I pull onto the busy road, everyone wants to go back to the school, to park the van. Since our matatu is different from the Congo matatus, we’re a sure mark for the Congolese police. We pick up speed and travel for half a mile when the police flag us over. They want to see my license. Bavon shows them our piece of paper. The guy waves us on. Another ½ mile, another policeofficer waving us over. We show the piece of paper and are released. We get to the border office where Bavon picks up some necessary paperwork for the vehicle then we head back to the university. A police woman pulls us over. She looks at my license, at our “pass.” She confers with a fellow officer. She confers with a fellow officer for ten minutes. Then we go. We’re all laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Imagine how much money they’d be making in tourist dollars if they allowed us to freakin’ shop in their town,” I say. “Instead, they’re intent on stopping us and finding some small thing to detain us with so they can press for a bribe!”

Another half mile, another stop. These guys are friendly and wave us on immediately. We approach a roundabout where we had been stopped on the other side. The fierce police woman stops us and wants Bavon to step out of the vehicle. She looks at our pass and questions its validity. She wants a little something for herself. We paid the big boss $20, what about the little guys, she’s asking Bavon. I take a photo of the volcano in the distance, the volcano that erupted in 2002, with a lava field in the foreground. The volcano barely shows through the mist and haze of the low-lying clouds. I photograph new houses and buildings being erected on the lava flow. I photograph Bavon and the officers in the side mirror. Fortunately, the police chief who wrote our pass pulls up and the female officer asks if he wrote the pass and he confirms, allowing us to go.

We’re thrilled to be back at the university after being stopped six times in two hours!! We’re also ready to get the hell out of the Congo. Allen Bechky, in “Adventuring in East Africa” wrote about the Congo, which was called Zaire back then. Bechky says, “Zaire is the kind of place where things can and will go wrong, or at least not proceed in the fast and logical way you may expect. If you can’t bring patience and a sense of humor, Zaire is not the country for you.” No truer words have ever been written.

I’m rooming with Gertrude in the student hostel. Others are at a nearby guest house. We have no way to communicate as a group, so Gertrude and I decide to stay put in case they come for us. There is no water, and then there is water, but only cold, not hot. So I sponge bathe and dress. Then there is no water. I take my book of plays written by Oscar Wilde into the living room to read. Night is near. The electricity goes out. Gertrude calls out from her bedroom, but remains in the dark behind her locked door. I open the drapes wide, to allow in dying light. But it’s futile. Way too dark to read. So I sit on the sofa facing the windows, wondering how long we’ll sit in the dark.

Footsteps crunch the courtyard gravel. Then a female voice commands a man, who appears boy-like in the shadows of our verandah. “Hello, Cindi,” calls Janine. She lives just next door! I let them in and they bring along heavy bags. She pulls out a kerosene lamp and candles and matches. They pour fuel into the lamp, soak the wick, then light it. The helpful man, who has a slight limp from a mal-formed foot, places candles and matches in the bath and the bedrooms. They’ve even brought soap and toilet paper!!! So thoughtful of Janine. He leaves to take these essentials to Lucas and Julius’ room while Janine and I sit in the lamplight and talk. She’s here for three years, teaching law, but finds Goma a small town with few amusements. We have children the same ages. She wears jeans and sandals, looks very Western. Janine’s English is quite good but with a thick French accent.

Janine wants me to meet her students, so we step over to her house and she calls across the way, where female French accents call back. Two lovely young women, Rose and Leona, come over. Their English is very good, too, though they also deny it. They busy themselves making tea. We sit in the dim light and tell our stories. They are like Janine’s daughters. Today they finished their exams and feel free. They want to cook. While they pull out the food and heat the oil, I get my camera and a bag of sweets from my room. The electricity returns. The water returns. I wash dishes, to clear the sink for cooking.

A driver arrives, to take me and Gertrude to dinner. But I decline, saying I’m tired and will stay home. They leave without me.

Rose peels green bananas for frying, Leona thaws the fish. More students stop by to say hello then leave. Janine brings her TV from the bedroom and puts it on channel five, the French station. She interprets the news for me while the girls cook and chat in the kitchen. Cecilia joins us for dinner, straight from her job at the African Central Bank, wearing her bank uniform with their log repeated throughout the fabric’s pattern. She takes a call while dipping her fried banana into mayonnaise. She leaves the table with the phone to her ear. “Boyfriend?” I ask and they all howl. Janine and Leona insist I eat more and more. It’s very delicious. And once the meal is over, as I reach to collect dirty plates, they push me back in the chair and say Mamas just sit while the daughters clean.

Gertrude returns from dinner so I leave Janine and the girls as they’re about to watch a movie made in Uganda. They give me the customary three kisses and I give them a genuine American hug. They’re precious, these girls. Pure Congolese gold.

