Gorilla pictures
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2023110&l=ef159&id=48101028
Akagera game drive pictures
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2023065&l=99054&id=48101028
Showing posts with label Rwanda. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rwanda. Show all posts
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Akagera National Park
Hi folks,
I know the last few posts have been less about what I have been doing and more about what Rwanda and the world have been doing. Thats for a lot of reasons but partly because I havent been doing all that much. However, last weekend, after the realization that I better start living the adventure, I left town and went first to Akagera National Park for a game drive and Volcanoes National Park to track mountain gorillas (this will be the next post. Its a little too much to write and read all at once).
I went to Akagera with my roommates, Kate and Marta, and two of Kate's relatives who were kind enough to let us tag along on their vacation and pay for our rooms. We left Kigali in the evening and then drove for a little over two hours to get to the park where we stayed at the one hotel in the area, the Akagera Game Lodge. Marta, Kate, and I shared a room so we pushed the two twin beds together and made ourselves a lovely jumbo bed. I got up a little before 6 to take pictures of the sunrise, but the thing about living on the equator is that it gets light like a gunshot and dark like a gunshot. So I have about two sunrise pictures and then it was full on daylight. We left the lodge around 8 for the game drive, which lasted about four hours. Although Akagera doesnt have too many large animals left (most were poached during the genocide as a result of the breakdown of law and order) there are still quite a few giraffes and zebras and one legendarily ill tempered elephant, in addition to the requisite antelope, hippos, and warthogs. At one point, we got out of the car and were within about 100 meters of a herd of giraffes and a herd of zebras. Thats probably about four carlengths. And at some points, it was even closer than that. It was pretty phenomenal. It is a pretty surreal experience to be standing within arms length of animals that were in the storybooks that you used to read as children, animals that seemed so exotic and unknowable and now are right there in front of you.
Akagera is a fairly small park. After the genocide, when thousands of people were returning from refugee camps in Tanzania, Uganda, and Congo about half the park was opened for resettlement. Although it is a sad loss, in a country that is the most densely populated in Africa, so right up there with most densely populated in the world, sacrifices must be made and at least the government committed to keeping as much of the park as it did. The government continues to actively protect the park boundaries and fines any farmers who allow their animals to graze in the park.
Tourism is such a questionable activity. On the one hand it has the potential, and often is, environmentally destructive. Game drives impact soil quality, air quality, and affect the migration patterns of animals. The construction and use of lodges, particularly luxury lodges, can often result in pollution to surrounding areas. However on the other hand, tourism can significantly improve the economic aspects of local communities and have other positive effects. For example, many of the guides in parks are former poachers. As they are now able to benefit more from protecting the animals than from killing them, the most dangerous predator of the animal is removed. And the government of Rwanda attempts to ensure that other local people benefit from tourism. Five percent of profits generated from the tourism industry are directly given back to local communities. Although that might not seem like a lot, it amounts to hundreds of thousands of dollars each year. Additionally, much of the remaining 95% goes towards conservation efforts and park maintenance. By ensuring the continued safety and health of the animals and the preservation of habitats and natural resources, Rwanda is able to ensure future tourism and economic development. Its a symbiotic relationship, but a fragile one.
I am going to attempt to post my pictures at some point in the future, but unfortunately, right now the internet nationwide is terrible and uploading even one picture is pretty much impossible. But rest assured I will get them up eventually!
I know the last few posts have been less about what I have been doing and more about what Rwanda and the world have been doing. Thats for a lot of reasons but partly because I havent been doing all that much. However, last weekend, after the realization that I better start living the adventure, I left town and went first to Akagera National Park for a game drive and Volcanoes National Park to track mountain gorillas (this will be the next post. Its a little too much to write and read all at once).
I went to Akagera with my roommates, Kate and Marta, and two of Kate's relatives who were kind enough to let us tag along on their vacation and pay for our rooms. We left Kigali in the evening and then drove for a little over two hours to get to the park where we stayed at the one hotel in the area, the Akagera Game Lodge. Marta, Kate, and I shared a room so we pushed the two twin beds together and made ourselves a lovely jumbo bed. I got up a little before 6 to take pictures of the sunrise, but the thing about living on the equator is that it gets light like a gunshot and dark like a gunshot. So I have about two sunrise pictures and then it was full on daylight. We left the lodge around 8 for the game drive, which lasted about four hours. Although Akagera doesnt have too many large animals left (most were poached during the genocide as a result of the breakdown of law and order) there are still quite a few giraffes and zebras and one legendarily ill tempered elephant, in addition to the requisite antelope, hippos, and warthogs. At one point, we got out of the car and were within about 100 meters of a herd of giraffes and a herd of zebras. Thats probably about four carlengths. And at some points, it was even closer than that. It was pretty phenomenal. It is a pretty surreal experience to be standing within arms length of animals that were in the storybooks that you used to read as children, animals that seemed so exotic and unknowable and now are right there in front of you.
Akagera is a fairly small park. After the genocide, when thousands of people were returning from refugee camps in Tanzania, Uganda, and Congo about half the park was opened for resettlement. Although it is a sad loss, in a country that is the most densely populated in Africa, so right up there with most densely populated in the world, sacrifices must be made and at least the government committed to keeping as much of the park as it did. The government continues to actively protect the park boundaries and fines any farmers who allow their animals to graze in the park.
Tourism is such a questionable activity. On the one hand it has the potential, and often is, environmentally destructive. Game drives impact soil quality, air quality, and affect the migration patterns of animals. The construction and use of lodges, particularly luxury lodges, can often result in pollution to surrounding areas. However on the other hand, tourism can significantly improve the economic aspects of local communities and have other positive effects. For example, many of the guides in parks are former poachers. As they are now able to benefit more from protecting the animals than from killing them, the most dangerous predator of the animal is removed. And the government of Rwanda attempts to ensure that other local people benefit from tourism. Five percent of profits generated from the tourism industry are directly given back to local communities. Although that might not seem like a lot, it amounts to hundreds of thousands of dollars each year. Additionally, much of the remaining 95% goes towards conservation efforts and park maintenance. By ensuring the continued safety and health of the animals and the preservation of habitats and natural resources, Rwanda is able to ensure future tourism and economic development. Its a symbiotic relationship, but a fragile one.
I am going to attempt to post my pictures at some point in the future, but unfortunately, right now the internet nationwide is terrible and uploading even one picture is pretty much impossible. But rest assured I will get them up eventually!
Friday, November 21, 2008
More developments regarding Rose Kabuye
For the past week or so, there have been somewhat informal demonstrations protesting the arrest of Rose Kabuye. On Wednesday, the government announced a day of "manifest" where all businesses were closed to allow citizens to protest Rose Kabuye's arrest. There were over 140,000 demonstrators in Kigali. I did not go out to see the demonstrations as our embassy warned us not to, but there were no incidences of violence, before, during, or since. In fact, since the demonstrations the French government has agreed to release Rose kabuye on the grounds that she not leave France for two weeks. I do not know if she will then have to stand trial or not, but it seems a good sign that they do not have sufficient evidence to carry forth with the trial.
It is interesting to talk to people here about the protests because many Rwandans, despite firmly believing in Rose Kabuye's innocennce, would not go. Some said it reminded them too much of what happened 14 years ago. Others said that if you go to a demonstration, you dont know who is taking your picture or how your involvement will come back to haunt you. He cited the many anti-RPF demonstrations that took place prior to 1994 and how many people were identified by the government through records of those protests. At first blush, that seemed a bit extreme. But it certainly happens in the states as well. I wonder how many anti-Vietnam protestors have records? The recent election has revealed that our past will always come back to haunt us, or even the past of others. It isnt just people in Rwanda who need to be concerned about being identified. I've been to a protest, even a riot if you count the school-escorted trip to the WTO meeting in 2000. I wonder if I have a record out there?
In other, less contentios news, I am going on a mini-safari this weekend to Akagera state park in the East Province of Rwanda (dont worry family, it is about as far from Congo as you can get). We will be leaving on Friday and returning Saturday so it will be short, but it will be nice to get out of the city, explore a new corner of the world, and post some more photos.
Also, for Christmas, I will in South Africa with a friend of mine from Emory. I cant wait! There should be some great photos from that!!!!!! But I will write again before then...
It is interesting to talk to people here about the protests because many Rwandans, despite firmly believing in Rose Kabuye's innocennce, would not go. Some said it reminded them too much of what happened 14 years ago. Others said that if you go to a demonstration, you dont know who is taking your picture or how your involvement will come back to haunt you. He cited the many anti-RPF demonstrations that took place prior to 1994 and how many people were identified by the government through records of those protests. At first blush, that seemed a bit extreme. But it certainly happens in the states as well. I wonder how many anti-Vietnam protestors have records? The recent election has revealed that our past will always come back to haunt us, or even the past of others. It isnt just people in Rwanda who need to be concerned about being identified. I've been to a protest, even a riot if you count the school-escorted trip to the WTO meeting in 2000. I wonder if I have a record out there?
In other, less contentios news, I am going on a mini-safari this weekend to Akagera state park in the East Province of Rwanda (dont worry family, it is about as far from Congo as you can get). We will be leaving on Friday and returning Saturday so it will be short, but it will be nice to get out of the city, explore a new corner of the world, and post some more photos.
Also, for Christmas, I will in South Africa with a friend of mine from Emory. I cant wait! There should be some great photos from that!!!!!! But I will write again before then...
Monday, November 17, 2008
Gisozi Memorial
This weekend I went with my friend Frank to the Gisozi genocide memorial. Even though we have both been here three months, neither of us have gone. Frank is leaving soon though and we have been saying for months that we would go. So on Sunday we hailed a couple of motos and made our way.
The memorial is located in a house, which before I went, meant to me that it would be small and not very powerful. Coming from the US, it is fairly indoctrinated in me to think of bigger as better, bigger as more powerful, bigger as the only way to be truly impressive. Well, in the case of a genocide museum, bigger would be overwhelming and unnecessary. The museum is located on two stories in a house that is probably about the size of an average American house, say about 2000 feet. The lower story is devoted to the Rwandan genocide.