2005-08-05T09:09:00.000-02:00

Congolese Market

2005-08-05T09:07:00.000-02:00

Bavon with Congolese Police

2005-08-04T15:46:00.000-02:00

Rwandan Mountain and Church

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Rwandan Banana Grove

2005-08-04T10:01:00.000-02:00

Nindi Enjoys Chicken on a Stick

Rwanda Bound

2005-08-04T09:42:00.000-02:00

Canaan Hotel serves us breakfast in the lobby. They bring out pots of tea and distribute cups and sugar and stacks of bread slices, to be slathered with Blue Band soft butter. When we’re completing the bread, they bring around watermelon slices. We pack ourselves onto the hard, straight matatu seats and head for the border. We stand in line for an hour on the Uganda side, waiting to be stamped with an exit visa. Our line eventually reaches the porch of the building and we wait another 20 minutes. Finally, we’re just inside the door, one person ahead of us. The agent behind the glass turns and plugs in his mobile phone for recharging. Then he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants, stuffs his shirttail in and re-dresses himself. We’re standing, waiting, watching him zip his pants. Then he walks out of the booth, closes the door and walks between me and Sister Margaret. No word as to where he’s going. Perhaps to the restroom? He leaves one other agent who is stamping entrance visas.

There are about 100 people behind us and we’ve been here one and a half hours. Ten minutes later, no agent. Twenty minutes later, no agent. I ask the guy managing the crowd at the door if he can go get the agent. He looks shocked and shakes his head no. Bavon steps up to the other agent and asks where the man is. Isn’t it possible another agent can replace him? Our agent returns, goes behind the glass wall, retrieves a piece of paper and comes back to pass by us. Bavon asks him when he’ll return. The guy says he’s helping a “special visitor.” Bavon reminds him we have a right to served promptly, that their signs reminding us to be patient only apply to computer problems, not to lack of agents. His voice gets louder. The agent gets even louder. Bavon says, “We have a right to be served promptly,” and the agent retorts, “And it’s good to be delayed, too!” and he storms out and slams the door. We all laugh. What the hell does that mean, “it’s good to be delayed, too?” The “entrance” agent steps over and begins stamping our passports. Not happily. But at least we’re moving on. Now to Rwanda’s immigration stand.

The agents in Rwanda will not let Jack, the driver, pass through. His temporary passport is for East Africa only (Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania). Jack can’t go in. Though I had planned to drive from here, it was comforting to know Jack would be with us, to help out with breakdowns and to explain the van’s idiosyncrasies. I ask if there are any little tricks or hang-ups about the car and Jack says no. He hands me the keys, says goodbye and he’s on his way back to the next town, to wait for our return on Sunday. This is it. It’s up to me and this 5-speed van to get everyone safely to Goma and back. At least we’re now driving on the right side of the road.

It’s takes about 30 minutes to get used to the gears, to the brakes, to dodging holes in the road. Rwanda is by far the most beautiful African country I’ve visited. They call it “The Land of a Thousand Hills,” but these hills are more like mountains and they number much more than 1000. Around every hill lies 10 more hills, with steep, winding roads. It’s impossible to see around the bends, so I maintain a speed that will allow us to brake quickly without harm if a hole awaits us, or if the road is washed out.

Sometimes the pavement gives out completely and we must pass over rocky, red dirt roads. Sometimes the holes in the road stretch all the way across, requiring me to leave the road completely. I soon learn how wide apart the tires are, the length of the wheel base and how to hit third gear’s sweet spot (otherwise it turns sour very quickly when misjudged). In one valley, where I slow to a crawl so we can navigate some holes and dip into others, barefoot boys run beside yelling, “Rwenzori.” Because they speak French in Rwanda, the boys have a French accent when calling out what sounds like “Wren-zor-reeeee.” They’re asking for empty water bottles of the brand “Rwenzori.” Bavon tells us to simply toss them on the side of the road where the boys will collect them and later use them to hold cooking oil, water and many other things. I toss a bottle and hear them shouting their thanks.

Ogutu sings, “Rwenzori,” and everyone laughs and sings the word while we frantically look for more bottles to give the boys. The road smoothes out and I pick up speed, a little, climbing onto the next twisting mountain. A big truck flies down off the mountain and the driver tosses a Rwenzori bottle into the center of the road, where it immediately lands under our left front tire. Crunch. “Oh no!” is chorused throughout the van. We all feel so horrible when the bottle is destroyed with the boys watching from the roadside.

We come upon a Land Cruiser and I want to pass but must wait. I notice a white man is driving. “What are the chances,” I ask Bavon, “that a white woman and a white man would be meeting on a remote mountain road in Rwanda?” Then a police stop comes into view. They flag the white man to pull over and wave us on. Whew. We round a few more curves, with me leaning forward to view every inch of the road (for possible holes), when we come up on a matatu. A real matatu hauling passengers. It’s difficult to pass so I stay behind at a respectable distance (Mama emailed and reminded me NOT to tailgate in Africa). As we pass a bridge, a shot rings out and someone screams, but it’s only the matatu with a blown back tire. I don’t mean only, because a blowout anytime is dangerous and especially so on narrow curving roads with a valley dropping off nearly a mile just a feet away from the road.