We began by walking through a tunnel that begins with the history of Rwanda before colonization, which explained that Hutu and Tutsi are not true ethnic groups, nor was the designation particularly important before colonization. Rather, the German colonizers, as so many other colonizers have done, found it expedient to divide and conquer, designating all people with ten cows or more to be Tutsi and all people with less than ten cows to be Hutu and giving preferential treatment to Tutsis, using this new "ethnicity" to govern in abstentia. When the Germans lost WWI and the Belgians received Rwanda as a colony (because of course countries are like commodities and can be traded around), they modeled their governance after the Germans, keeping Tutsis in power. In the early 1960s, the Belgians began to give power to the majority Hutus as they prepared to leave the country and grant independence. With this transition, wide-spread violence against Tutsis began. After 70 years of rule by one minority ethnic group, the repressed majority sought retribution and the first wave of genocide began leading to millions of people fleeing the country to Congo, Burundi, Uganda, and for the wealthy, Europe and the United States. Despite peaceful attempts to come back, refugees were denied repatriation to Rwanda and many were forced to live in refugee camps. While refugee camps fostered the formation of rebel groups, willing to take military action to go back to their homes, the government of Rwanda, led by Hutu extremists and militarily supported by the French, armed and trained Interhamwe, youth militia. The sole purpose of the Interhamwe was to fight the enemy. And the sole enemy was the Tutsi.
All of this is detailed through pictures and writing. Nothing is particularly shocking about it or new information, other than seeing pictures of the youth militia. The boys, for they really are just boys, were trained to be killers and filled with hatred at such a young age, they are just as ruined as their victimes. No one survived the genocide without scars. As you continue down the tunnel, it details the years immediately leading up to the genocide. Radio ads spouting the doctrine of ethnic cleansing, ten commandments of how Hutus should treat Tutsis, and the increasing attacks on the government by the RPF, composed of refugees determined to institute democratic government and force the return of thousands of refugees.
Continuing down the tunnel, the pictures and video become more graphic and the reaction more visceral. There is a video that is not for the faint of heart or stomach, which shows the murder of a man by another with a machete, children with festering wounds in their heads, and dozens of photos and videos of the hundreds of dead bodies simply left to rot in the street. It is unbelievable to look at the video and know that in the peaceful and clean streets I walk on everyday, human beings were left like garbage. Along with that video, which is silent, there are others which interview survivors of the genocide and one which captures a perpetrator recounting the murders he took part in. What was somehow the most shocking to me was the pictures of the planners of the genocide. I had somehow assumed that the men (and women) exuded evil, that looking at them, I would know that they are somehow devoid of humanity. But it isnt the case at all. In the photos, the architects of the genocide are jovial, even beneficient-looking people, which somehow made it even worse. If these men and women, who are clearly human, are capable of planning such inhuman acts, what are any of us capable of?
Along the tunnel there are machetes, ancient guns, chains, all implements of death, preserved in glass cases so the viewer can see that it was not sophisticated technology in the hands of highly trained soldiers that led to this destruction, but simple and outdated tools put in the hands of regular people and transformed into weapons through a campaign of hatred and fear. Finally, we exited the tunnel into a small atrium which on one side had mounted news stories of the reaction of the west (which is to say none) and the evacuation of people in danger (which is to say only white people and sickeningly, government officials who orchstrated everything). Particularly disheartening is the observation that the number of soldiers used in evacuations would have been sufficient to prevent the genocide from happening. On the other wall, in perhaps the only heartening display, are the stories of those who protected others. Sheltering and feeding people, putting themselves in extreme danger (anyone who was suspected of sympathizing with the Tutsis was considered just as bad, if not worse than Tutsis themselves, and put to death), simply because it was the right thing to do. Once out of the atrium, there is a series of small rooms which house different exhibits. One is a room that is full of bones, skulls, arm bones, leg bones. The skulls are perhaps the hardest to view, because there are many that are almost shattered or have perfectly round holes, the work of a single bullet. Yet somehow this room is the easiest to view. The next room is a display of clothing, the clothing that people were wearing when they were killed and abandoned. Perhaps the most surreal to me was the running shorts and Cornell sweatshirt that one man wore. Within this room, there is another video interviewing survivors about the burden of survival, the guilt, the anger, and the enormous effort to forgive. Finally, the last room is filled with photos. Walls lined with photos of men, women, and children. For me, this was the hardest. To be completely surrounded by photos and to know that it is but the smallest fraction of those who were killed... it is staggering. And again, another video.
On the second floor there are smaller displays describing other genocides; Namibia, the Armenian genocide, the Holocaust, Cambodia, the Balkans. It becomes too much. At some point, numbness just overtakes you and it is impossible to react to the worst that humanity is capable of. Or so you think...
And then the childrens room. The childrens room is simple, small, stark, and without doubt, the most evocative part of the museum. It is a series of four small rooms, and within each room is three to four life size photographs of children. Babies, children, teenagers. And under each photo is some small description of their personality, their likes, their dislikes, their age, their dreams, their last words, and how they were killed. It was here that I cried. It is sickening to see a photo of a beautiful two year old girl in a baptism dress, read that her favority activity was playing with her father, and then read about her brutal murder. Even here, I dont want to write about it. It is too difficult to actually detail inhumanity and madness. Writing it makes it real.
So anyway, that was how I spent my Sunday. Although the whole museum took only two hours to walk through, it was exhausting. Leaving the memorial, both Frank and I were dragging our feet, barely able to walk up the stairs, and certainly not in the mood to hail motos and haggle for price. A larger, bigger, brasher memorial would have been too much. Already it was too much to take in, anything more would have been lost.
Im not sure that this blog is really satisfactory to me. There is so much to say about the memorial but at the same time describing it is nothing like experiencing it. What is truly important to me, what I got out of it and what I want to emphasize, is that although this happended in Rwanda, it is not a tragedy only of Rwandans. The West was responsible for not reacting, for sheltering and continuing to shelter those who planned the genocide. Certainly it was Rwandans who planned the genocide and Rwandans who were killed, but the country distinction is a false one. It was humans who planned the genocide and humans who were killed, and that is what we need to remember. By thinking that it was only "them" that could do that to "those", we leave ourselves open to the artifical distinctions that make it possible in the first place. We are all responsible for each other.
The memorial is located in a house, which before I went, meant to me that it would be small and not very powerful. Coming from the US, it is fairly indoctrinated in me to think of bigger as better, bigger as more powerful, bigger as the only way to be truly impressive. Well, in the case of a genocide museum, bigger would be overwhelming and unnecessary. The museum is located on two stories in a house that is probably about the size of an average American house, say about 2000 feet. The lower story is devoted to the Rwandan genocide.
We began by walking through a tunnel that begins with the history of Rwanda before colonization, which explained that Hutu and Tutsi are not true ethnic groups, nor was the designation particularly important before colonization. Rather, the German colonizers, as so many other colonizers have done, found it expedient to divide and conquer, designating all people with ten cows or more to be Tutsi and all people with less than ten cows to be Hutu and giving preferential treatment to Tutsis, using this new "ethnicity" to govern in abstentia. When the Germans lost WWI and the Belgians received Rwanda as a colony (because of course countries are like commodities and can be traded around), they modeled their governance after the Germans, keeping Tutsis in power. In the early 1960s, the Belgians began to give power to the majority Hutus as they prepared to leave the country and grant independence. With this transition, wide-spread violence against Tutsis began. After 70 years of rule by one minority ethnic group, the repressed majority sought retribution and the first wave of genocide began leading to millions of people fleeing the country to Congo, Burundi, Uganda, and for the wealthy, Europe and the United States. Despite peaceful attempts to come back, refugees were denied repatriation to Rwanda and many were forced to live in refugee camps. While refugee camps fostered the formation of rebel groups, willing to take military action to go back to their homes, the government of Rwanda, led by Hutu extremists and militarily supported by the French, armed and trained Interhamwe, youth militia. The sole purpose of the Interhamwe was to fight the enemy. And the sole enemy was the Tutsi.
All of this is detailed through pictures and writing. Nothing is particularly shocking about it or new information, other than seeing pictures of the youth militia. The boys, for they really are just boys, were trained to be killers and filled with hatred at such a young age, they are just as ruined as their victimes. No one survived the genocide without scars. As you continue down the tunnel, it details the years immediately leading up to the genocide. Radio ads spouting the doctrine of ethnic cleansing, ten commandments of how Hutus should treat Tutsis, and the increasing attacks on the government by the RPF, composed of refugees determined to institute democratic government and force the return of thousands of refugees.
Continuing down the tunnel, the pictures and video become more graphic and the reaction more visceral. There is a video that is not for the faint of heart or stomach, which shows the murder of a man by another with a machete, children with festering wounds in their heads, and dozens of photos and videos of the hundreds of dead bodies simply left to rot in the street. It is unbelievable to look at the video and know that in the peaceful and clean streets I walk on everyday, human beings were left like garbage. Along with that video, which is silent, there are others which interview survivors of the genocide and one which captures a perpetrator recounting the murders he took part in. What was somehow the most shocking to me was the pictures of the planners of the genocide. I had somehow assumed that the men (and women) exuded evil, that looking at them, I would know that they are somehow devoid of humanity. But it isnt the case at all. In the photos, the architects of the genocide are jovial, even beneficient-looking people, which somehow made it even worse. If these men and women, who are clearly human, are capable of planning such inhuman acts, what are any of us capable of?