We see Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. It sweeps across several hills, flowing with the waves of mountains, built up to the top, top and to the valley bottoms. It looks like San Francisco. We need to get fuel, but we need to exchange money into Rwandese Francs first, so we go to the bank where sidewalk hawkers surround our car and a young girl with a baby tied on stands in the middle of our group without saying a word.

We pass through Kigali, through the traffic lights that don’t work, and pull into a gas station. It’s hot and we need refreshment, so we all get a soda and stand around waiting for the fuel tank to be filled. A cargo truck is behind us and men crawl all over, unloading various sized and shaped packages and wooden boxes. I watch the men wrestling with the goods. One guy has taken off his shirt and wrapped it around his neck. He and another man lower a wooden crate to the ground. A third man says something that upsets the shirtless guy. Then the agitator grabs the other man’s shirt from his neck and throws it in his face.

The shirtless guy goes after his antagonizer. This shirtless man is lean, with a muscular chest and a 6-pack. But he’s also enraged and punches the guy. They both part and begin bouncing and punching the air with their fists. There’s so much adrenaline, people naturally back away from its force field. Bare fists slightly connect with jaws and bounce off collar bones. Their violent dance stretches across the parking lot until Dr. Ngoda takes my arms and moves me out of the way. The shirtless guy gets an excellent punch into the other guy, who flies off the ground and twists, unable to catch himself before hitting the pavement. Another guy then attacks the shirtless guy, grabbing him from behind and holding him so the other man, who gets up from the ground, can beat him in the stomach. Finally, good sense prevails and a reasonable on-looker enters the dance, to hold off the agitators while another guy holds back the shirtless man. They’re all spitting words and blood, pure energy. Some people laugh nervously. Violence saddens me.

I think about the 35,000 suspects released in Rwanda this week. These 35,000 people are suspected of killing Hutus in the 1994 massacre where Tutsis killed approximately one million Hutus with machetes. This is the third wave of suspects being released because Rwanda’s prison system can no longer support them. The suspects are not off the hook. Even though they’re no longer in jail, they’ll still have to stand trial when their time comes. Last week, the BBC World News interviewed a few male suspects who were being released. They openly admitted to killing people, women and children. Some showed remorse, but not all. Such an act of hatred and violence is inconceivable. Looking at the beautiful mountains, which appear exceedingly peaceful, it’s hard to imagine a massacre in this place.

Rwanda is over-populated. In a country only 10,169 square miles, there are approximately nine million people who live packed in communities, but fan out to tend their plots of land on the mountain slopes. Every inch of the mountains are cultivated. But how do they manage to farm on such steepness and how do they irrigate? Everything is done by hand and by back-breaking hard work.

We leave Kigali and the still-pumped fighters behind, immediately rising up steep inclines. We soon see Kigali from above. We climb and climb until the road becomes a ribbon stretching across the tip of a mountaintop, so that looking right or left provides a view of a vast, deep valley leading to the next mountain string, and then the next. Trees have been stripped to form terraced fields. Crops grow on every hill, in every valley. It’s lovely.

In places, usually small communities, the people use the road as their walking path. No matter how much I hoot/honk the horn, they still swarm toward the center of the road from both sides. Very unnerving, especially because Bavon is pushing me to “push it.” The border closes at 6pm and if we don’t get through today, we’ll have to spend the night in Rwanda.

The lawful speed limit is 80 kph (about 60 mph) and our matatu has a cap that will not allow it to go faster than 80 kph. Bavon is saying, “Just go, just go!” as we sail past people in the roads. I’m trying to use the lower gears to keep our descending speed reasonable, so the brakes don’t melt. “I don’t like speeding through these mountains,” I tell Bavon. “This is an unsafe speed. I won’t speed when we come back through.”

“Just go,” Bavon says.

We’re coming out of the mountains and the road is straightening out so I can see a fair distance. But the people are a risk. Somehow, I’m able to keep it at 80 while honking people out of the way. Bavon is the only person who knows exactly how far we are from the border. I don’t know if we’ll make it. We start moving through a residential area with huge holes in the semi-paved road and when I try to slow down, to keep our passengers from bumping their heads to the ceiling, Bavon says, “Just go. Just go!” So we fly over bumps and around corners until, up ahead, we see the border gate of the Congo. It’s three minutes to 6pm. Everyone cheers.

I park the matatu and smell hot brakes, see smoke rising from the front wheels. We have no trouble getting our exit visas from Rwanda, but when we walk into the Congo immigration office, the agent gets short and snappy with Dr. Ngode, who’s a very sweet and kind gentleman. Bavon is from Goma, the Congo, so we pull him in to talk French with the agent. They begin to argue, their voices getting louder and louder. Some of us step outside to give them room. We made it to the border but now the agent doesn’t want to stamp us, because we arrived when the border was closing. Soon, however, the agent cools and he and Bavon become joking pals. That’s the way Congolese are, Bavon tells us.

At every border, I notice white people. Not many. Most look like tourists. They stare to see me driving a matatu.

Goma, the city, is just inside the Congo border. And we’re in Goma, driving toward the university, to check in and let them know we’ve arrived. Bavon went to this school before moving to Kisumu, so he’s an expert guide. We pass through downtown, a wide street lined with two-story building. But half of downtown was covered in lava from a volcano eruption in 2002. The lava flowed into town and filled in the first story of all the buildings. So we see the second stories as we pass through. The city hasn’t paved the streets since the eruption. Hardened lava makes for very nasty and bumpy roads, much worse than natural dirt roads. Lava rocks, black and porous, fill empty lots throughout town. Houses stand half covered. New houses and buildings are being constructed on top of the lava. The sun is lowering and it’s eerie to see the devastation from the eruption, and to know it’s been three years and very little clean-up or repair has been done.

Of course, the Congo was experiencing war from 1997 to 2003, different factions supported by other African nations, who were supported with funds and guns from other nations, like the U.S. On top of the war, the citizens had to recover from the eruption. Bavon’s house was destroyed by the volcano and he and his family lived in a refugee camp in Rwanda for one month. He pointed out the camp as we drove through Rwanda. It was a complex of large, green tents, now used for other purposes.

UN peacekeeping troops are numerous in Goma and we pass truck after truck full of soldiers with guns, heading to their nightly posts. Every other white jeep has a huge “UN” painted on the side. We drive to the house of the university’s Head of Academics. People are calling other people about our arrival. As we sit and visit in their living room, more and more people arrive. The PR guy, who wasn’t expecting us until tomorrow (so he’s having to arrange our accommodations) shows up. Professor Karafuli, head of the Community Health and Development college, and his wife, Head of the Theology college, come in. Kalindi, third in command at the university, arrives with energy and a huge smile, shaking hands all around. We fill the room as our crowd grows.

Our group is very tired after riding all day. They take us to a hotel for dinner, the Ishango, and I’m very pleased to learn they’ve booked Dr. Ngode and me into two rooms. Everyone else will go to a nearby guest house. But I must drive them to the guest house, I tell Kalindi. He says they’ll take our group in their vehicle and leave our van at Ishango. A doorman reaches for my bag and I follow him, in a dreamlike state, to the gorgeous room with a huge tub and king size bed. What an unexpected and greatly appreciated gesture!

Dinner is a buffet and we all sit at a round table talking about development. They’re giddily excited to be in a different country, confused to hear conversations in French. To me, it’s normal to hear foreign languages and to see scenery different, yet somehow similar, to Kenya or Tanzania. The food is the same. The people look the same and dress the same. They just say Bon soir and Bonjour (though many Congolese also speak Kiswahili). But to my friends, this is an exciting international experience.

Dr. Ngode and I see our colleagues and friends off to their guest house and then we retire to our rooms. I fill the tub with hot, hot water and wash my hair in the most relaxing way. What luxury. A Gideon’s bible in French, German and English sits on the table.

Bon soir, Guten nacht, Good night!

Entering Uganda from Kenya

2005-08-03T17:54:00.000-02:00

Bavon and Lucas are in the background, exiting the litte shack with vehicle papers. Our new Friends, two young sisters, in the foreground, bidding us goodbye.

2005-08-03T10:52:00.000-02:00

Pink Boda Bodas in Uganda (notice zebra crossing sign on left)

2005-08-03T10:16:00.000-02:00

Men Drawing Water from Ugandan Well

2005-08-03T09:58:00.000-02:00

Kenya Immigration at Uganda Border

Road Trip

2005-08-03T09:00:00.000-02:00

“In the very center of Africa, where the widening crack of the Rift Valley splits the continent, rise two great and mysterious mountain ranges: the snow-crown, mist-shrouded Ruwenzori and the emerald-green Virunga Volcanoes. Together they form the continental divide of Africa’s watershed. The abundant rains falling on their slopes eventually flow either northward to the Nile or west to the mighty Zaire (Congo) River. The mountains form almost an exact ecological divide as well. Toward the rising sun lie the open plains of the East African savannas. To the west, the primeval rainforest stretches to the distant Atlantic.

“Among the last reaches of the continent to be explored, this remote region long remained the darkest heart of Africa. Tales of snow-topped Mountains of the Moon, of a race of dwarfs, and of savage ape-men persisted through the centuries. The stories were spawned by dim contacts gleaned by ancient emissaries of Egyptian pharaohs, then later kept alive by the reports of Arab slave caravans returning to their Indian Ocean strongholds. After centuries of ridicule and disbelief, the ancient tales were proved true when European explorers discovered a region as fascinating as its myths.” (Adventuring in East Africa, Allen Bechky, 1990.)