Along the tunnel there are machetes, ancient guns, chains, all implements of death, preserved in glass cases so the viewer can see that it was not sophisticated technology in the hands of highly trained soldiers that led to this destruction, but simple and outdated tools put in the hands of regular people and transformed into weapons through a campaign of hatred and fear. Finally, we exited the tunnel into a small atrium which on one side had mounted news stories of the reaction of the west (which is to say none) and the evacuation of people in danger (which is to say only white people and sickeningly, government officials who orchstrated everything). Particularly disheartening is the observation that the number of soldiers used in evacuations would have been sufficient to prevent the genocide from happening. On the other wall, in perhaps the only heartening display, are the stories of those who protected others. Sheltering and feeding people, putting themselves in extreme danger (anyone who was suspected of sympathizing with the Tutsis was considered just as bad, if not worse than Tutsis themselves, and put to death), simply because it was the right thing to do. Once out of the atrium, there is a series of small rooms which house different exhibits. One is a room that is full of bones, skulls, arm bones, leg bones. The skulls are perhaps the hardest to view, because there are many that are almost shattered or have perfectly round holes, the work of a single bullet. Yet somehow this room is the easiest to view. The next room is a display of clothing, the clothing that people were wearing when they were killed and abandoned. Perhaps the most surreal to me was the running shorts and Cornell sweatshirt that one man wore. Within this room, there is another video interviewing survivors about the burden of survival, the guilt, the anger, and the enormous effort to forgive. Finally, the last room is filled with photos. Walls lined with photos of men, women, and children. For me, this was the hardest. To be completely surrounded by photos and to know that it is but the smallest fraction of those who were killed... it is staggering. And again, another video.
On the second floor there are smaller displays describing other genocides; Namibia, the Armenian genocide, the Holocaust, Cambodia, the Balkans. It becomes too much. At some point, numbness just overtakes you and it is impossible to react to the worst that humanity is capable of. Or so you think...
And then the childrens room. The childrens room is simple, small, stark, and without doubt, the most evocative part of the museum. It is a series of four small rooms, and within each room is three to four life size photographs of children. Babies, children, teenagers. And under each photo is some small description of their personality, their likes, their dislikes, their age, their dreams, their last words, and how they were killed. It was here that I cried. It is sickening to see a photo of a beautiful two year old girl in a baptism dress, read that her favority activity was playing with her father, and then read about her brutal murder. Even here, I dont want to write about it. It is too difficult to actually detail inhumanity and madness. Writing it makes it real.
So anyway, that was how I spent my Sunday. Although the whole museum took only two hours to walk through, it was exhausting. Leaving the memorial, both Frank and I were dragging our feet, barely able to walk up the stairs, and certainly not in the mood to hail motos and haggle for price. A larger, bigger, brasher memorial would have been too much. Already it was too much to take in, anything more would have been lost.
Im not sure that this blog is really satisfactory to me. There is so much to say about the memorial but at the same time describing it is nothing like experiencing it. What is truly important to me, what I got out of it and what I want to emphasize, is that although this happended in Rwanda, it is not a tragedy only of Rwandans. The West was responsible for not reacting, for sheltering and continuing to shelter those who planned the genocide. Certainly it was Rwandans who planned the genocide and Rwandans who were killed, but the country distinction is a false one. It was humans who planned the genocide and humans who were killed, and that is what we need to remember. By thinking that it was only "them" that could do that to "those", we leave ourselves open to the artifical distinctions that make it possible in the first place. We are all responsible for each other.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Weekends
I think that one of the best things about travel is that really everything is pretty much the same, its just a little different and the little differences are what makes everything so entertaining. For example, in the US, the night traditionally ends around 2. The bars close, there arent generally too many after hours clubs, you go home and get sleep. Here, the clubs dont start going until 2. On Friday night, Kate, one of my roommates, and I stayed out dancing until, well Im not sure exactly but I think probably 3 or 4. And then on Saturday night, we were understandably quite tired. So we told our friend Sylvia that we were going to go to bed early, we wanted to be home by 1:30. She was shocked that anyone would go home at such an early hour. If you make a commitment to going out here, then you are in it for the long haul.
So with all intentions to go home early, we went to dinner, then to a house party where some guys had brewed some home made banana wine (it was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had but then I was also drinking Waragi, which is a Ugandan liquor that basically burns your taste buds off so maybe it tasted better (or worse) than I thought), and then to a club. And when Marta, my other roommate, and I got home to my extreme shock, the sun was coming up. Really, i could not believe it. Again, at home, I would not be able to stay up all night. I think the last time I did that was when I caught my flight here so that I would be sufficiently sleep deprived to sleep on the plane. But here, its standard practice. And I mean standard. And in the morning, instead of sleeping in, our friend woke us up to go to church. We didnt go of course, but he did. Along with everyone that had been out until 5 in the morning. Its just a little different...
But here are a couple of pictures...
Marta and Sylvia before the trouble started...
Roomies!
ahhh look how cute we are
Omundi (who woke us to go to church) and Teta, who i think may be the most beautiful woman in the world
Yep... that happened
So with all intentions to go home early, we went to dinner, then to a house party where some guys had brewed some home made banana wine (it was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had but then I was also drinking Waragi, which is a Ugandan liquor that basically burns your taste buds off so maybe it tasted better (or worse) than I thought), and then to a club. And when Marta, my other roommate, and I got home to my extreme shock, the sun was coming up. Really, i could not believe it. Again, at home, I would not be able to stay up all night. I think the last time I did that was when I caught my flight here so that I would be sufficiently sleep deprived to sleep on the plane. But here, its standard practice. And I mean standard. And in the morning, instead of sleeping in, our friend woke us up to go to church. We didnt go of course, but he did. Along with everyone that had been out until 5 in the morning. Its just a little different...