We pile into the matatu (van), 11 of us. Seven graduates, three staff members and our driver, Jack. Our students are all getting their master’s in Community Health and Development from the University of the Great Lakes in Goma, Congo. Because TICH has not been awarded university status by Kenya’s Comission for Higher Education, they’ve partnered with the university in Goma to offer our master’s program. (I’ve written it before and will write it once more; the reason TICH has not been awarded university status is because someone in the ministry of higher education is wanting a little something, something to grease their palm and TICH is against bribery of any kind. So the stupid government holds back an institute that is set primarily to train people in helping to develop the country, so their fellow countrymen and women can lead healthy, safe lives. Isn’t that the government’s job to begin with, to ensure access to a healthy and safe life for their citizenry? But they’re stopping TICH, an institute funded by private sources and dedicated Kenyans, from training nurses and doctors in development. Mindboggling).

Our graduates are in their 30s and 40s. Three students are also on the staff at TICH; Sister Margaret, Ogutu Owii and Maureen. Our students are all professionals working in development. Kelvin Mindi works for the Ministry of Health in Malawi.

We live TICH at 8:30am. Kenya rolls by as we approach Uganda. At the border, our passports are stamped exiting Kenya. We then cross over “no man’s land,” a hundred yards between country gates, to get stamped into Uganda. Julius says, “You know, you can kill someone here in no man’s land and there’s no law to prosecute you.”

Uganda has a new computer system and asks us to be patient because of delays. Clearing our vehicle takes longer than stamping all 11 of our passports. We sit in the open matatu, waiting. Two small girls come up, begging. We give the girls potatoes chips and strawberry hard candies. The older one, probably 7 years old, has the sweetest smile and a most gentle way of asking. Both girls have swollen bellies, which my fellow travels suspect is caused by worms. As we leave, the girls run beside the van smiling and waving, saying goodbye in English. I wish we could sneak them into our bags.

Through Uganda’s gate, we’re met by hundreds of boda bodas, each driver wearing a bright pink shirt. For several miles, the pink shirts dot the roads. Luckily, there’s a paved bike lane protecting boda bodas and their passengers from traffic. It seems the shops along the border sell goods for very low prices, compared to what we pay in Kisumu. We must hurry through today but determine we’ll stop and browse on returning. As we head West through Uganda, with Lake Victoria on our left, the scenery becomes more and more beautiful. Men stand by the side of the road with gorgeous lines of fish, holding them out for passersby to see. Throughout Uganda, they grow bananas, rice and sugar cane. Scarecrows dot the rice paddies. Neat little mud huts are surrounded by bare, cleanly swept dirt yards. The huts have markings along the bottom and top and around doors and windows. Bright flowering plants dress up the yards and lace panels of striking colors billow in most front doors. These homes may be mud with thatch roofs, but they’re very neat and well-tended.

The roads through this initial part of Uganda are bad. Washed out lanes, pot holes, eroded edges require us to spend most of the time with two wheels off the pavement. It’s especially tricky dodging transport trucks hauling sugar cane, petrol and tons of bananas.

A huge, green fruit displayed on most stands catches our attention. At first, we think they’re watermelons because they’re about the same size and shape. But closer inspection shows an irregular tubular shape and a dark green, fuzzy covering. Gertrude tells us they’re called Fenesi and she points to several trees which bear the fruit. What an awesome sight to see such huge fruits hanging from tree branches. We’re all getting a little hungry and Gertrude says there’s a place coming up that sells roasted chicken.

I read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” Am absorbed in the story as Gertrude tells the driver to keep going, the chicken place is around this corner, etc. So Lady Chatterley is unhappy. Her husband, injured in the war, is paralyzed. He’s also a superficial aristocratic twit/twat, as are his friends, and Lady Chatterley’s only joy these days comes from the chicks being kept by the gamekeeper on their property. As Uganda’s countryside flies by, I read. Lady Chatterley is visiting the chicks and wants to hold one, but the mother hen pecks her hand each time. Finally, the gamekeeper walks up, withdraws a fuzzy little chick and places it in her hands. She’s overcome with emotions-- sadness, joy, deep loneliness-- and begins to weep. The gamekeeper, because he’s a sensitive kind of manly guy, takes her into the little wooden hut so she can pull herself together. He pulls her together. Lady Chatterley and the gamekeeper are having a really intimate encounter when Gertrude calls out, “Here! Here is it. They have chicken.” We pull over and I continue reading because now the gamekeeper has spread a blanket on the floor of the cabin so his Lady can relax into her emotional breakdown.

Suddenly, we’re surrounded by men. My window opens and four chicken leg quarters skewered on sticks are in my face. Here comes a basket of roasted bananas. And more sticks containing unidentified meat chunks. No other windows open, though men have their chicken sticks and faces pressed all around the van. They’re four deep, these men, each trying to force out his competitors. Our group decides to climb out and buy the chicken from the cooking pits beneath the pavilion (who wants to eat chicken pressed against dirty matatu windows and god knows what else?). I’m anxious to get back to that little cabin on the back of the Baron’s estate, where the gamekeeper has now lit a fire. But the chicken is still in my face so I can’t see the book. I push the guy’s hand out of the window and then push the basket of bananas while shutting the window. But the basket gets caught in the window and I must shove again. They try to open the window and I glare at them. Don’t they know they’re ruining a very intimate moment?

Even though the group has gone to the pavilion, and even though I’ve told them to bring me back anything, the men stay in the windows, watching me read. Finally, everyone returns, their hands full of meaty sticks and plastic bags of roasted green bananas. We ride on and I return to D. H. Lawrence’s very risqué novel, enjoying the wordlessness between the gamekeeper and his Lady while nibbling on chicken and bananas.

We enter Jinja, where the Nile River exits Lake Victoria heading north. An impressive hydroelectric plant sits next to the river, fenced in. Police are posted before and after the river. Jack flies through, though he had said he’s stop for photos. Oh well, on the way back. (On the way back, we are warned not to take photos, they’re forbidden. I snap one pic and get mostly trees, not much water, and guard rail. Maureen is paranoid and shouts for me to put the camera away. The police pull us over and I hide the camera between my legs under my skirt. They let us go and Bavon giggles when I retrieve the camera. (What exactly do they think people will do with photos of the Nile?)

We pass through Kampala, the capital of Uganda, a very modern city with wide, clean sidewalks and buildings one might find in New York. There are Italian restaurants with neon signs. It’s so Western I’m thrown somewhat. And clean. And big. Jack stops several times for directions through town, leading to the Rwanda border. We leave Kampala behind and drive through more rural countryside where women line up in their fields, hoeing in a row. Mountains become larger and more frequent, their creases crowded with banana groves and tiny huts built on cliffs. We make it Mbarara, close to the Rwandan border, at 10pm. We check into Canaan Hotel and order a late dinner in the tiny dining room. It looks like a broken-down diner from the 50s. The front door leads onto a patio which sits next to a crumbling road. A Coca-Cola cooler stands nearby, chained and padlocked as usual. As we wait for the food, the World Wrestling Federation is blasting on a TV encased in an iron cage. Everyone is steady watching the big, muscular men act silly. I’m embarrassed to be an American.

It’s nearly midnight before we go to our rooms. We’re to meet for breakfast at 6:30.

2005-08-02T11:34:00.000-02:00

Ruth and Vitalis Create Display

2005-08-02T10:00:00.000-02:00

TICH Exhibition on Judging Day

Show Time

2005-08-02T09:23:00.000-02:00

Today, it’s me, Vitalis and Peter the painter. And Peter’s ladder. Well, TICH’s ladder which we’re hauling in the van. The ladder is typical of Kenyan ladders, made of long, strong, roughly hewn tree branches. The rungs are nailed and tied on. The ladder starts at the back window and ends next to my head. We’re rolling, after taking a while to collect final items and answer questions from everyone at TICH who just today take an interest in the show and want to make suggestions. But we’re rolling, approaching the police stop near the showgrounds, confident we have plenty of time to complete the stand, confident we have Peter the Painter and his trusty ladder.

The policeman pulls us over. What’s he saying to Vitalis while pointing at our windshield? He looks mean, so I sit quietly. Vitalis gets out of the vehicle saying, “He says our vehicle license is missing.” We search for papers in the car but can’t find any. Vitalis walks to the back of the van with the officer and calls George, our security guy who handles the vehicle registrations. I sit quietly contemplating how far the walk would be for me and Peter and ladder. Too far, damn it. In anticipation of reaching the gate, I have a 1000 shilling note in my left hand and fold it up and hide it in my palm, lest the officer thinks I’m offering a bribe.

A face fills the open window to my left and a young, large officer says, “Good Morning, Madam, how are you?” His hand is massive, warm and his smile is cocked, his eyes mischievous. He looks like a chocolate Elvis. “I could be better,” I say and indicate Vitalis standing behind us on the road. Vitalis is farther away and I turn to make sure Peter is still with me. “We’re on our way to the show grounds, to work on our booth,” I say. The officer releases my hand and runs his finger up my bare arm while staring at my chest. I’m confused and move away from the window. He pins my arm down.

“I’m looking for an mzungu wife,” he says, all smiles. “My sister married an mzungu and is now living in the UK.”

“What would you do with an mzungu wife?” I ask.

“We’d move to your country and start a family,” he says.

I laugh. “How old are you?”

“24.”

“Ah,” I say. “So young.”

“How old are you?”

“42!”

“That’s okay,” he says still focusing on my chest. Then he sees my 1000 note and picks it from my hand. It disappears easily in his large grasp. “Give it back,” I say, tired of him caressing my arm and massaging my chest with his eyes and leaning into my window so I have to lean into the driver’s side. I look back at Peter, who’s a slim, small man. He sits erect, staring straight ahead with an artificial smile on his face. At least he’s still there!