But here are a couple of pictures...
Marta and Sylvia before the trouble started...
Roomies!
ahhh look how cute we are
Omundi (who woke us to go to church) and Teta, who i think may be the most beautiful woman in the world
Yep... that happened
Monday, October 13, 2008
Mount Kabuye
I went hiking last weekend with some friends and a lot of children at a place called Mount Kabuye. Now although I stand by my earlier statements that the hills in Rwanda are hills and not mountains, that doesnt mean that the hills arent really big and really steep.
The summit of Mount Kabuye is actually behind the mountains. Which at the time was very intimidating. However, no matter how high we climbed, there were always children with us, usually barefoot and running ahead and running back while we struggled up the hill with backpacks, hiking books, and books telling us where to go. Felt a little foolish.
But it was absolutely gorgeous. Even from the bottom the scenery was blue and green rolling hills, and though the sky was threatening to rain the whole time, it made a perfect backdrop.
The higher we climbed, the more hills we could see and the view just reiterated why Rwanda is known a land of a thousand hills. On a clear day, from the top, apparently its possible to see the volcanoes, but as mentioned, we were hiking on a cloudy and overcast day, the hills just seemed to fade into mist.
Although it was a tiring day and a mix of fun, frustration, and general foolishness, it once again reminded me that Rwanda is a beautiful place, blessed with amazing scenery and kind, proud people. The rest of my photos are posted at
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2022083&l=9caa6&id=48101028
The summit of Mount Kabuye is actually behind the mountains. Which at the time was very intimidating. However, no matter how high we climbed, there were always children with us, usually barefoot and running ahead and running back while we struggled up the hill with backpacks, hiking books, and books telling us where to go. Felt a little foolish.
But it was absolutely gorgeous. Even from the bottom the scenery was blue and green rolling hills, and though the sky was threatening to rain the whole time, it made a perfect backdrop.
The higher we climbed, the more hills we could see and the view just reiterated why Rwanda is known a land of a thousand hills. On a clear day, from the top, apparently its possible to see the volcanoes, but as mentioned, we were hiking on a cloudy and overcast day, the hills just seemed to fade into mist.
Although it was a tiring day and a mix of fun, frustration, and general foolishness, it once again reminded me that Rwanda is a beautiful place, blessed with amazing scenery and kind, proud people. The rest of my photos are posted at
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2022083&l=9caa6&id=48101028
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Adventures in the post-office... food, food, SNACK
Today was one of those days where I alternate between loving being here and hating it. I guess start with the bad. Someone has been stealing from us and although we arent sure who it is, its very disconcerting. My roommates have had over 500 dollars and a phone stolen and we have all decided that we are not comfortable with someone else having a key to our house, so we are letting our domestique go (isnt that a nice term. So much nicer than fire). There have been multiple times when the gate and the house have been unlocked and unfortunately, we are targets for theft. It is very easy to avoid being robbed here, just lock the house and the gate. But unfortunately this has not been happening. It is a difficult position to be in. On the one hand, we are expats here and we are comparatively wealthy; however, by US standards we are poor, the money we make qualifies all of us for poverty level, and in order to pay loans, we all have to save. No matter what, we are white and no matter what we say, that will always mean that people expect us to be rich. And despite the beneficence we feel in being here and the comfort that we give ourselves in "helping people" and "saving the world", that doesn't fly without generating some resentment.
But why I love this place... So after going to the embassy to cast our emergency ballots (Go Obama!) a month early because the US government somehow forgot to mail the absentee ballots to people overseas, I had to go to the post office to pick up two packages from my wonderful mother. Since there are no street names or building or home addresses in Rwanda, when packages are delivered, they are brought to the post office, which then generates slips saying that packages have arrived. Twice a week, someone from the office goes to the post office at approximately 3 in the afternoon and checks to see if any packages have been delivered. But of course the worker cant actually pick up the package because they are in our name and we have to have ID. They can only get the slip, return to the office, and give us the slips. This is always done at 3 when the post office closes at 330 so it is impossible to get your package the day you learn of it. Rather you have to wait eighteen hours to wonder about what possible treats are sitting in a locked room. Now although the post office is in a very official looking building with marble floors and high ceilings, that is not actually where you go to pick up a package. Nope. You go to "eight". What is "eight"? "Eight", which is for no discernible reason called eight since there are only two rooms in the post office, is the room where the packages are stored. It is located in the back and the basement of the post office, with the entrance in a gravel parking lot catering to taxis and buses and getting there necessitates exiting the post office, walking a block past craft stores, post card sellers, and a barrage of "foreign exchange bureaus", which are from what i can tell men sitting outside of shops yelling "sister, you need change?". Now "eight" is broken up into four rooms. The first room comfortably fits about three people and is where you go if you are a customer waiting to pick up or ship a package. The first room leads directly into the main storage area where a man sits at a desk full of papers and surrounded by pictures of Jesus and a rasta singer named "Cool Dube". When I arrived today, I put down my things on a small table in the entrance area to look for my claim slips and of course proceeded to drop all of my change that I have accumulated in the past two months all over the floor. Now even though there were three men sitting in a directly adjoining room watching every move I made and a man at the "Cool Dube" desk, no one made a move to help me. So, after scrambling on the floor to pick up my change I stand back up and immediately a gust of wind blows my two claim slips into the storage area. Keeping in mind that there are very few "official" areas in Rwanda, I just ran after the slips into the middle of the storage area. Three men and a cool dube continue to stare. Finally, I stuff my change and the slips back into my bag and retreat to the correct side of the window. Not a word has been uttered. While I have been running around "eight" a Japanese couple has entered the small room and has started to try to mail a package. Only English isnt their first language nor is it the first language of the man attempting to examine their packages so their communication is basically limited to hand gestures and broken french/ japanese/ english. Until the woman starts repeating, at first very quietly and then escalating with each word "food... food... SNACK! food... food... SNACK... food... food... SNACK" and her husband just clings desperately to the box to keep the postal man from cutting open the package. Finally, the couple relinquishes the package, the postal worker open it and the woman repeats "food... food... SNACK" and the man retapes the package. After the package has been taped, the couple walks away saying in perfect, unaccented english "Thank you. Have a nice day." I swear to you this happened. Moving on, I give the cool dube my slips and my drivers license which he takes stares at and then says "Linnea? Your name is Linnea?" as though perhaps I made up that particular name, printed a drivers license, and was conducting an elaborate ruse to get someone elses package. So I reply "Yes, my name is Linnea." Disgusted sigh and incoherent hand gesture. Umm ok. And then out of nowhere a general worker appears. The general worker dissapears into the fourth room and comes back out with a huge box and another balanced very precariously on top, puts them on a table, and then takes the two thousand francs I was holding out of my hand and walks away without a word. Suddenly, one of the men in the other room who up until now has stayed securely on his chair, comes out dressed in a full-pressed uniform and in a very official voice says "Hello, Im the customs official. What is in these boxes?". Please keep in mind that the boxes are securely taped and sealed and the man has been watching every single second of this scenario. Obviously I have no idea, so I say, "Obviously, I have no idea, They are from my mother." To which the original postal worker from the other room wisely says "ahhh mother" and nods his head. Im still not sure if he was saying "ahh yes mothers send very nice care packages" or "ahh yes I understand the word mother". So I just nod and say "ahh mother" back to him. During this exchange, the customs official has taken the customs form off of only the small box and apparently that satisfied him because he turned around, went back to the other room, and sat back in the chair to stare some more. By this point, another man has entered the waiting area and is talking to the general worker who has miraculously reappeared, still holding the 2000 francs, and the postal worker. The general worker takes a log book from the postal worker, walks around his desk, and comes over to my side of the wall, puts the book on the table and says "name, date, sign". So I find my name, print, date, and sign. He then finds another entry "name, date, sign". Puts the original claim slips down and says "name, date, sign". Meanwhile the other man waiting to be served is simply staring at me. Right when I have finished signing the various forms and the general worker has collected his books and returned to the other side of the wall, the man asks me "Are you German?" Uh... no. "Where are you from?" US. "Are your parents German or perhaps someone farther back in your family?" Sure, my grandfather. "Ahh yes. You look German. I am very good at identifying Germans. Have a nice day." And with a nod, he turns and goes. During everthing I have just related to you, other than when chasing my claim slips, I did not move an inch. It was an entire universe of bizarre brought directly to swirl around me. And that is why I love this place. Because there is no predicting when something absolutely wonderful and weird is going to happen.
Oh and just in case anyone is wondering what was in that giant box...
Food... food.. SNACK. I love my mother.