“I’ll give you 500 shillings, how about that?” Officer greedy says. Is he honestly asking for a bribe? I can’t tell, so I reach for the money but he pulls back. Again with the eyes on the chest and his wiley grin. Again, I reach for the money and he allows me to take it back while he laughs. Then he takes a pen and writes his name, “Nicolas Murrey” and his phone number and tells me to call him so we can go on a date. I’m mad with Vitalis for leaving me exposed, which is just plain silly. He has his hands full dealing with the mean, short and muscular officer by the road.

Vitalis is back in the driver’s seat and we’re headed toward the gate. I ask him what happened. Why were we allowed to drive on when we didn’t have the license? Did it really just “fall” from the windshield? Vitalis is vague so I know there must have been some sort of bribe offered and accepted. At the grounds, one of the two gate men is at the front gate today. When he sees us, he flags us down and climbs into the van next to me. He’s going to get us into the back gate. We drive around back, fight the crowds, wait for a clear entry. The big guy comes and tells us we’ll have to pay, so I hand him the 1000 shillings and he moves inside the gate. Meanwhile, our passenger climbs out, slams the door and puts his face next mine. His expression is mournful as he whispers, “Please, Madam, 100 bob for my troubles.” That’s a lot of money for doing nothing. “I just gave all our money to the big guy,” I tell him. He accepts this and moves on to his next mark.

We get through the gate and go straight to George, the manager. He gives me the free passes that come with our stand rental. I stop by the show’s accounts office to pay for judging. I give them 1500 shillings so we can be judged in the category of “Best Institute of Higher Education.” But the blue and green satin fabric for decorating is in the vehicle, not placed in the stand yet. And we don’t have our literature printed. Tonny is printing it all today to bring tomorrow, the first day of the show. As I pass the 1500 to the accountant, they tell me judging will take place this morning. I almost pull the money back but remember how keen the director was on being judged. ‘Well,’ I think, ‘we’ll enter but there’s no chance we’ll be ready when the judges visit.’

Peter is painting the floor red where we had to repair pot holes. He paints the potted plant containers white, he touches up the well out front and puts a second coat on the exterior. We hire two women to assist. Ruth is “slashing” the grass in the back and Grace is mopping the floor and front walkways. She’s also cleaning the paint off the window panes with a razorblade. Meanwhile, I begin creating blue satin table skirts. A no-sew version using tacks. A stand across the street has hip-hop music blaring. Outkast and Beyonce mingle with local music. The bass is driving and deep and helps us work more efficiently.

I bought crisp, white, white cotton for the tops of the display tables. I’ve spread the white cloth down 16 feet of table when Peter and Michael (he just delivered our partnership map) decide to remove a piece of roofing from the ceiling beams. I had asked Peter to move the piece two weeks ago. It’s very heavy and the two of them struggle to reach up and support it while they lower it from the ceiling. What no one thinks about is the layer of red, fine dust sitting atop the piece. The dirt shifts and plops down in pyramidal piles onto my white, white cloth. “Shit!” I say. Kenyans are always impressed with my reserved eloquence. So I have to pull Grace from scrapping the windows and ask her to clean the cloth and the floor. Everything is covered in red dirt.

The judges arrive.

The head judge is a gentleman and he’s somewhat perturbed we’re not ready. He asks when we’ll be ready. I want to say “Who knows?” but don’t. “Will you be ready by 2:00,” he asks. “Yes,” I say. Either we won’t be ready by 2pm, or the judges will run late.

When Ruth finishes slashing, she moves inside and helps Vitalis set out TICH’s marketing items and books. The two of them hang giant vinyl posters advertising TICH’s principles and academic programs. I hang the handmade TICH clock, built from wood. Slowly, things fall into place. We hide extraneous stuff under the table skirts.

The judges enter.

The judges are two women and they immediately acknowledge our stand is not ready. They’d like to see our literature. So would I. I tell them to picture a projector on this satin-covered table. Slides/photos will be flashing onto this wall. Luckily, Michael hung the map of Nyanza Province we’d commissioned, so at least the judges can look at the map, at TICH’s partnership sites in five districts. I explain how TICH students and staff conduct primary research in these rural communities. It’s a major part of the curriculum, in addition to the rigorous academic schedule student’s are put through. Our community work makes TICH unique as an institute. The judges are very interested and ask lots of questions for 30 minutes. After they leave, I look at our TICH mugs on display and tell Vitalis, “Dang, I should have given them a mug, then maybe we’d have a chance of at least placing!”