But why I love this place... So after going to the embassy to cast our emergency ballots (Go Obama!) a month early because the US government somehow forgot to mail the absentee ballots to people overseas, I had to go to the post office to pick up two packages from my wonderful mother. Since there are no street names or building or home addresses in Rwanda, when packages are delivered, they are brought to the post office, which then generates slips saying that packages have arrived. Twice a week, someone from the office goes to the post office at approximately 3 in the afternoon and checks to see if any packages have been delivered. But of course the worker cant actually pick up the package because they are in our name and we have to have ID. They can only get the slip, return to the office, and give us the slips. This is always done at 3 when the post office closes at 330 so it is impossible to get your package the day you learn of it. Rather you have to wait eighteen hours to wonder about what possible treats are sitting in a locked room. Now although the post office is in a very official looking building with marble floors and high ceilings, that is not actually where you go to pick up a package. Nope. You go to "eight". What is "eight"? "Eight", which is for no discernible reason called eight since there are only two rooms in the post office, is the room where the packages are stored. It is located in the back and the basement of the post office, with the entrance in a gravel parking lot catering to taxis and buses and getting there necessitates exiting the post office, walking a block past craft stores, post card sellers, and a barrage of "foreign exchange bureaus", which are from what i can tell men sitting outside of shops yelling "sister, you need change?". Now "eight" is broken up into four rooms. The first room comfortably fits about three people and is where you go if you are a customer waiting to pick up or ship a package. The first room leads directly into the main storage area where a man sits at a desk full of papers and surrounded by pictures of Jesus and a rasta singer named "Cool Dube". When I arrived today, I put down my things on a small table in the entrance area to look for my claim slips and of course proceeded to drop all of my change that I have accumulated in the past two months all over the floor. Now even though there were three men sitting in a directly adjoining room watching every move I made and a man at the "Cool Dube" desk, no one made a move to help me. So, after scrambling on the floor to pick up my change I stand back up and immediately a gust of wind blows my two claim slips into the storage area. Keeping in mind that there are very few "official" areas in Rwanda, I just ran after the slips into the middle of the storage area. Three men and a cool dube continue to stare. Finally, I stuff my change and the slips back into my bag and retreat to the correct side of the window. Not a word has been uttered. While I have been running around "eight" a Japanese couple has entered the small room and has started to try to mail a package. Only English isnt their first language nor is it the first language of the man attempting to examine their packages so their communication is basically limited to hand gestures and broken french/ japanese/ english. Until the woman starts repeating, at first very quietly and then escalating with each word "food... food... SNACK! food... food... SNACK... food... food... SNACK" and her husband just clings desperately to the box to keep the postal man from cutting open the package. Finally, the couple relinquishes the package, the postal worker open it and the woman repeats "food... food... SNACK" and the man retapes the package. After the package has been taped, the couple walks away saying in perfect, unaccented english "Thank you. Have a nice day." I swear to you this happened. Moving on, I give the cool dube my slips and my drivers license which he takes stares at and then says "Linnea? Your name is Linnea?" as though perhaps I made up that particular name, printed a drivers license, and was conducting an elaborate ruse to get someone elses package. So I reply "Yes, my name is Linnea." Disgusted sigh and incoherent hand gesture. Umm ok. And then out of nowhere a general worker appears. The general worker dissapears into the fourth room and comes back out with a huge box and another balanced very precariously on top, puts them on a table, and then takes the two thousand francs I was holding out of my hand and walks away without a word. Suddenly, one of the men in the other room who up until now has stayed securely on his chair, comes out dressed in a full-pressed uniform and in a very official voice says "Hello, Im the customs official. What is in these boxes?". Please keep in mind that the boxes are securely taped and sealed and the man has been watching every single second of this scenario. Obviously I have no idea, so I say, "Obviously, I have no idea, They are from my mother." To which the original postal worker from the other room wisely says "ahhh mother" and nods his head. Im still not sure if he was saying "ahh yes mothers send very nice care packages" or "ahh yes I understand the word mother". So I just nod and say "ahh mother" back to him. During this exchange, the customs official has taken the customs form off of only the small box and apparently that satisfied him because he turned around, went back to the other room, and sat back in the chair to stare some more. By this point, another man has entered the waiting area and is talking to the general worker who has miraculously reappeared, still holding the 2000 francs, and the postal worker. The general worker takes a log book from the postal worker, walks around his desk, and comes over to my side of the wall, puts the book on the table and says "name, date, sign". So I find my name, print, date, and sign. He then finds another entry "name, date, sign". Puts the original claim slips down and says "name, date, sign". Meanwhile the other man waiting to be served is simply staring at me. Right when I have finished signing the various forms and the general worker has collected his books and returned to the other side of the wall, the man asks me "Are you German?" Uh... no. "Where are you from?" US. "Are your parents German or perhaps someone farther back in your family?" Sure, my grandfather. "Ahh yes. You look German. I am very good at identifying Germans. Have a nice day." And with a nod, he turns and goes. During everthing I have just related to you, other than when chasing my claim slips, I did not move an inch. It was an entire universe of bizarre brought directly to swirl around me. And that is why I love this place. Because there is no predicting when something absolutely wonderful and weird is going to happen.
Oh and just in case anyone is wondering what was in that giant box...
Food... food.. SNACK. I love my mother.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Links to photos
These are the links to three photo albums that I have posted on Facebook. For those of you who dont have facebook, you should be able to click on these links and see the photos. I will try to remember to post the links to any new photos I take.
Rwanda
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?
aid=2021368&l=1a6f0&id=48101028
Chicken Wranglin
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?
aid=2021637&l=9b29f&id=48101028
Gisenyi Hash
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?
aid=2021472&l=9e952&id=48101028
Because I restructured the blog, the links get cut off. So I put a line space in each one between "php?" and "aid". To view the albums, copy the full link, without the line space, into the browser. (oooh dont I sound technical?)
Rwanda
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?
aid=2021368&l=1a6f0&id=48101028
Chicken Wranglin
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?
aid=2021637&l=9b29f&id=48101028
Gisenyi Hash
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?
aid=2021472&l=9e952&id=48101028
Because I restructured the blog, the links get cut off. So I put a line space in each one between "php?" and "aid". To view the albums, copy the full link, without the line space, into the browser. (oooh dont I sound technical?)
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