My thumbs are incredibly sore from pushing brass tacks into the tables. Vitalis is upset that no one else from TICH came out to help assemble the stand. So are the two ladies we’ve hired, who step in and help us get everything in place. I take pictures, inside and out, for the TICH website. This will be the last time I see the stand since we’re leave for the Congo tomorrow. We’re all tired after a long day of moving furniture and balancing on tippy toes on stools to hang posters. I’m tired from hunching over fabric, ironing a smooth edge and tired from being asked for money and my hand in marriage.

We load up and lock up and pull away from the stand. I can’t say I’ll miss it. After the chaos of entering and the madness brought about by poor management, I feel badly putting the exhibit’s day to day management on Tonny’s shoulders. But I don’t feel badly enough because…

Congo Here I Come!

I Hear You Knockin' But You Can't Come In

2005-08-01T09:17:00.000-02:00

Saturday and Sunday were spent preparing for the show. Saturday, Vitalis, the driver, and I went into town to buy fabrics and scissors, a guest book and floor mats, curtain hangars, etc. Back at school, the director indicates he’s ready to go see the exhibit, so we drive out. Immediately, he disapproves of the dead-gray gravel. The director reminds Simon, our landscaper, that we paid for new gravel and we want to see new, clean gravel. Simon assures the director it will be done. Other than the gravel, the director is pleased with the progress of the exhibit.

Sunday, I arrive at TICH at 10am and begin collecting tables and chairs and charts and potted plants to take to the show. Vitalis and I enter classes in session to carry out display tables and padded chairs. We carry and haul and load and unload during two trips to the show. After setting everything in place, we anticipate arriving Monday morning to put all goods, posters and tablecloths in place.

Today, when we reach the showgrounds, all gates are locked, except for one at the back of the arena. It’s madness, with people walking all along the entrance roads and vehicles of all sizes blocking the road to the gate. Folks waiting to be hired for odd jobs clutter the road and gateway. Two men stand outside the gate, screening entrants. It’s Pre-Show, which means each vehicle must pay 2000 shillings ($26 USD), an extremely ridiculous amount to enter the show, and each person must pay 70 shillings. Everyone is standing in the way, the guy doing the screening is mad and being torn in a thousand directions. Total chaos. Total disorganization. Plus I’m peeved because the show manager, George, did not communicate this would be a pre-show day where the general public can get onto the grounds and where we have to pay just to get to our booth to complete preparations.

I step out of the van and talk to the big guy and I’m ranting because we just want to get to our booth to setup and blah, blah, blah. There’s nothing more disconcerting to Kenyans than to see a white person standing in the middle of a big crowd yelling and pointing and demanding satisfaction. The guy lets our vehicle through to talk to George in the manager’s office. At least we’re able to drop the painter, Peter, at the stand so he can begin work. But the manager’s office is more chaotic than the gate and we can’t get near the manager. So we retreat from the maddening crowd, returning to TICH where I put in a requisition for the 2000 shillings to go back to the show and finish our stand.

Nothing from accounts. Wait an hour. Nothing. Wait two hours. Nothing. Do these people want to compete in this show or not? They say “go for it” and the director says “YES” to everything I’ve requested, but getting 2000 shillings to get back into the show isn’t happening from accounts. So I give up and plan the next day’s To-Do list, telling Vitalis we’ll get to the show grounds early since it’s our last day to complete the stand.

Money, Money, Money, Money

2005-07-29T14:20:00.000-02:00

The agricultural show is fast approaching and our exhibit needs more paint and custom-made posters and a visitor’s book and skirts for the display tables. We must pay the graphic artist for painting our name on the building’s eaves and for painting out logo on the front. He even created a “Health Clinic” sign complete with red lettering and an arrow pointing down to the door. Our health clinic in the student hostel will open a temporary branch in our exhibit to assist show goers who may not feel well. We have a small room where we’ll place a table and two chairs, for consultations and medicine dispensing. I’m making curtains for the health clinic, to provide privacy, in TICH green satin to match the TICH blue satin table skirts.

We need more green paint, Peter the painter tells me. The graphic artist shows up at TICH’s gate, burning with Malaria, asking for his payment in full. We need rugs for the entrance and exit, safe drinking water for our staff. I request a hand-painted poster of our partnership sites in Nyanza Province and the director approves the expense.

Money, Money, Money, Money. Money. We need lots of money (not really, by Kenyan currency). We’ll move potted plants from our front porch to the site. We’ll also take tables and chairs, stools and colorful paintings to dress up the place. We’re busy printing marketing materials, applications, notices about our upcoming nutrition workshop and color copies of our newsletter—12 pages this edition!

We’ll be selling handmade goods provided by community health workers in the rural communities. They’ll be delivered on Monday and set up in our “TICH Shop” at the exhibit. The director visits the site and seems pleased. He only demands of the landscaper we get the new gravel we paid for and not the used that’s currently on the ground. We’re promised new, gray, clean gravel will soon be down.

The show is fast approaching and we’ll be ready…somehow.

2005-07-29T10:38:00.000-02:00

Tonny, Vitalis and Simon pose for Mid-Renovation Photo of Agricultural Exhibit